Chapter 7
Mina
I stared up at my apartment building like it might suddenly sprout a mouth and tell me to turn back. The bricks were cracked; the paint was flaking, and the entry light still flickered like it was auditioning for a horror movie.
“Home sweet emotional minefield,” I muttered, shooting Nikolai a weak smile.
He didn’t say anything right away—just looked at me with that intense, unreadable gaze that made my stomach flip like it was in gymnastics class. The tension between us buzzed like a live wire. Yep. Super casual. Totally fine. No romantic confusion or life crises happening here.
“I can come with you,” he said quietly.
“No.”
Okay, that came out a little too… stabby.
I softened. “I mean—thanks, but I need to do this part solo.”
His brow did that little pinch it always did when he didn’t like something but wasn’t going to argue. It made me feel… seen. In the worst, most inconvenient, heart-throbbing way.
I opened the car door, took a breath like I was about to dive into the ocean, and stepped out into the cool night air. The pavement felt solid beneath my sneakers. More than I did.
I could feel his eyes on me as I walked. Like heat. Like pressure. Like if I turned around, I might crumble or run straight back into his arms. Which, ugh, rude. Because I needed to be a functioning adult right now, not a human marshmallow with a crush.
The building door creaked open with the usual dramatic flair, and the hallway lights flickered like they were in on the tension too. “Okay, we get it. I’m fragile,” I whispered.
I risked one last glance over my shoulder.
He was still there, sitting in the car like some broody romance novel cover come to life. Watching me. Waiting.
“Just breathe,” I told myself as I stepped inside, the quiet swallowing me whole. The walls felt too close, like they knew what was coming.
This was my space. My mess to walk into.
So I shut the door behind me with a quiet click—and maybe, just maybe, a whisper of hope that when I opened it again, he’d still be waiting.
I stepped into the apartment and—yikes. It hit me like walking into a memory-shaped brick wall. The silence was loud. The kind of loud that makes your ears ring. It still smelled like him—cologne, sweat, and that weird crisp scent I always associated with ice rinks and broken promises.
Nope. Not doing that today.
I bolted for the closet and yanked out my suitcase like it had personally offended me.
Pajamas first. Obviously. The fluffy kind that made me feel like I lived in a cloud and had zero emotional baggage.
Then underwear—because practical trauma-packing is still packing.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—messy bun, red eyes, definite “woman on the edge” energy—and whispered, “Girl, pull it together.”
Did I listen? Barely.
Next up: skincare. My tiny, overpriced army of lotions and serums went flying into the bag like I was storming the castle of emotional damage with retinol and hyaluronic acid. Take that, heartbreak.
Then I spotted them. The dresses.
Hanging in the corner, all smug and sparkly.
Too fancy for this moment. Too full of memories.
Too… hopeful. I stared them down like we were in a western standoff.
But instead of walking away, I grabbed two—one deep blue, one fire-engine red—and stuffed them in the bag like, you’re coming with me, drama dresses.
I zipped the suitcase with a dramatic flourish that honestly should’ve had theme music. And just like that, I felt lighter. Not healed. Not whole. But like I’d peeled off a version of myself that no longer fit.
The apartment still held echoes—photos, old perfume, that dumb coffee mug he always stole—but I didn’t feel trapped in it anymore. I wasn’t walking away in shame. I was walking out with intent.
And a suitcase full of night cream and emotional resilience.
Time to go.
I took a deep breath and rolled my suitcase into the hallway like I was dragging the final act of a drama behind me.
The wheels clacked dramatically against the tiles, which felt very appropriate.
I was one sad montage away from a breakup scene in a movie, complete with messy bun and emotional baggage—literal and metaphorical.
And then, of course, Becca appeared.
Wild curls bouncing, oversized tote bag swinging like a weapon of chaos, she practically sparkled with concern. Becca: resident building gossip and unofficial emotional support extrovert.
“Hey!” she said, too chipper for someone who clearly sensed I was mid-breakdown. “Are you okay? I saw you leave last night and figured—well, after the thing with Mikel—”
I blinked. Tilted my head. “The thing?”
Her smile hiccupped. That’s the only way I can describe it—like her face did a nervous glitch. “I mean… I saw him. With that girl from 3C. A couple nights ago. The one with the tiny dogs and the neon bike shorts? I didn’t know how to tell you, but I figured you’d found out.”
