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I’ve sort of gotten used to the explosion of butterflies whenever I’m supposed to meet with Russia for an appointment—the first of our next three sessions together.
He's at the end of my schedule today, the last couple of hours right after supper time, and I’m finishing up eating an apple.
I check out the state of my lipstick on my phone, a satin formula that I usually don’t wear since I want my lipstick to stay where I put it, but shit is it moisturizing, candy apple red to go with the graphic green winged eyeliner I have on today.
I’m feeling festive even if the holidays have past us by.
I wash my hands with some antibacterial wipe, fussing with my lipstick through my own reflection in my phone, counting down the minutes until Russia shows up.
And counting the minutes past when he was supposed to show up.
Five minutes.
Then ten minutes.
Then fifteen.
At twenty minutes I head over to my station, start fussing with the organization of my inks, the placement of the bench, making sure it’s perfectly wiped down even if I did it before he was supposed to show up.
At thirty minutes I give him the benefit of the doubt.
We had more freezing rain last night, and the radio’s been all about doctors calling in and telling people to stay home if they can, since the emergency departments are getting bombarded with people with ice-related injuries: broken bones, severe sprains, and concussions.
At forty-five minutes I convince myself to let it go, hoping he’s all right, checking with the front desk to make sure he didn’t call to say he was late or that he wants to reschedule. When Bekah shakes her head at me, I glance over at her, and the kid’s cheeks darken, her curly hair bouncing in a bun at the top of her head as she glances away quickly.
“What? Do I have something in my teeth?” I run my tongue over them, making sure I didn’t leave any apple behind, but don’t find anything.
“What?” I ask again, more than irritated now at myself since I’ve been swaying from a crushing kind of worry (that Russia doesn’t really merit since I don’t know him that well even if I am his tattoo artist) to a simmering annoyance that’s about to start boiling over at the disrespect and disregard for my time.
I hate it when people do that without contacting me first, just waltzing in an hour later. Pisses me off to the moon and back.
Russia comes in an hour late, limping (which makes my annoyance flare hotly into guilt), his face all red and splotchy, his hair disheveled, coat hanging loose and open.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry for being late,” he apologizes, looking like he wants to prostrate himself, head bowed down, not looking me in the eye where I’ve been hanging out with the kid at the desk, straightening out piles of paperwork that have already straightened.
I had made it into a game of sorts, where I adjust minutely Bekah’s immaculately organized desk, one of her ear buds in her ears, listening to something other than the Top 40 on the radio.
I raise an eyebrow at the way he’s not putting his full weight down on his right foot and get even more annoyed with myself.
“What happened?” I ask, steepling my fingers together, placing my chin on top, waiting to hear some bullshit reason but also ignoring that flare of hope that he couldn’t come for an actual, legitimate reason.
“I fell down the stairs, slipped so hard my feet went over my head.” His face is still red, his breath coming out in pained gasps, and I want to leap into action, save him from himself when the damage has already been done.
Shit. He really did get hurt.
“My phone got destroyed in the fall, so I couldn’t call you.”
I find myself standing up, leaning over the desk to look down at his foot, then back up at him.
“Did you hit your head? Should I get you an Uber to drive you to the hospital up the hill?”
There’s no way he can make the walk up the icy and slippery hill towards Mount Royal with one good foot.
No matter how much salt the city dumps, it never seems to be enough, and if luck isn’t on your side, you’ll find that exposed piece of ice no problem and fall all the way down the hill like a very sad, real-life version of snakes and ladders.
Russia shakes his head. “I went home to get changed and wrap up my ankle. It’s not broken, I don’t think.”
“You don’t think?” I say, turning and rounding the desk to come and stand in front of him. “You don’t think it’s broken? Are you a medical professional, Russia? Did you get your M.D. license in the time it takes between appointments? Because I don’t believing it.”
“I don’t want to wait in the emergency room,” he says, and the way the radio’s been touting the emergency departments filling up and being overloaded all day, I wouldn’t want to wait for hours in the waiting room either, but still.
