Page 98 of Oh, Flutz!

We’ve been sitting in the living room talking about life and work, giving Katya’s grandfather the rundown, waiting for the other infamous family member to arrive.

Then comes the jangling of keys at the door, and Dr. Andreyev pushes himself up from his armchair. “That’ll be Lyudmila,” he says, and Katya immediately rushes to the front of the house, me trailing after them like a puppy.

“We were wondering if you’d ever show up, my dear,” I hear Dr. Andreyev say jokingly, followed by a string of Russian and the sound of jackets being taken off, which is when I peek my head into the hallway and see a woman hanging her coat.

“Privyet, dorogaya,”the lady says to my partner, unwinding her red scarf and putting it on the rack, smiling ear to ear. I’m assuming this is Katya’s mom, judging by the way my partner runs to tackle her with a hug, and also the fact that she looks like an aged-up carbon copy of her.

They chatter in Russian for a second, but then Katya motions towards me, and her mother’s face lights up with recognition. “It’s nice to finally meet my daughter’s partner. She didn’t do you justice. Katya, really, you should’ve mentioned he was so good-looking.”

Katya elbows her, face flushing, but her mom just laughs.

“Lyudmila Andreyeva,” she says, sticking a hand out, and I take it.

“Bryan Young. It’s great to meet you too.” I’m trying to get over the fact that they could easily be sisters. The resemblance is uncanny even with their hair and eyes being different colors—Lyudmila’s blonde, and her eyes are green, not grey; but seriously, it’s like seeing double.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It must be all over my face, because Katya’s grandfather lets out a chortling laugh. “I’m very sorry, boy. Put those two in a room together, any sensible man would be scared.”

Katya rolls her eyes. “Wow, thank you. Anyway, we’re going out.”

“Where?” Lyudmila and Dmitriy ask, just as I ask, “We are?”

“I want to show him the city,” Katya says, and Lyudmila lights up.

“Otlichno!Wonderful. Enjoy yourselves.” Before either of us can respond, she starts pushing us out the door, handing us coats and scarves and hats. “Don’t be late, I’m makingpelmeni!”

Katya drags me allover the place, showing me everything—where the best restaurants are, the hospital she was born in, the schools she went to, the park she played in, the tiny little pond she learned to skate on.

I wasn’t expecting St. Petersburg to be this pretty. It looks like a town in a snow globe, and I’m talking as someone who’s lived in a Hallmark-worthy ski town his whole life. The snow and the lights feel like something I saw on a screen, like a holiday movie you haven’t seen since you were a kid and still stayed up to try and catch Santa every Christmas Eve.

Katya sighs, as we come to a stop on one of the bridges over the Fontanka River. “God, isn’t it incredible? I’ve missed this place like you can’t imagine.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Okay, should I be offended?”

She rolls her eyes, smacking me in the arm. “Not likethat. Someone’s touchy.”

“Have I not earned the right to be, at this point?”

“Fine, fair enough. But it really is beautiful, though, isn’t it?”

I glance over at her. Her nose is pink from the cold, and she’s got snowflakes sprinkled in her hair and her lashes. “Yeah. Definitely.”

As soon as we get back to the Andreyevs’, they’re ready waiting with a stovetop full of bubbling pea soup and a dumpling-type dish that might actually have Grandma Yung’s beat (don’t tell her I said that).

It’s the kind of winter comfort food that feels amazing after so many hours in the freezing cold, and after we’ve all stuffed ourselves, I follow them into the living room, where Dr. Andreyev brings out four steaming mugs of something that smells like a fall candle.

“Sbiti?” Katya says hopefully from where she’s splayed out on the couch next to my chair, hair loose over the pillow, and her grandfather nods.

“To warm up your insides.” To me, he adds, “It’s hot drink for the winter. You like tea?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. It smells good.” I can smell the cinnamon all the way across the room.

Katya sniffs her cup suspiciously. “You didn’t change the recipe, did you?”

“The generations-old family recipe? No, I think not. Why?”

“Smells spicier.”

“Is that a good thing?” I question.

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