Chapter Fourteen
Cooking Russian cuisine requires a confidence I usually reserve for third-period comebacks.
But here I am, my apartment transformed into what I’m desperately hoping passes for someone’s babushka’s kitchen.
YouTube has been yelling contradictory instructions at me for an hour, and my confidence level hovers somewhere between third-period down by two and I should’ve just ordered takeout.
When I hear Petra at the door, I have flour dusting my forearms like evidence of crimes against culinary tradition.
“Alright,” she calls out, and I can hear her brain recalibrating as the smell hits her. “I was prepared for a lot of things tonight, but walking into my grandmother’s kitchen was not one of them.”
“Exactly the vibe I was going for,” I say as I hear her approaching the kitchen.
She enters, her expression worth every minute I spent being interrogated by Ludmila at the Russian market in Brighton Beach about my intentions with her precious solyanka recipe.
“You’ve been holding out on me, LeClerc. Since when do you cook?”
I kiss her instead of explaining how I’ve spent the past week researching Russian cuisine. “Since I realized my favorite ballerina is abandoning me for a city famous for its food. Couldn’t let you leave without attempting to poison you at least once.”
“Is that right?”
“Come witness the disaster,” I say, leading her to the kitchen where I’ve arranged everything. She sees the spread—pelmeni I folded (twice wrong, once correctly) and black bread I absolutely bought but am displaying like I birthed it myself.
“You actually made pelmeni?”
I try not to look like a golden retriever who’s just fetched the right stick. “Folded every last one.”
She picks one up, examining my handiwork.
“And that’s not even the main event,” I announce, lifting the pot lid.
She leans in and I watch her face transform. “Wait. Is that—?”
“Solyanka. The real stuff,” I confirm. “Babushka Ludmila was deeply skeptical of my ability to handle her family recipe. There may have been threats.”
“You tracked down authentic ingredients for this?”
I shrug, stirring the pot to avoid eye contact. “Brighton Beach isn’t that far. Plus, turns out Russian grandmothers adopt strays if you look pathetic enough.”
What I don’t say: I’ve been building bridges to your future; maybe if I feed you enough of where you’re going, you won’t forget about me.
We move to the living room with our plates. Through her eyes, I suddenly see what I’ve been living in.
The sectional exists because the salesperson said it was nice. The TV is huge because that seemed important at the time. The walls are decorated with exactly two pieces of hockey memorabilia and nothing else.
“So,” she says, settling onto the couch with this amused expression. “I’ve been meaning to ask you since I first saw your place. Do you actually live here? Or is this some kind of witness protection situation?”
I smirk because defense mechanisms are my love language. “Home design is not exactly my thing.”
She gestures at the aggressive minimalism. “You don’t say.”
“I’ve got everything I need,” I protest, listing my possessions like they’re achievements. “Couch, TV, a bed…or at least a mattress on a frame. What more do you want?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Evidence of human habitation? A plant? A family photo? A sign of you being a part of civilization?”
I look around: the half-filled bookshelf with unread books. The complete absence of anything that suggests I might stick around. “Not gonna lie—that’s a fair assessment.”
“No pictures of your parents or Lila?” she asks.
“Never really got around to it,” I say.
She studies me with those eyes that see too much. “Your place reminds me of how you were when we first met.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Capable, functional, no-nonsense. But…” she searches for words.
“But?”
“A little closed off. Like it’s waiting for something real to fill it.”
The observation lands with uncomfortable accuracy. I deflect because that’s what I do. “So, you’re saying I need a rug.”
She laughs, nudging me. “A rug would be a start. Maybe some throw pillows. Something that suggests you’re planning to stay a while.”
“Throw pillows are a gateway drug to scented candles,” I say solemnly.
“God forbid you add ambiance to your life.”
We talk about decorative baskets, but then something occurs to me. “You know, you may think my place reminds you of how I was when we met, but from my perspective, this place is actually kinda like you right now.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Explain yourself.”