It infuriates me an irrational amount that he doesn’t want to even try, and I know some private clinics around here that’ll do X-rays for a fee.
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest so I don’t start pummeling him for his stupidity. “You could have a hairline fracture, though. Plus, you’re not even putting any weight on your foot right now. You need X-rays, at the very least.”
Russia sighs, his form sagging, wincing when he settles his full weight onto both feet instead of making his left compensate for all of his weight. “I know, I know. I just came here to tell you what happened, and I’m sorry that you had to lose out on your time.”
“Huh,” is all I can say, the sound almost forced out of me. I didn’t expect him to come all the way here, injured, possibly on a broken foot, sprained ankle, or combination of the two to tell me why he didn’t call me and give me notice.
I don’t expect a lot from people, and I certainly didn’t expect Russia to come in here to let me know about his current situation and how it would affect me.
Bonus move—you can extend your sessions together!
Ugh, stop, just stop.
Russia’s eyebrows pole vault to his hairline, furrowing his forehead, making him look like those wrinkly puppies that are the cutest things on the planet. Why, why, why?
I pull in a deep breath through my nose, glance at the old-timey clock that ticks away the seconds hanging on the wall above the reception desk, and see I’ve got only twenty minutes left on my shift, but Jake likes me so. There’s also the bonus fact that I’m sure no one’s going to be coming in for a tattoo or a piercing if the radio’s telling people to stay inside.
I get it, I do.
“Bekah, I’m leaving early.”
“Ah,” she says, standing up, too, glancing between the two of us with panicked eyes, hair practically swinging with the movement in each direction. “Ah, I don’t know...”
I pull out my phone from my skirt pocket (the greatest invention of all time, putting pockets in skirts) and call up Jake, letting him know that I’m leaving a little early and that Bekah’s manning the desk until we close at nine tonight. “Yeah, your cousin’s already on his way, he should be here soon, okay? I think he’s trying to find parking on the street.”
Bekah nods, sighing with relief, flopping back onto her chair and swinging it from side to side until an unfortunate sound comes out of it and makes all three of hiss in pain.
“Sorry! Sorry! I’ll see you tomorrow, Sophie! Bye!” The kid waves with a manic smile on her face and I don’t know what Jake’s told her, but I’m sure none of it is true. The kid constantly looks at me like I’m going to bite her head off for existing alone, and I’m not that kind of person.
I’m not.
“All right, let’s go,” I say to Russia, grabbing my purse I’d pre-emptively stowed underneath the reception desk, hoping I’d get to leave early, especially since the weather’s absolute shit.
I put on my coat. I’m fluffing my hair back, pulling up my massive hood, hike my bag over the wrong shoulder, and I put my feet into my winter boots stacked near the door, going on ahead of him and opening it.
Russia struggles to keep up with my pace, making me wince, and I get him to hold onto the railing for the stairs on one side, and wrap my arm around his waist, sacrificing myself as the human crutch to help him navigate the stairs, his weight mostly all on my side, supporting him as much as I can.
I grunt with the added weight, and once we’re at street level, he tries to get away, to get vertical by himself, to move by himself, but I’m not letting that happen.
I take off my hood ’cause I can’t hear anything when I have it on, the sleet somehow getting on the back of my neck and sliding all the way down my spine, which makes me shiver and dance on the spot, still clutching tight to Russia on the sidewalk.
I point ahead of us.
“There’s a private clinic up there. All they do is blood tests and scans and stuff. It’s going to cost some money, but it’s better than waiting for hours at the emergency if it’s as crowded as they’re saying.”
I glance up at the inky dark sky, the sleet falling down and smacking me right in the middle of the forehead, as if trying to make me come to my senses. If I fall and hurt myself, Russia’s going to fall right on top of me, and not in a sexy kind of way, either.
Russia’s breath comes pluming out in the air on an exhausted sigh. “Yeah, I can make it.”
“It’s two blocks away. Are you sure?”
