Chapter 20 #2
"Back then," she repeated softly, then didn't push further. Raised her crêpe, took another bite, thought for a moment. "Your father," she changed direction, "did he play hockey?"
"No," I said. "He thought it was a poor kid's game."
She caught what was in that sentence. Didn't pursue it. Paused, shifted direction again.
"So who did you play with?"
"Neighborhood kids," I said. "Nothing to do with the family. Regular kids."
"That's good," she said, earnest. "At least you had that back then."
I looked at her. She wasn't looking at me with pity. Just stating it calmly, like she was talking about something she understood herself. She probably did. Someone who grew up in an orphanage—she'd have her own understanding of "finding the good parts in ordinary things."
Misha suddenly moved. Lifted her head from Ella's boot, let out a low growl at a sparrow on the ground nearby. The sparrow didn't move. Gave Misha an extremely indifferent look for one second, then went back to pecking the ground.
Ella laughed. "That bird's ignoring her."
"That bird's seen more dogs than Misha has," I said. "Not scared."
Her smile lingered. She lowered her head, finished the last bite of her crêpe, then looked up. That's when I saw it—cream on the tip of her nose. Just sitting there. She had no idea, looking naturally at the lake ahead.
"Ella," I said.
"Hmm?" She turned.
I reached over, wiped her nose with my thumb.
She froze for half a second, then realized. Her face flushed instantly to her ears. She covered her face with her hands. "You could've said something."
"Just noticed," I said. "You didn't realize."
"You still should've told me!" She dropped her hands, glared at me—but there was no real anger in her eyes, just embarrassment. "How long was I like that?"
"Since the cart," I said. "All the way here."
"Sergei Volkov," she said my full name, tone carrying that indescribable reproach. "You did that on purpose."
I didn't deny it.
She stared at me. The flush spread from her cheeks to her ears. The cold wind had already turned her cheeks pink—now they were deeper, vivid against the gray-white winter light.
She didn't say anything more. Folded the paper holder, clutched it in her hand, turned back to the lake.
The bench went quiet. Just the wind. And Misha occasionally shifting position.
"Was it good?" she asked suddenly. "Your hazelnut chocolate one."
"Not bad," I said. "Yours?"
"Really good," she said, satisfaction plain in her voice. "The strawberries were fresh. Cream wasn't too sweet. Just right." She paused. "Next time, you get strawberry cream. Give me the hazelnut chocolate."
"Next time," I said, "order your own."
"Then I'll order both," she said. "You pay."
I looked at her. "Fine."
She paused, probably didn't expect me to agree so directly. Then the corner of her mouth lifted uncontrollably. She ducked her head. "Deal then."
"Deal."
Misha yawned at our feet, rested her head back on Ella's boot, and closed her eyes.
Wind blew across the lake, lifting a few loose strands of her hair. She raised her hand and tucked them behind her ear. They didn't stay. Came loose again. She didn't bother, just let them drift in the wind, turned her face toward the frozen part of the lake. Her expression was relaxed.
I took my hand from my coat pocket and covered her hand resting on the bench armrest.
She didn't pull away. Her fingers turned, laced with mine.
Like that. On a Central Park bench in winter. Two people. One dog. Nothing more said.
On the way back, Misha was exhausted.
She found a position in the car, lay down, rested her head on Ella's lap, breathing heavily. Half a day's walk, completely spent. Ella put one hand on her back, gently smoothing her fur. Her other hand pressed against the car window, watching the streets slide past.
Sunset leaked through the gaps between buildings, cutting the car interior into overlapping light and shadow. Her profile was clear in that light—the line from her jaw to her neck, the curve of her eyes and brows when she was quiet.
Different from the first time I saw her.
First time was in the storage closet. Naked, panicked, fumbling, wishing she could shrink into a dot and disappear in that cramped space. Later, at the company, she was always wound tight in front of me. Like a string pulled taut, waiting to snap.
But now.
