Taylor
The cold hits me the second I step outside.
It’s not even the worst Moscow has given me, not by far, but it still slips under my coat and bites through the thin fabric of my dress like it has teeth.
The street glistens beneath the lamps, wet with old snow and dirty slush.
Cars hiss past in streaks of red and white.
Somewhere down the block, a man laughs too loudly, the sound bouncing off the stone faces of buildings that look older than my entire country.
I tuck my chin into my scarf and start walking.
Two blocks isn’t far at all. It only feels far because the vodka has put a little sway in the sidewalk and because my boots were chosen for looking cute, not surviving a Moscow winter.
Every few steps, my heel catches in a crack or slips over a patch of ice, and I have to throw out one hand while my stomach hurls itself into my throat.
My phone buzzes in my coat pocket.
I pull it out with numb fingers, expecting Petyr to already be asking whether I’m home.
Instead, it’s my mother.
Mom: Just checking in, baby. How are classes?
I look at the message for a moment, the air biting my cheeks, my fingers hovering over the letters.
Then another appears.
Mom: Did you hear anything back from that government job?
My stomach tightens. There it is.
Not pressure, exactly. My mother would deny applying any if I accused her of it. She and my father have never once suggested that coming here was selfish or unnecessary.
That almost makes it worse.
I stop beneath a streetlamp, my breath fogging in front of me.
For a second, I think about lying. I could say classes are incredible, because they mostly are.
I could say no news yet about the job, because technically that is true.
I could say I’m fine, because that’s what daughters say when their mothers are one bad month away from crying somewhere no one can hear.
Instead, I type: Classes are good. Russian is trying to kill me, but I’m surviving. Still nothing from the governor’s office. I’ll tell you as soon as I hear.
I hesitate, then add: Love you.
Her reply comes almost instantly.
Mom: Love you more. We’re so proud of you. Don’t worry about us, okay? Just focus on school.
Focus.
I almost laugh. Even my mother is correcting my Russian from across the ocean, and she doesn’t know a single word of it.
I slide the phone back into my pocket before I can spiral too hard, and keep walking.
My apartment building is narrow and old, wedged between a bakery that never seems to be open and a little shop with a green sign I still can’t read without sounding it out like a child.
The front door sticks. I shoulder it once, twice, then finally force it open with a groan of wood and metal that sounds personally offended by my existence.
Inside, the stairwell smells like damp wool, old cigarettes, and somebody’s dinner.
I climb to the third floor slowly, one hand dragging along the rail.
My roommate, Anya, is awake when I get in.
Of course she is.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch in an oversized sweater, her long silvery-blond hair piled loosely on top of her head.
A few pale strands hang around her face, nearly the same color as the winter light that comes through our windows during the day.
Her blue eyes remain fixed on a Russian reality show playing at low volume, the subtitles turned on because she claims it helps my listening comprehension.
So far, all it has taught me is that Russian women can weaponize silence better than anyone on earth.
Anya looks up and takes in my flushed cheeks, crooked scarf, and the way I have to brace one hand against the wall to remove my boot.
“Cultural experience?” she asks in English.
“Well, vodka, so you could say that.”
“Vodka with Petyr?”
I kick off one boot and point at her with finger guns. “You got it. Unfortunately.”
She grins. “He is sweet.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it is true.”
“I know it’s true,” I yelp, flustered, letting my forehead fall against the wall as I kick off the other boot.
“And yet?”
“And yet I am not moving to Russia permanently because a man with a dimple bought me a pity pastry one time.”
“So you noticed his dimple.”
I roll my eyes.
Anya laughs and reaches for the bowl of sunflower seeds on the table. “There are worse reasons,” she says, pulling an empty shell from her mouth.
“Name one.”
“Love.”
“And Petyr says I’m cold.” I point my scarf at her as I unwind it from my neck. “You’re worse.”
“Nyet.” She shakes her head solemnly.
No.
“I am realistic.”
“You’re heartless.”
“In Russian, this is compliment.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“Your Russian is not good enough to argue.”
“You’re awful.”
“Spasibo.” Thank you.
I drop onto the couch beside her and let my head fall against the cushions.
The apartment is small enough that the kitchen, living room, and dining area are basically one room having an identity crisis. My bedroom is the size of a closet. The radiator makes a clanking noise every night like someone is trying to escape from inside it.
But it’s mine. For now. For this year.
Anya nudges my knee with her foot. “Did he ask again?”
“Petyr?”
“No, Pushkin’s ghost. Yes, Petyr.”
I sigh deeply. “Yes, he asked again.”
“And?”
“We’re getting married. What do you think? I said no.”
“You always say no.”
“Because he always asks. If he stopped asking, I’d stop saying no.”
“He likes you.”
“I know.”
“You could do worse.”
“I know that too.”
She watches me for a moment, her amusement softening into something more careful. “Then why not? He is not asking for your hand in marriage.”
I close my eyes.
Because I’m leaving. Because my parents are drowning. Because every nice thing starts to feel like a trap when you can’t afford to keep it. Because if I let myself want something normal here, then going home will feel like losing it.
“Because I have to focus,” I say.
Anya makes a sympathetic noise. “Sosredotochit’sya.”
Focus.
“Don’t start.”
“Petyr told me what you said.”
“Traitor.”
“He said you aimed yourself at school.”
“I was close.”
“You threatened your education with a weapon.”
I throw a couch cushion at her.
She catches it against her chest, laughing. “Careful. Violence is poor substitute for grammar.”
“I’m going to bed.”
“You are sitting down.”
“I’m going to bed emotionally.” I reach for my phone again.