Russia looks down at me, his face paled out from the watery light of the streetlight. “It’s not like I can get a taxi or an Uber to drive me two blocks. This is all there is. I might crush you though.”
And what a way to go!
I snicker at my own joke, then sober up when he looks at me, a thousand and four questions in his eyes.
“Okay, let’s go. They’re open until nine on Thursdays for some odd reason, so we have plenty of time to make it.” I know the business hours ’cause I go there to do all my blood tests every year, and I’d rather not go wait at the hospital to get it done.
We make it the two blocks, Russia taking a breather every half block. “My left leg is killing me, shit,” he says, huffing and puffing. “How far are we?”
“Just around the corner,” I say, panting myself.
It’s hard trying to keep the combined balance for the both of us, a three-legged race on ice without the luxury of skates, and a haphazard toss of salt here and there, like it’s some sort of booby trap maze out of Indiana Jones, moving from patch to patch with someone who’s injured like he is.
I wait with him in the waiting room after Russia pays the fee to get an X-ray. My eyes hurt from the overhead lights, and I’m suddenly tired from lugging him around.
“Can’t believe you walked all the way to the shop on a potentially broken ankle and/or foot to let me know that you wouldn’t be coming to the appointment. Who the hell does that?” I tell him, unzipping my coat from all the sweating I’d been doing, running a hand over my wet hair, wondering if my waterproof mascara actually holds up to its name.
Russia gives me a pained smile, the sweat along his hairline beading and tracking down his temples. He turns to look at me, his leg splayed out in front of him, waiting to be called behind the magic curtain.
“I didn’t have a way to call you. It was the only option open to me at the time. I didn’t want you to think badly of me.”
“I know,” I say, like I understand, when I really, really don’t. “But that’s so weird. I don’t know anyone who would walk on an injured foot to come and see me and tell me why they were late for an appointment.” I shake my head. “It’s so weird. So weird.”
“I didn’t want to do that to you, to make you question. Your time is just as important as mine is. I didn’t want to leave you hanging.”
I squint at him, leaning back a little to get him all in one visual sweep. “Yeah?”
Russia nods, swiping the back of his hand along his forehead. “Yeah. I didn’t want to do that.”
“Okay. I’d be lying if I said I was expecting that. Huh.” I glance at him, up and down again, just to repeat, as if he’s a newfound species of animal and my brain’s trying to put all the pieces together for easier recognition.
Russia’s eyebrows spike. “Do I not seem like a courteous sort of person?”
I shrug, working my shoulders, rustling my coat. “I don’t know. I don’t really know you that well other than that your pain threshold’s not that high.”
“Are you calling me weak, Sophie?” he asks, incredulous.
I smile sweetly. “If the shoe fits, yeah,” I joke, and Russia moves his foot along the flooring on a pained wince, looking at me as if I’m the new discovery.
“Tomas Ivanov?” a nurse calls, clad in scrubs, a clipboard in her hand even if Russia and I are the only two people in the waiting room.
I help Russia get upright, being the human crutch until I get him to the partition where the nurse takes over my job, making a spike of jealousy tingle its way through my chest, a simmering burn that can turn into a wildfire the longer I think about her arm around Russia’s waist when she’s literally just doing her job.
I honestly need to get a grip, an actual grip on reality.
I unfortunately have got nothing to do but wait, holding onto Russia’s phone and wallet and coat—like I’m his girlfriend, a pseudo-pack mule while he’s in the back getting a scan and/or X-ray, not even sure what he’s opted for since it was none of my business. I have zero opinion on the matter other than wanting to see him healthy and whole for him to come to the shop so I can finish his tattoo.
How did I even get here, and we haven’t even been on a date yet?
Well, he sort of asked you out already, yeah? Why don’t you take him up on it?
I might, I just might. Maybe he’ll talk about Sera the whole time and this crush can finally die, once and for all.
Russia ends up having a bad sprain and there are no broken bones in either ankle or foot, which is pretty amazing news.