My brain short-circuited.
With the girl from 3C? Tiny dogs girl?
“What girl?” I asked, way too calm for what was happening inside my body, which was mostly fire and confusion and the sound of glass shattering in my soul.
Becca’s eyes widened like I’d just told her I didn’t believe in indoor plumbing. “Oh. Oh no. I thought—shoot, Mina, I thought you knew. She was in the lobby wearing that weird fuzzy crop top and laughing way too hard at something he said. It looked… not platonic.”
The hallway tilted a little.
Suddenly, every weird night practice, every text he “forgot” to answer, every too-slick excuse played on loop in my brain like a blooper reel from the world’s worst relationship.
I gripped the handle of my suitcase like it might fly out of my hand and hit the emotional ceiling I was fast approaching.
“I thought…” I trailed off. Because what was I supposed to say? I thought him betting me like a hockey puck was the lowest we’d go?
Becca stepped forward, expression softening like she wanted to wrap me in an “I told you so” but with hugs and snacks.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
I swallowed down the burn in my throat. “Thanks for telling me.”
She nodded, looking like she wanted to say more, but I turned and kept walking before my feelings decided to show up with a megaphone and a tear-stained monologue.
Because I wasn’t just leaving Mikel anymore.
I was leaving every lie he wrapped in cologne and half-truths.
And wow. The suitcase felt lighter. But I didn’t.
I swallowed the shock like it was a mouthful of glass. “Right. Yeah. Thanks.”
The words felt weird in my mouth—too casual, too normal, like I hadn’t just been sucker-punched with news that my ex might’ve been cheating while also turning me into a human hockey bet. Love that for me.
Becca looked relieved, like I’d just told her the test came back negative or I wasn’t mad about her ruining the surprise party. “I’m glad you’re getting out,” she said, all hopeful and supportive and clueless.
I gave her a smile that felt like it had been ironed onto my face by force. “Yep. Totally escaping. Super healthy choices over here.”
Then I turned toward the car, dragging my suitcase behind me like it had personally betrayed me. The wheels made this clunk-clunk sound that felt unnecessarily dramatic for the situation, which—honestly—only added to the vibe.
I was packing more than socks and serums. I was packing the crumbling idea of who I thought I was with him. The safety net he’d built out of charm and half-lies. The dreams I hadn’t even said out loud yet.
“Do you need help?” Becca asked gently.
“Nope.” Too fast. Too loud. “I got it.”
She stepped back, still watching me like I might crack open on the sidewalk, and to be fair… she wasn’t wrong.
I finished tossing my life into Nikolai’s trunk, slammed it shut, and slid into the passenger seat with all the grace of a crash-test dummy.
Everything felt too new in here. Too clean. The leather was cold against my skin, and I felt messy. Like my heart was a tangled ball of wires and I’d just dragged it into a place that had never seen chaos before.
Nikolai didn’t say anything.
He just stared ahead, hands on the wheel like it was the only thing holding him steady.
I didn’t say anything either. My throat was full of cotton and questions and oh-my-god-how long has he been cheating spirals.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was worse than that.
It was understanding.
The engine hummed. My chest ached in that weird, hollow way where crying would be a relief but the tears hadn’t arrived yet.
And I just sat there.
In a car with a man who’d bet on me.
Leaving a man who never really picked me.
And all I could do was stare out the window and hope the road would carry me far enough that none of it could catch up.
I focused on the streetlights blurring past the window—bright yellow smears across the glass like someone was painting regret in real time. Each one flickered by like a bad memory with a spotlight. My heart wouldn’t shut up, thudding in my chest like it had opinions, and honestly? Same.
I felt like I was in a slow-moving disaster film. Except instead of dramatic music, there was just the quiet hum of Nikolai’s Very Serious Sports Car? and the occasional sound of my own spiraling thoughts trying to punch their way out of my skull.
He glanced over, eyes flickering toward me like he wasn’t sure if I was about to cry, combust, or crawl out the window. “Everything all right?”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. Just kept staring out the window like if I pretended hard enough, maybe I could trick myself into being okay. Or disappear entirely. Either worked.