“You’re moving to Saint Petersburg. Brand new start. Feels empty at first, but you’ll make it yours.”
“That was surprisingly poetic,” she admits.
“I have my moments,” I say.
As we finish dinner in the living room, I rise and offer my hand.
When she slips hers into mine, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
I lead her down the short hallway, the air between us charged, her footsteps a quiet echo behind mine.
I push my bedroom door open, and for a heartbeat she lingers in the threshold.
I let her take it in before she looks up at me, smiles, then walks into the room ahead of me, now leading me.
My bedroom is just as personality-free as the rest of the place—dresser next to the bed and a lamp that works, I think, and an alarm clock because I refuse to bring my phone into my bedroom. But with Petra here, it transforms into something else. A clock counting down. A museum of last times.
We sit, staring at each other, the quiet stretching until she breaks it.
“That dinner,” she says, a smile tugging at her lips, “was one of the best I’ve ever had. Unforgettable.”
I laugh. “You mean the dumplings that fell apart?”
She shakes her head. “I mean the way you made it for me. That’s what I’ll remember.”
“I’m happy to hear that. I sure hope it’s not the last meal I make for you.”
She goes quiet.
I lean in and kiss her like I’m trying to download her entire existence into my memory. Like if I’m thorough enough, I can carry the taste of her through the upcoming drought. My hands know her geography by heart, but tonight they’re desperate cartographers, mapping territories I’m about to lose.
We lie down as she traces the terrain of my back with fingers that feel like goodbye, finding the spot where I carry tension, the scar from where I got cut with a high stick as a kid, and the place at the base of my spine that makes me shiver every time.
When I find a sensitive spot below her ear, she gasps my name.
“Shh,” I murmur against her skin. “I’ve got you.”
I roll us over, so she’s beneath me, and just stare for a moment, trying to solve the equation of us. How do you hold onto something that’s already leaving? How do you savor someone properly when there’s an expiration date?
She traces my cheek, her thumb finding my lips. “I hate this.”
“Hate what?” Though I know.
“That we only found this now. That I have to leave just when we—” she exhales. “Just when we started.”
The words escape before I can stop them. “Then don’t go.”
“Liam…”
“I know,” I say quickly, shaking my head because taking it back feels necessary even though I mean it with every cell in my body. “I know you have to go. I know you should go.” I exhale. “But I still hate it.”
She cups my face. “Me too.”
We kiss again, different this time. Desperate. Raw. Like we’re trying to consume enough of each other to survive the famine that’s coming.
Afterward, we stay tangled, neither willing to be the first to let go. Her fingers trace absent patterns on my back—infinity symbols, figure eights, shapes that have no end.
“Can you see if they’ll let you come later?” I ask quietly, hating how much hope leaks into my voice. “Like in a few months?”
She closes her eyes. “I tried. If I want the spot, it has to be now.”
“So,” I finally say. “I did some time zone math.”
She laughs, soft and sad. “Of course you did.”
“If we time it right, we’ve got solid overlap for FaceTime. Morning calls before rehearsals, late nights after games. It works.”
She studies me with those eyes that make me want to be better than I am. “You really think we can keep this up?”
I hold her gaze. “I think I’m not ready to say goodbye to you.”
“Me neither,” she whispers.
What I don’t say: I think I’m in love with you. I think you’re the first real thing that’s ever happened to me. I think my apartment isn’t the only empty space that you’ve started to fill.
I kiss her again, slow and sensual. We pretend this isn’t goodbye.
We pretend it’s just a pause, a commercial break, an intermission before the real show continues.
But as I hold her in my empty apartment, I can’t shake the feeling that this is it.
This is the moment I’ll measure everything against. The before that makes every after feel like not quite enough.
In the kitchen, the extra solyanka I made is probably cold by now. Three trips to Brighton Beach, an afternoon with Russian grandmothers, and a crash course in dumpling folding.
I finally learned how to cook, and now I’m about to lose the only person I want to cook for.