by Sophia Henry
My New York friends don’t know about my past. They think I’m a Russian refugee who came here for a better life when the Soviet Union dissolved, like so many others over the last few years.
There’s no reason to correct them, since, technically, it’s true.
I mask my fear with a laugh, though my heart beats faster with every subsequent boom. Five within thirty seconds.
Once I’ve regained composure, I scan the ice looking for my brother. He’s bent at the waist with his stick resting on his thighs and his eyes on his skates. Suddenly he drops to his knees and looks up at the scoreboard before hanging his head again.
While Dmitri and his teammates revel in their win, waiting for the Stanley Cup to be brought onto the ice, my heart hurts for my twin. Dmitri will expect me to celebrate with him tonight and all I want to do is run down the stairs, hug Vanya, and take him away.
My entire life has been a constant push and pull—happiness mixed with sadness. Sadness when I should be happy. Tonight is no different.
I need to be with him tonight, to support him and help him through the disappointment. It’s an easy decision. It’s my duty as his sister.
Dmitri won’t take it well. He’ll be hurt, frustrated, angry—things he shouldn’t be feeling after this monumental moment in his career.
But that’s what I’ve brought to his life. Hurt. Frustration. Anger. Though there have been good times, we’ve had a rough few years together. Relationships take work—more than I’ve ever been willing to put in. I knew from the beginning it wasn’t right, but I gave in to the security Dmitri provided.
We watch together as the team breaks apart, still smiling and congratulating each other as they skate to the middle of the ice where the Chargers line up, ready to shake hands, as is customary in hockey after each playoff series win.
Can’t bear to watch Vanya in line. I know he’ll be a good sport, but inside he’s hurting and he’ll take the loss hard. He’s won every championship game he’s ever played in. That’s the perk of playing for the Russian National Team in International tournaments. They dominated everyone. No one wanted another 1980—the game the USA calls the “Miracle on Ice.”
Miracle is right.
Fourteen years later, and the Americans still won’t stop talking about it. If that game were played ten times the Russians would have won nine of them. I guess you take what you can get when you don’t have a dominant history of winning.
A few minutes later, the commissioner comes out and presents the Conn Smythe Trophy for the Playoff MVP, which goes to the American’s goalie. Then he presents the Stanley Cup to the captain.
I wait for Dmitri to get his turn with the trophy. He’s all smiles as he holds it above his head, skating around ice, and showing it off to the fans. He doesn’t look up to my section. Why would I think he would? I didn’t have anything to do with his victory.
After he’s passed it off to another teammate, I hug Debbie and a few others, slip out of the row and head down to the locker rooms. It will take the Americans a while to finish since each player takes a turn skating with the Cup. The celebration gives me time to talk to Vanya.
With a smile and a wave, the security guard lets me pass by. After three years, they’ve gotten used to me. Media is all over the place. Outside the locker room, waiting for the doors to open.
They’re waiting for the Chargers, too. I hate that cameras and voice recorders will be in Vanya’s face. I know it’s part of the career, but it still upsets me that he can’t mourn the loss in peace without having to answer their stupid questions.
I’ve been waiting outside the locker room for a half-hour when Vanya finally comes out with his head down. It looks like he’s trying to be as small as possible. When he looks up, his eyelids barely open. He’s tired, battered even, after a tough seven-game series.
I rush to the door and throw my arms around him. He slumps in my embrace, the stoic facade falling for a moment. Water drips from the tips of his wet, shaggy hair onto my shoulder. In any other situation, I would lovingly chastise him, but not today.
When he pulls back, his eyes are glassy, but he won’t cry. Maybe he did in the shower. I don’t know. But he won’t cry out here in front of me, the media, or his teammates.
“Thank you,” He says, his voice shaking with emotion.
“Of course.”
“What are you doing here?” he says, regaining his composure. “You should be with Dima.”
“They’re still—” I stop. We both know they’re still on the ice celebrating because we can still hear the roar of the crowd.
“Dima is the first Russian to win a Stanley Cup. The Dining Room will be hopping tonight.” Vanya smiles.
“Are you staying or is the team flying out tonight?” I ask, ignoring the celebration talk.
The Chargers owner—like any owner of a professional sports team—is a multi-millionaire. Maybe even a billionaire. Vanya told me they were the first organization in the NHL to get their own team plane.
He leans against the wall. “Some of the guys are leaving, but most are staying. A lot of them have family here who don’t have flights out until tomorrow.”
“What are you doing?” The collar on his suit coat is popped up in the back, I reach out to fix it.
“Can I stay at your apartment?”
“Of course,” I assure him. “Is Karina in town?”
“We broke up.”
“I’m sorry, Vanya. I didn’t know.” I try to grab his hand, but he waves me away.
“It’s no problem, seriously.”
“Do you want company?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy for even asking. “You think Dima will let you hang out with me tonight?”
“What us this ‘let me?’ Like I’m some kind of kept woman.” I scowl.