She leaned against the seat, hand on Misha's back, expression loose. Her eyes were a little distant, a little reflective, a little something else—but all of it real. Not pulled in. Not guarded.
In front of me.
That realization landed heavier than I expected.
She felt me watching her. Turned. "What?"
"Nothing," I said. "Looking at you."
She paused, then looked away, down at Misha.
"Why?"
"No reason," I said. "Just want to."
She didn't respond, but I noticed her hand on Misha's back stopped for a beat, then resumed. Her ears had a faint color. She probably didn't know.
Outside the window, New York transitioned into dusk under the last light of afternoon.
Lights came on one by one, gilding the streets.
We passed a corner where someone was selling hot chestnuts from a cart, steam rising in the cold air.
Couldn't smell anything through the glass, but you could see it—very lived-in, very specific.
"Next time," Ella said suddenly, voice soft, like talking to herself, or maybe to me.
"What?"
"Next time we bring Misha out," she said. "Let's get hot chestnuts. She'd definitely be interested."
"She can't eat chestnuts," I said. "Too much sugar."
"She can sniff them from the side."
"Poor Misha."
We both laughed.
Back at the apartment, Misha went straight to her water bowl. Drank for a long time, then flopped on the carpet. Started snoring within five seconds.
Ella stood in the living room, unwrapped her scarf, draped it over a chair back, glanced at Misha, then at me. A hint of a smile on her lips—restrained, but unmistakable.
"She's wiped out," she said.
"What about you?" I said. "Tired?"
She thought, shook her head. "Not tired," she said. "Actually energized."
When she said it, her eyes were bright. Not excited-bright. Satisfied-bright. Like someone who got what they needed, and it was spilling out from inside.
I leaned against the entryway cabinet, watched her, and said nothing.
"What?" she noticed me watching her, tilted her head. "You're looking at me again."
"Yeah," I said. "Getting used to it."
She glared at me but didn't move. Just stood there in the middle of the living room. Let me look.
Outside the window, Manhattan was fully lit. That dense field of lights turned the night sky deep blue. The floor-to-ceiling windows pulled that light inside, falling on her, on Misha sleeping at her feet, on every corner of this apartment she'd lived in for almost two weeks.
She'd been here almost two weeks. Things already carried her traces—design drafts on the coffee table, a few extra spices in the kitchen, her shampoo in the bathroom. And that maroon sweater Misha was wearing now.
I'd lived in this apartment for seven years. Never thought it would become this.
But this—more than any moment in those seven years—felt like a place where someone actually lived.
"Sergei," she called suddenly, voice soft.
"Yeah."
"I was really happy today," she said. Simple. Direct. "I wanted you to know."
My throat moved.
"Me, too."
Those two words came out, and I knew they were true. Not politeness. Not just responding to her. Real—today was one of the few days in a long time, outside of handling what had to be handled, where time felt like it mattered.
Misha rolled over on the carpet. Snoring didn't stop.
She glanced down at Misha, then back up at me, and laughed softly. Then she walked over, stopped in front of me, looked up, and nuzzled lightly under my jaw—light, like the way Misha nuzzled people.
Then she stepped back. "I'm going to wash up. Good night."
Turned toward her bedroom.
I stood in the entryway, watched her back, watched her push open the bedroom door, glance back at me once, then gently close it.
The apartment was left with only Misha's snoring. And New York outside, never stopping.
I stood there for a while.
Then walked into the study, sat at the desk, pulled out my phone, and opened the album.
Misha's photo. Sitting in the snow, golden fur, amber eyes, completely serious, facing the camera. The moment she pressed the shutter.
I looked at that photo for a long time.
Then set the phone face-down on the desk, leaned back in the chair, and closed my eyes.
Faint car horns sounded in the distance. New York nights were never truly quiet.
But that night, I wasn't thinking about Viktor. Wasn't thinking about the accounts and strategies still unfinished. Wasn't thinking about the next moves on the board.
I was only thinking about Ella.
My Ella.