The silence stretched between us like taffy—sticky, slow, and impossible to escape.
“Can we go now?” I finally said, my voice sharper than I meant, too brittle around the edges. It came out like a warning, and I instantly hated how small it made me sound.
He didn’t argue. Just turned back to the road, jaw tight, hands gripping the wheel. The tension in the car went from simmer to “boiling under the lid of every unspoken feeling ever.”
Did he think this was just a dramatic little detour for me? Like I hadn’t just gotten blindsided by news that the guy who turned me into a bet also cheated on me with tiny dog bike shorts girl?
The engine purred, low and steady, but I felt anything but. My stomach twisted. My skin itched with how not fine I was.
“I know this isn’t easy,” Nikolai said eventually, voice calm, like he didn’t just casually change the entire trajectory of my life by existing in it.
I clenched my jaw. Bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. Because if I opened my mouth now, it wouldn’t be words—it’d be screaming and sobbing and possibly throwing the car manual out the window for dramatic effect.
“You’re not alone in this,” he added, voice softer now. Like he meant it.
But what did that mean? Was he trying to comfort me? Was this guilt? Was this a weird hockey version of atonement?
“Please just drive,” I muttered, trying not to sound like I was shattering. Trying not to let my bottom lip wobble.
He didn’t push. Just nodded once and eased us forward, away from the apartment, the lies, and whatever version of me used to believe Mikel’s mouth over my gut.
And I didn’t know where we were going.
But at least I knew we were gone.
I was still sulking into the passenger seat, arms crossed like a grumpy little statue of emotional instability, when the car took a weird turn.
Literally.
“Uh… this isn’t the way home,” I said, squinting out the window as we passed a neon cow sign and what I was pretty sure was a giant waffle cone statue. "To your place, I mean."
“You like sweets,” Nikolai said simply, as if this were obvious science. “You’re sad. Ice cream helps.”
I blinked. “You think I’m sad because I’m leaving my apartment?”
He gave a small shrug. “You seemed… attached.”
I stared at him, absolutely floored. This man thinks I’m mourning the IKEA furniture and betrayal-scented couch.
I sighed, long and dramatic, and slumped further in my seat. “No. It’s… Don’t worry about it.”
He didn’t ask again. Just parked like this was the most normal mid-meltdown pit stop ever.
We walked in, and the cold air hit me like a second chance. There was a giant chalkboard menu, glittery signage, and free samples waiting like tiny therapy cups.
“Pick something,” I said, already heading toward the counter like I hadn’t emotionally imploded thirty minutes ago.
He just… stood there.
“You have had ice cream before, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, and what’s your favorite?”
He glanced at the flavors with the same expression he wore before a faceoff. “Vanilla.”
I stared at him. “That’s not a favorite, that’s a lack of imagination.”
“It is simple,” he replied, dead serious.
“Oh, my goodness.” I turned to the poor teenager behind the counter. “Hi, I’m going to need about seven sample spoons. For science.”
The kid nodded solemnly. He understood the assignment.
One by one, I handed them to Nikolai: cookie dough, mint chip, double chocolate fudge explosion (yes, that was its real name, and yes, I made him try it last).
He tried each with the same stoic face, but I saw it—the slight arch of his brow, the quiet hmm under his breath.
“Okay,” I said, hands on hips. “Tell me you liked at least one of those more than plain old sad boy vanilla.”
He hesitated. Then pointed at the salted caramel pretzel.
“Yes. That is character development, Volkov.”
He almost smiled.
And for the first time all day, so did I.
After a full-on flavor tour and a borderline existential crisis over pistachio, we finally made it to the register.
I knew exactly what I wanted—birthday cake and brownie batter, stacked high like I had something to prove.
Nikolai was slower, still eyeing the board like he was calculating a chess move instead of picking dessert.
But eventually, he pointed to the salted caramel pretzel with the quiet confidence of a man accepting his sugary fate.
I grinned as the scoops hit our cones, exchanged a conspiratorial look with the teenager behind the counter, and handed over my card before Nikolai could even reach for his wallet.
“I won the bet,” I said smugly. “You owe me a smile and some melted dairy joy.”
"Yes, but I'm supposed to make you happy," he replied.
"Trust me," I said. "You did."