“It’s a big night for him, Stasya.”
“And it’s a difficult night for you. He’ll be celebrating all night. He won’t even know I’m not there. Who needs me more?
“He will be your husband soon.”
“No,” I shake my head. “I don’t think he will.”
Vanya raises one eyebrow, hinting for me to go on.
“We can talk at the apartment.”
After two hours hanging out with Vanya at my apartment, he convinces me to celebrate with Dmitri, even if it’s only for a moment.
“Stasya, I am fine,” Vanya says. “I don’t know what you two are going through right now, but you’re not a mean person. You should be there to celebrate with him.”
He’s right.
Dmitri has been an amazing friend over the last few years. He’s sacrificed a lot to make sure I was safe and happy. The least I can do is be there during his finest hour—even with my transgressions looming over our relationship.
Later that night, after I’ve changed my clothes and removed my makeup, I climb into bed.
“What’s going on, Stasya?” Dmitri asks as we lay next to each other in the darkness.
“What do you mean?” I ask, holding my breath as I wait for his answer.
“Over the last few months. You’ve been working longer hours than you normally do. Some of your things are missing. It took me a minute to notice, but every time I’d come home from a road trip, I’d realize something else was gone.”
This was not the conversation I expected to have at three in the morning on the evening his team won the Stanley Cup.
It’s better to be slapped with the truth than kissed with a lie.
Russians have a proverb for almost any situation. Many times, they sound weird to others because they’re specific to Russian culture or life, but this one is universal.
Lying rarely serves a purpose. I’d much rather hear the truth, even if it hurts.
“I’ve been moving things into my apartment.”
“Your apartment? The one above the store?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you do this?”
“I need my own space.”
“You’ve been living here for three years, and suddenly you need space? We’re engaged. Shouldn’t we talk about something like this before you make that decision?”
“I feel overwhelmed and trapped. I figured it was better to be apart for a bit instead of—”
“Instead of what? Call off the engagement?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Does it have anything to do with you fucking Antonov?”
There’s nothing I can say that will take away his anger and pain. Nothing I can say will make this easier. I deserve it.
“If you two were trying to be discreet, you shouldn’t have chosen the restaurant where Veronika’s brother works. Sergei tells his sister everything,” he says when I don’t respond after a few minutes.
Kirill made Sergei swear secrecy about any meetings that he holds there. I see now that he didn’t. It’s disturbing, but something I need to speak to Kirill about, not Dmitri.
I swallow hard, twisting the comforter nervously. “I—it’s—I love him.” The words come out in a loud whisper. “You know that.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“So did I.”
He inhales deeply, pounding the mattress with his fists on his exhale. “Is this how it ends? We break up on the happiest night of my life.”
“I’m sorry.” Though the sentiment sounds empty, I mean it.
“For cheating on me or because I found out?”
“For hurting you. For going behind your back. It was wrong.” My eyes have adjusted to the light and I can see his profile. He won’t even look at me in the cloak of darkness, choosing to stare at the ceiling instead. “I didn’t plan on talking about this tonight.”
“Did you plan on telling me about Antonov or were you just going to leave me?”
“I planned on telling you about Kirya.”
“That’s good to know. You’ve been fucking another man behind my back for the last five months. When were you going to tell me?”
“After the playoffs.”
“Thank you for waiting. I wish I didn’t have to confront you on a night like tonight, but I figured you’d enjoy seeing my happiness crushed.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair!” He sits up. “You want to talk about fair? You chose your brother over me. On the best night of my life when you should have been celebrating at my side, you chose Vanya.”
“The best night of your life was also the worst of his,” I snap, sitting up to face him. “I didn’t want to choose consoling him over celebrating with you, but that’s the way it happened.”
“I’m always going to be last place with you, aren’t I, Stasya?”
“There was a time when you were first place, but you fucked it up.”
“And you’ll never get over it.”
“I don’t think I will.”
“You know what getting back with him means, right?”
I nod.
“You’re target number one.”
I nod.
“Jesus! Your mafia friends will probably come after me.”
“Ah, yes! There is the Dmitri I know! The selfish coward. Always worried about how something affects you.”
“Selfish?” His shoulders heave as anger builds. “Listen to your own words! When I agreed to let you come live with me, I put myself in danger. Everyone who gets involved with you is putting themselves in danger.”
He’s absolutely right.
“Tell me, Stasya, when you first arrived, do you think I wanted to help you? Or do you think I was threatened into helping?”
I can’t tell if he’s telling the truth or trying to hurt me on purpose to get back at me for this. The latter seems more likely. Hurt people hurt people.
“I’m sure Kirill threatened you. It’s the only way you would have agreed to help anyone.”
“You’ll never be grateful for anything anyone does for you, are you?”
“You can be angry with me and you can say hurtful things you want, but you will not lie about me,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’ve told you a million times how grateful I am for how you helped me, Dmitri.”
“You should run back to your lover, Stasya. But send someone for the rest of your things, because I never want to see your face again.”
