4. Three
Three
Y uri's fingers hovered over the keyboard, a half-empty bottle of kvass at his elbow. The soft light from the computer screen illuminated his cozy Minsk apartment. The walls were decorated with worn nightclub posters. Outside, the snow fell softly, blanketing the city in white.
He squinted at the dating profile on his screen, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. Beth Mason, 32, baker from New York. Her smile was warm, her red curls wild and inviting. But it was her bio that had him chuckling.
"Just a small-town girl with flour in her hair and sugar in her veins," he read aloud, his accent wrapping around the words. "Looking for someone who can handle my sweet tooth and my sassy mouth. Bonus points if you can knead dough or frost a cupcake!"
Yuri cracked his knuckles, grinning. "Challenge accepted, moye solnyshko."
He hit reply, fingers flying across the keys:
Dear Beth,
Privet from snowy Minsk! I hope this message finds you well and that you are not buried under a mountain of holiday orders. Your profile caught my eye–not many bakers in the nightclub scene, I must say. Though perhaps that's where I went wrong. Nothing sobers up drunk patrons like a good pastry, am I right?
I'm curious, what's your signature bake? I'm partial to medovik myself, though I doubt my babushka would approve of my attempt. Let's just say my talents lie more in mixing drinks than mixing dough.
Looking forward to hearing from you,
Yuri
He hit send before he could overthink it, then leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. What was he doing? Online dating? International online dating, no less. His best friend Nik would have a field day with this.
As if summoned by the thought, Yuri's phone buzzed. Speak of the devil.
"Da?" Yuri answered.
"Tell me you're not still moping in your apartment," Nik's voice crackled through the speaker. "It's Friday night, for God's sake."
Yuri glanced at the clock. 11:00 p.m. At one time, he'd just be starting his night at this hour. Now, he was in his pajamas, scrolling through dating sites. How the mighty had fallen.
"I'm not moping," he defended weakly. "I'm... networking."
Nik snorted. "Right. And I'm a Russian prince. Come on, I'm outside. We're going out."
"Nik, I'm not really in the mood—"
"Wasn't asking, Your Highness. You've got five minutes before I sing Vysotsky at the top of my lungs. Your neighbors will love that."
The line went dead. Yuri stared at his phone, torn between annoyance and amusement. That was his best friend, Nik–stubborn as a mule and twice as loud. With a resigned sigh, Yuri stood up to change. Maybe a night out wouldn't be so bad.
Just then, a 'ping' from his computer made him pause. A new message. From Beth.
Yuri's heart did a little skip as he sat back down, opening the message:
Beth: Hey there, International Man of Mystery!
Greetings from not-so-snowy Stanford! (That's in New York, by the way. Not the fancy university one.) I'm impressed–most guys lead with a cheesy pick-up line, but you went straight for the baked goods. A man after my own heart!
To answer your question, my signature bake changes with my mood. Today, it's "My-Boyfriend-Cheated-So-I-Stress-Baked-100-Cookies" chocolate chip. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe "I-Entered-A-Baking-Competition-What-Was-I-Thinking" sourdough?
Medovik, huh? Color me intrigued. I might need that recipe... for research purposes, of course. And hey, mixing drinks is an art form, too. Maybe we could trade skills sometime? I'll teach you to frost; you teach me to flambe. (Is that a thing bartenders do, or am I thinking of fancy chefs?)
Your turn, Mr. Minsk. What's your story? How does one go from running a nightclub to browsing international dating sites? I sense there's a tale there...
Sweetly yours,
Beth
P.S. What's a babushka? Is that like a balaclava? Because if so, I agree. Nobody looks good baking in a ski mask.
Yuri found himself laughing out loud, Nik and his threats of public singing forgotten. He cracked his knuckles, ready to reply, when his phone buzzed again. This time, it was accompanied by the distant strains of "Koni Priveredlivye" floating up from the street.
Torn, Yuri glanced between his phone and the computer. The responsible thing would be to go out with his friend. To try and recapture some of his old life.
"Yuri!" Nik's voice carried through the open window. "I'm on verse two! Don't make me do the whole song!"
With a groan, Yuri made his decision. He quickly typed out a response to Beth:
Yuri: Apologies, moye solnyshko, but duty calls. My friend is threatening to serenade the entire block if I don't join him for a night out. Raincheck on that fascinating story and cultural exchange? I promise it's worth the wait.
Sleep sweet, Baker Beth. Dream of sugar plums... or whatever it is you baker's dream of.
Dosvidaniya for now,
Yuri
P.S. Babushka = grandmother. Balaclava = definitely not recommended for baking. Or anything, really. Unless you're robbing a bank in Siberia.
He hit send, then hurried to change. By the time he made it downstairs, Nik was on verse four, much to the dismay of Yuri's elderly neighbors.
"Alright, alright, I'm here," Yuri grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You can stop torturing everyone now."
Nik grinned, slinging an arm around Yuri's shoulders. "Aw, you love my singing. Admit it."
"I'd rather admit to tax fraud," Yuri retorted, but there was no heat in it. Despite his reluctance, he felt a familiar thrill of anticipation. A night out with Nik was never dull.
As they walked towards their favorite bar, Nik studied his friend. "So, what's her name?"
Yuri nearly tripped over his own feet. "What? Who?"
"The girl. The one that had you 'networking' instead of answering my calls."
"There's no girl," Yuri protested too quickly.
Nik's grin widened. "Uh-huh. And that's why you're blushing like a schoolboy. Come on, spill. Is she Russian? Please tell me she's not another dancer. I can't handle another Natasha situation."
Yuri winced at the memory. "She's not a dancer. She's... she's a baker. From America."