Anya gives me a suspicious look. “What are you doing?”
“Checking my email.”
“You already checked today.”
“This afternoon.”
“And government offices are famous for working late?”
“I know, I know.” I unlock my phone anyway. “If it wasn’t there this afternoon, it probably isn’t going to appear tonight.”
“Correct.”
“But my mom asked about it, and now I’m thinking about it again.”
“So stop thinking.”
“That has never worked for me before.”
“You could try.”
“I’m only checking once.”
Anya groans and lets her head fall against the back of the couch. “Taylor.”
“It might have come in before the office closed.”
“And you believe it waited patiently in your inbox until vodka prepared you emotionally?”
“That sounds plausible.”
“It sounds American.”
The position was advertised through my university as part of a paid student internship.
The Office of the Governor of Moscow Oblast needed administrative interns—several of them, according to the posting—to help with administrative overflow.
Filing. Copying. Preparing event packets.
Sorting correspondence. Scheduling assistance.
English-language materials when needed. Other duties as assigned.
Nothing glamorous. Nothing important. Probably long hours spent standing beside a copier while someone more powerful forgets my name.
But it would be real work in a Russian government office, and that matters to me more than I want to admit.
I can attend college in America. I can study political science in America.
I can learn Russian from professors and textbooks and audio recordings in America.
But my parents encouraged me to come to Russia, because immersion would make me fluent, because a year abroad would look good on applications, because they believed I should have opportunities they never did.
But sometimes, when I sit in a bar drinking vodka or spend an afternoon wandering through a museum, the whole thing feels dangerously close to a vacation they could not afford to take themselves.
I want something concrete to show for it. Something beyond grades and photographs and stories about snow.
I want to be able to say I worked here. That I used the language somewhere outside a classroom. That I learned how another country functions from inside one of its own institutions, even if my part in that institution was carrying folders from one room to another.
I open my email.
For half a second, I see nothing new. Then I notice an unread message halfway down the screen, buried beneath a university announcement and an advertisement from a clothing store I can’t afford.
The timestamp is from late this afternoon. The subject line makes all the alcohol drain out of my blood at once.
Interview Confirmation — Office of the Governor of Moscow Oblast
I sit up so quickly that the room tilts and spins, nausea flooding my mouth with saliva.
Anya notices immediately. “Chto?” What?
I can’t answer.
She slides closer and reads over my shoulder as I open the email with a thumb that suddenly does not feel attached to my body.
Dear Ms. Taylor Hayes,
Thank you for your application to the student administrative placement program. We are pleased to invite you for an interview regarding an administrative intern position within the Office of the Governor of Moscow Oblast. Please report to the administrative entrance at 9:00 a.m. Friday—
Friday. Two days away.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Anya grabs both my shoulders and shakes me hard enough that my head snaps back. “Taylor!”
“Stop. I’m nauseated.”
“Ty poluchila!” You got it.
“I got an interview. Not the job.”
“You got the interview because they may give you the job.”
“That is significantly less encouraging.”
“It is realistic encouragement.”
I stare at the screen until the letters blur. An administrative intern. The lowest rung on a very tall bureaucratic ladder. It probably pays barely enough to justify the commute. I would likely spend more time organizing paper than observing anything remotely political.
I don’t care.
The title will matter on a résumé. The experience will matter when I go home. It will prove that this year has been more than an expensive detour while my parents keep their restaurant open through sheer force of denial.
If I get the position, I can tell them I am building something. That I didn’t come all this way just to take classes I could have taken somewhere closer. That their pride in me is not misplaced.
My throat tightens.
Anya reads my face and goes still. “Hey.”
“I really need this,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her expression softens. “Zachem?” she asks gently. Why?
I look down at the email.
Because my father stands in the restaurant kitchen every morning and pretends determination can compensate for declining sales.
Because my mother tells me to enjoy myself in a voice that makes enjoyment feel like another obligation.
Because they smiled at the airport like sending me across the world was a victory and not a sacrifice.
“Because I need this year to matter,” I say.
Anya’s hand moves from my shoulder to the back of my neck, squeezing once. “It already matters.”
“You have to say that. You’re my roommate.”
“I do not have to say anything. I am Russian.”
I laugh, though the nervous pressure behind my ribs does not ease.
I look down at the email again. “I should answer.”
“Tomorrow.”
“What if they think I’m not interested?”
“They will think you are sleeping.”
“I’m awake.”
“You are drunk.”
“I’m not that drunk.”
“You nearly lost fight with wall.”
“The boot was stuck.”
Anya’s face settles into the stern expression I have become accustomed to seeing on her sharp features. “Nyet, Taylor. Tomorrow.”
I push my hair out of my eyes and press my fingers to my face, feeling the heat lingering there. She has a point.
“I’m going to be responsible tomorrow,” I say.
Anya nods solemnly. “Konechno.” Of course.
“I’m going to wake up early and shower.”
“Heroic.”
“Answer the email with perfect professionalism.”
“I expect nothing less.”
“Practice my Russian.”
“Good.” She reaches for the remote. “Practice tonight. Sit with me and watch terrible people make terrible choices.”
“That is not language study.”
“It is culture.”
I laugh despite myself and settle back into the couch. Anya turns the volume up. On-screen, a beautiful woman throws a glass of wine into a man’s face while another woman watches from across the room with the grim satisfaction of someone whose evening has gone exactly according to plan.
Something deep in my soul stirs—a quiet, ridiculous certainty that I may be one of those terrible people soon. That I have just received a lucky break I do not deserve. And that, somehow, I am going to mess it up.