Chapter Seventeen
KATERINA
Scottie doesn’t tell me where we’re going.
Only that he’s taking me somewhere special before he leaves for Salt Lake tomorrow — before he misses my opening night.
He parks a few streets off Pike, in a quiet part of downtown. The air smells like espresso and wet pavement and October autumn.
He kills the engine and glances over at me, lips tilting up in that soft, almost-smile that does ridiculous things to my chest.
“It’s only a couple of blocks,” he says.
I nod and get out, hugging my coat close. When he joins me on the passenger side, he falls into step beside me like he’s done it a thousand times.
“Are you nervous?” he asks gently. “About the performance tomorrow?”
I exhale slowly. “A little. Mostly, I wish you and Luka were going to be there. But we’re ready.”
He goes quiet for a second. His breath leaves him in a slow fog of white against the night. “Yeah. I wish I were going to be there, too.”
I look up.
He’s staring ahead, jaw flexing like the words cost him something.
“That’s the problem with having two performers in the family,” he says, nudging my arm. “We both have to feed the fans.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, warm and a little sad. “True.”
We round the next corner, and I stop dead when I see the movie title on the front of an old theater.
“Roman Holiday?”
The marquee glows in soft retro letters, the old bulbs flickering like they’re holding onto life out of pure stubbornness. The building itself is gorgeous. All sweeping arches and carved stone, like it remembers what it was in the 1920s and refuses to modernize out of principle.
“Scottie…” My voice catches. “Did you know they were playing this movie tonight?”
“Sort of. I know that you used to watch it with your mom,” he says. “And because I’m going to miss your opening night. And because…” He scratches the back of his neck. “Because I wanted to give you something good before I go.”
“What do you mean by you sort of knew?” I ask softly.
“I sort of knew because I paid to have the whole place to ourselves and asked them to play this film because I knew it was your favorite with your mom. It’s just us tonight. A private showing.”
My chest feels like it beats so hard it almost breaks a rib.
“You did this for me? You… remembered?”
“I remember everything you say,” he answers simply. Like it’s obvious.
I blink fast, trying not to cry, because this moment feels bigger than the sidewalk we’re standing on, bigger than Seattle, bigger than him remembering I don’t like roses on our wedding day, it feels bigger than whatever this arrangement was supposed to be.
“You rented out a movie theater,” I whisper, almost breathless, “to play Roman Holiday for me?”
He shrugs, but his eyes are steady. “Yeah. Thought you deserved something special.”
My throat closes at the thought that he did something like this just because he thought I deserved it.
For the girl who grew up in a house where nothing was done without strings attached. For the girl who ran from a future built on control and obligation.
My mother would have adored him.
Before I can overthink it, I reach up on instinct and kiss him. It’s a soft kiss, quick, a thank-you, and a confession I’m not brave enough to say out loud.
He smiles against my mouth.
“Come on,” he whispers. “The movie's about to start.” He grabs my hand and threads our fingers together, and I swear in this moment, I hope he never lets go.
Inside, the theater is dim and echoing, all worn velvet seats and chipped gold trim. The kind of place where stories live in the walls. Somehow, I feel my mother here in this moment, too.
We’re halfway down the aisle when he taps my arm.
“Oh. One more thing.”
He pulls a small paper bag from his jacket pocket and hands it to me.
I peek inside, and the moment I see it… I can’t barely believe this man. “Stop… you did not.”
Little Red Riding Hood chocolates.
The exact brand I used to get at the old Moscow theater with my mother when I was a kid. The candy I haven’t tasted in years. The candy I mentioned once, in passing during a breakfast dish washing moment the morning after our wedding, when things were so new between us.
“You found these?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Yeah,” he says. “There’s a Russian market Luka told me about across town.”
“Scottie…”
He steps closer, thumb brushing the corner of my eye, catching the tear before it falls.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I wanted to do something that mattered to you. Something that felt like… home.”
And that’s it… the moment I melt. Completely, because now the only thing that really, truly feels like home is him.
I kiss him again, deeper this time, my fingers curling in the front of his coat, letting him feel how entirely undone I am.
He pulls back with a soft groan, forehead resting against mine.
“We should watch the movie,” he whispers, breathing unevenly. “Before we get kicked out of here for indecent exposure.”
“Okay,” I chuckle.
We settle into the middle row side by side. The lights dim. The projector flickers to life with a nostalgia that lives somewhere between memory and magic.
The black-and-white picture splashes across the screen.
Audrey Hepburn appears.
And something inside me breaks open, like I’m back in Moscow with my mother, my childhood with her coming back for just a moment, so that it eases the pain of losing her, just for a second.
Somewhere during the chase scene, I lean my head on Scottie’s shoulder.
He intertwines his fingers with mine.
Halfway through, he kisses the top of my head.
By the final scene, I’m certain, bone-deep certain, that this is the kind of love I thought people made up.
That no one is this selfless and loves like Scottie does.
And now I know that it exists, and it’s right here.
It makes me want to love him back just the same because he deserves the same thing from me, and because I am in love with him.
When we step outside afterward, the air is colder than when we went in, the sun has completely set, and now it’s dark out.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For tonight.”
“You’re welcome, KitKat,” he says, using a nickname that I’ve learned to love because it’s only from him. “Do you want to stop for ice cream?” he asks, voice hopeful, almost boyish.
I shake my head slowly.
“No.” I step closer, wrapping my hands in his jacket to pull him closer. “I’d rather go home.”
“Oh yeah,” he says with a smirk, his eyes sparkling back at mine. “And what’s at home?”
“A bed where I can properly thank you for tonight.”
His pupils darken, and I love how easy it is to turn him on. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go.”
I let out a giggle as he pulls me down the sidewalk to the car as if we can’t get there soon enough.
I can’t help but hope we get more nights like this.
And that my father has decided to give up. I want to believe we’ve won, but I still know my father better than that.