Page 101 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

My chest seized with every creak of the wood floorboards behind the door.Then it swung open with the drama of a curtain pulled back for the last act, and there he was.

Dimitri.

He looked like he’d seen a ghost.Then he grabbed me like a drowning man grabs for the surface, like I was oxygen and mercy and every answer he didn’t know he needed.He yanked me inside and slammed the door behind us with the flat of his hand.

“What are you doing here?”His voice cracked.

I didn’t answer.I couldn’t.The waltz had started up in my head again, that relentless swirl of strings, an elegant ache behind my eyes.My gaze flicked to his face and caught the constellation of bruises fading slowly into yellow and violet dusk.I had the irrational, selfish urge to kiss every one of them until they disappeared.

I smiled instead, the best I could muster, and said softly, “I heard your father got called in to work tonight.Emergency shift.Poor bastard.”

Dimitri squinted at me.“How the hell could you know that?”

“I know a lot of things.”I set the bottle of wine gently on the side table like it might explode.Then I reached for him and pulled him into my arms like we were gravity-bound to each other.And then I kissed him.

It wasn’t a sweet kiss.It was a kiss full of prayer, of desperation, and the aching need to believe that time might stop just this once.He kissed me back with everything he had, everything he was, and for one moment, I allowed myself to believe that this might be enough.

When we broke apart, both of us were breathless.

“Does it matter?”I whispered.“We’re alone.All night.Let’s not waste a second of it.”

We kissed again, softer this time, like a promise we couldn’t afford to keep.

That’s when Dimitri began to cry.

It started as a tremble under my hands, a strange rigidity in his jaw, and then the tears spilled over, sliding down his cheek as he tucked his face against my neck like he could hide from the world there.

“I missed you,” he murmured, his voice thick.“But Papa won’t let me go back.Says I can’t ever return to the factory.Hell, he won’t even let me leave the damned apartment.I feel like I’m under house arrest.”

I stroked the back of his head, wishing I could cut out my heart and hand it to him like a gift.“You’re not being punished,” I breathed.

“I know,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at me.“It feels like punishment, but there’s something in Papa’s eyes when he says it, like it hurts him too.Like it’s for a good reason.So I’m going along with it.For now.”

He sniffed, swiped at his cheek, and then noticed the bottle.“Hey.Real wine?”

I nodded and told an inconsequential lie.“I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

Dimitri chuckled.“Well, this feels special enough.Let’s drink.”

He picked up the bottle and padded barefoot into the tiny kitchen.I followed, each step through that quiet apartment echoing like it was sacred ground.I couldn’t stop staring at him.Dimitri’s back, his neck, the curve of his shoulder blades under that old threadbare T-shirt.The strings inside me swelled again.They were relentless tonight.Rimsky-Korsakov, maybe.Something Dimitri conjured in me whenever he was near.

Dimitri wrestled with the cork.“Stubborn bastard,” he muttered.

I reached past him and grabbed a couple of old glasses from the cabinet.They were both chipped, mismatched, one with a faded Misha the bear from the ’80 Olympics.My fingers shook as I poured, but he didn’t seem to notice.

The wine smelled sharp and dark, like cherries.I handed him his glass, and for a heartbeat we just stood there, side by side, glasses in hand, the silence breathing between us.

And that’s when it hit me.

The only way I was going to survive this night was by making it perfect.Not good.Not decent.But a night that you write down in your bones, that you feel replaying every time someone touches your hand the right way for the rest of your life.

Love.

That was the assignment.That was the only way I could do this.I had to lie to him, convince him to leave, break my own goddamn heart, but also show Dimitri I loved him.

I had always loved him.

Dimitri took my hand like he was afraid I might disappear.I followed him into the living room, my heart thrumming in time with the waltz still curling through my mind.The room was dim and cluttered, furnished in that special Soviet style: everything heavy, brown, and built to last longer than most marriages.A sad little radio sat crooked on a rickety table in the corner.Next to it, a pot of long-dead violets slumped like it had finally given up hope.

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