Nik stopped dead in his tracks. "A baker. From America," he repeated slowly. "Yuri, tell me you're not on one of those international dating sites."
Yuri's silence was answer enough.
"Bozhe moy," Nik groaned. "Have you learned nothing from those crime documentaries I made you watch? She's probably a 50-year-old man named Chuck who wants to steal your kidneys!"
"She's not—" Yuri started to argue, then caught himself. "Look, it's not serious. We just started chatting. She seems... nice."
"Nice," Nik echoed. "Right. Well, when you wake up in a bathtub full of ice, don't come crying to me."
Despite his words, Nik's tone was more concerned than mocking. Yuri felt a surge of affection for his friend. "I promise to keep both my kidneys intact," he said solemnly. "Now, are we going to drink or what?"
People filled the crowded bar, smoke filled the air, and laughter echoed throughout. Yuri breathed it in, feeling a familiar ache. It wasn't Rhapsody, his beloved lost nightclub, but it was close.
As Nik ordered their usual vodkas, Yuri's mind wandered back to Beth. He found himself wondering what she was doing now – probably baking. He could almost smell the aroma of fresh bread, and see her with flour on her cheeks and determination in her eyes.
"Earth to Yuri," Nik's voice cut through his musings. "Your drink's getting warm."
Yuri blinked, focusing on the shot glass in front of him. "Sorry," he muttered, throwing back the vodka in one smooth motion.
Nik sighed, clapping him on the back. "You've got it bad, my friend. Just... be careful, okay? I can't lose you to the wilds of America."
Yuri managed a smile. "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."
But even as he said it, a part of him wondered if that was true.
The next morning, Yuri woke to a pounding headache and three new messages from Beth. He squinted at the screen, a slow smile spreading across his face despite the pain.
Message 1 : Raincheck accepted, Mr. International. But don't think you're getting off that easy. I want the full story, complete with dramatic reenactments. If you supply the drama, I'll supply the popcorn.
Message 2 : Also, I may have stress-baked again. Do you think medovik travels well internationally? Asking for a friend. (The friend is my stomach.)
Message 3 : Okay, it's 3:00 a.m., and I'm covered in honey and flour. I blame you for this, Yuri from Minsk. I hope you're happy. But also... this is delicious. Your babushka was onto something.
Ignoring the protest of his vodka-soaked brain, Yuri hit the 'video call' button. It rang once, twice, three times before connecting.
Beth's face filled the screen, her hair a riot of messy curls, a smudge of flour on her cheek. Her eyes widened in surprise.
"Yuri? I didn't think you'd actually—oh god, I'm a mess. Hold on—"
"Net, net," Yuri said quickly. "You look... sweet."
Beth paused in her attempt to smooth down her hair. "Sweet? That's a new one. I think the word you're looking for is 'disaster."
Yuri chuckled, then winced as his head throbbed. "Perhaps we are both disasters this morning, da? But at least you smell better, I think."
Beth's laugh was like music. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Minsk. Though I'm not sure smelling like a honey factory is much better than... what is that, vodka and regret?"
"You wound me, moye solnyshko. It is clearly vodka and bad life choices."
"Ah, my mistake," Beth grinned. Then, softer, "I'm glad you called, Yuri. Even if it's at an ungodly hour, and we both look like we've been through a war."
Yuri felt something warm unfurl in his chest. "I'm glad too, Baker Beth. Now, tell me about this medovik. Did you follow the secret step?"
Beth leaned in conspiratorially. "You mean adding a shot of vodka to the batter? Because if so, yes. Yes, I did."
Yuri's eyebrows shot up. "That is not— Who told you to do this?"
"Google," Beth said proudly. "It said it was traditional!"
Yuri couldn't help it. He burst out laughing, ignoring the spike of pain in his skull. "Oh, moye solnyshko. We have much to teach each other, I think."
Yuri felt something shift as they fell into a simple conversation, trading baking disasters and hangover cures. This woman, with her wild hair and her wilder spirit, was dangerous. She made him want things he'd given up on and made him dream of possibilities.
In Stanford, Beth was having similar thoughts. This man, with his accent like warm honey and eyes that crinkled when he laughed, was not what she'd expected. He was so much more.
Neither of them noticed the hours slipping by, lost in their own private world. It wasn't until Beth's oven timer went off that they realized they'd been talking for nearly three hours.
"Oh shoot," Beth said reluctantly. "I've got to go. The bakery awaits."
Yuri nodded, fighting his disappointment. "Of course. Go, create sweet miracles."
Beth hesitated before blurting out, "Can we do this again?"
Yuri's heart leapt. "Da. Yes. Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Beth agreed, her smile was radiant. "It's a date. I mean, not a date-date, but... you know what I mean."
"I know," Yuri whispered. "Dosvidaniya, Baker Beth."
"Goodbye, Yuri from Minsk."
As the screen went dark, Yuri leaned back in his chair, a foolish grin on his face. He was in trouble. Deep, sweet trouble.
His phone buzzed. Nik again.
Nik; "So? How are your kidneys?"
Yuri chuckled, typing back:
Yuri: " Intact. But I think I might be losing something else."
In Stanford, Beth hummed as she prepared for the day, her steps light despite her lack of sleep. For the first time since the Keith disaster, she felt a flutter of hope.
Her phone chimed. A message from Kelly:
Kelly: " Well? How's the international manhunt going?"
Beth smiled, responding:
Beth: " Let's just say... things are heating up. And not just the ovens."
As she tied on her apron, Beth looked forward to more than just baking for the first time in days. She had a video call to prepare for, after all. And maybe, just maybe, a whole new recipe for happiness to discover.