I swallow hard. I have no right to be upset with him when I’m the one who brought this on. He’s lashing out from pain and betrayal. I don’t blame him.
“You’re kicking me out in the middle of the night?” Over the last few months, I’ve moved some of my things into the apartment, but I don’t have a bed—or any furniture—there.
“I’m starting a new chapter in my life. And I don’t want to wake up to you one more day.”
As I slide out of his bed for the last time, I feel a sense of relief. No more sneaking around. No more deception. No more faking a relationship.
What’s wrong with me?
I’m relieved to leave the safety and security of life with a good man to jump back into the criminal underworld.
There is a sense of loss, of course.
“What I did was terrible and I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I can’t be with you as long as he’s alive. I can’t be with anyone,” I say from the doorway of his room. “I’m sorry, Dmitri.”
If, according to Russian superstition, it’s bad luck to shake hands while standing in a doorway, I can’t even imagine what kind of luck breaking someone’s heart brings.
Guess I’m about to find out.
18
Stasya
It’s just past four o’clock in the morning when the cab driver drops me off in front of my store. Even in the dark, Prekrasny glows. Street lights shine, bouncing off the crystal chandeliers, mirrors, and glass fixtures lightening up the bright interior. The space originally had a solid roll-down gate for security during the hours the store is closed. Because I was opening a new store with no name or brand recognition, I chose to have it replaced with a see-through gate. My goal was for people to be able to see what was inside even when it was closed.
My heart rate rises as I take the steps two at a time to get to the top. As I turn the key, I inhale deeply and open the door quietly. Vanya is probably sound asleep, but just in case, I don’t want to wake him.
When I enter, I’m overcome with relief.
For the first time in months, I can breathe without guilt.
I drop my bag onto the floor just inside the door. Ever since I opened Prekrasny, I’ve been slowly outfitting the apartment with furniture and accessories. Leaving the space empty would have been tragic, so I decided I’d use it for family and guests. Vanya stays here every time he’s in town—when he’s not traveling with his team. His team, the Detroit Chargers, requires the players to stay at a hotel together when they’re here on a road trip.
Over the last few months, I’ve been coming up here to draw and work on new designs. There’s something about sitting in the front window and observing the bustling streets of New York City that gets my creative juices flowing. It reminds me of being in the apartment Kirill and I shared. I loved sitting in the window, watching the streets of Moscow, then moving to the gorgeous antique desk he bought just for me. He was always thinking of me.
Plus, my office at Prekrasny is a disaster. Between paperwork, office supplies, and fabric rolls piled up to the ceiling, I can barely see, let alone think. I needed a place that was less chaotic to free my mind.
Maybe my subconscious has been preparing me to leave Dmitri all this time.
There’s no tension here. I can be exactly who I am without guilt.
Despite the tingle of excitement, I’m exhausted and I have to wake up in a few hours for work. After washing my face, I tip-toe into the room Vanya is staying in and tap his shoulder. I want to tell him that I’m here so he isn’t startled tomorrow when he wakes up, but he doesn’t even stir.
It’s been over five years since we slept in the same bed, but seeing him resting so peacefully always calmed me. I poke him again, this t
ime in the ribs. He brushes my hand away without opening his eyes.
Finally, I let him be and move to the other bedroom. Before getting cozy, I lean over to set the alarm clock next to me. That’s when a thought hits me.
While it’s true that I outfitted this place for Vanya or other visitors to stay here, everything about the space is me.
It’s exactly what I would have created for myself if I had control over decorations. When I moved in with Dmitri, his place was already set up and he had no space for my things—other than clothing, shower, and makeup items. Even after living there for three years, it was always his apartment—never ours. This place has the all the personal things Babushka sent me from Russia. Things Dmitri wouldn’t make room for.
It’s as if I’ve been subconsciously planning for this moment over the last few years.
Am I supposed to be alone? To live on my own until I figure out what I really want?
Is it possible to have a secret relationship with Kirill? I know I have to keep it under wraps until he’s ready to come out to the criminal word here, but I love being with him.
The next morning, I get up before my alarm and run out to grab bagels before Vanya wakes up. There’s an extra bounce in my step as I bound up the stairs and unlock the door.
As soon as I open it, Vanya starts screaming. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He’s standing up, completely naked with his erect penis on full display. A dark-haired woman leans over with her hands clutching the back on my couch.
I drop the bagels and cover my eyes. “Oh my god, Vanya!”
The girl scrambles to her feet as I’m turning away. “Who is that?” She asks in English. “Are you married?”
“No! No, that’s my—” Vanya begins, but I’m not hanging around to listen to him explain.
Instead of get in the middle of it, I open the door and head back downstairs. It’s never too early to go to my office.
While I unlock the door to Prekrasny, I make a mental note to buy a new couch. I have a feeling it’s not the first time my brother has brought women to my apartment and no amount of Lysol will kill the germs or get that image out of my head.