Russia leaves with a couple of lightweight aluminum crutches, adjusting them to his height and size, sighing in relief when he lets his weight sag onto them, supporting his left (good) leg.
“Ready to go?” he asks after I hand him back his things, Russia smiling at me all the while like he’s Lois Lane and I’m Superman and I’ve just saved his actual life. It does my head in, not gonna lie, just a little bit.
“Are you going to be okay to get home?” I ask. I start looking around the street once we get outside, condo buildings on either side of us, retail spaces at street level and ground level, trying to figure out which one belongs to Russia, if he said that he lives close to the shop.
“I’m starving,” he says, swinging his head towards me, trying to get the crutches to stick against the icy sidewalk, trying to stay upright. “Want to get something to eat?”
I blink at him, my mouth hanging open.
But Russia’s looking at me like he means it, and well, it’s been a while since I’ve shared a meal with a guy I found super attractive enough to lose my head over.
Butterflies erupt in my belly, and I nervously start tugging my helix piercings. I’m failing at acting cool, totally.
I cough and clear my throat. “Uh, yeah, yeah. I could eat.”
Russia smiles, his teeth showing in the winter dark. “Let’s go, anywhere you want.”
I glance around our current location, restaurants abounding, but I’m looking for a place where we can sit instead of going in and out. I’m looking for a place that’s warm, cozy, especially after walking him back and forth from the clinic and the shop.
“Let’s go there,” I say, pointing across the street, glancing back and forth to either side, making sure that there are no cars and that we won’t die crossing the street, especially since we’re going to be slow snails doing so.
Why did Sophie and Russia cross the road? To go and eat something and escape the crappy weather.
Before long we’re seated inside a cozy pasta place, the Pasta Emporium, getting a booth by the window, which makes it doubly comfier since I can watch the people outside deal with the shitty weather while Russia and I are inside, getting all cozy and warm and I’m about to eat my body weight in tortellini or gnocchi.
“Thank you for helping me,” Russia says, handing me a menu, adjusting his weight on the booth so our knees end up bumping underneath the table. “I really appreciate it.”
I nod, glancing down at my own menu, trying to figure out exactly what I want to eat, which type of pasta and the sauce I want, enough to give me the pasta loafs and not move for the rest of the night.
“You’re welcome,” I mumble, glancing up at him. Shit, did he have to be so damn attractive? Did I have to find him so attractive? It just doesn’t seem fair.
Russia’s blue eyes are bright, and he’s giving me all of his attention.
He could have easily called it a night, left me behind at the shop, but he didn’t. In a way, I’m pretty sure this meal is going to be a ‘thank you’ of sorts.
I mean, who busts their ankle and walks to an appointment to let them know they’re not showing up?
Hell, I don’t even know if I would do that.
That Russia did definitely says something about him; it says something about me, too.
“Again, you didn’t have to walk to the shop, and I hope you can get your phone fixed soon.”
Russia pulls out said cracked phone, a whole chunk missing on the upper corner, flung into the abyss that is the Montreal weather forecast.
“It’s unfortunate that it broke, but I didn’t want you to think that I cancelled or was going to someone else to finish up your work on my back.”
Russia looks at me after stowing away his broken phone.
“Why?” I tilt my head at him, having a hard time swallowing. “Like, thanks for telling me and all, but people do do that all the time, it’s just the way it is.” It would suck never to see him again, though, right? It would suck, but maybe this crush will die a thousand fiery deaths and I’ll never see him again, and I can move on.
That would be good for me.
That would be the best for me.
Russia runs his hand through his hair, dislodging some sleet, then moving his hand to the back of his neck, clutching at the back of it like there’s a myriad of shivers there.
“I want you to finish it. I want you to be the one to finish the piece on my back.”
I squint at him, scratching over my left ear, my undercut making a satisfying sound and prickling against my fingertips. “How come? I’m not anyone special.”
“But you are. You are special.” Russia says it, those blue-blue eyes rooting me to the spot, making me hold my breath while I’m held, stuck under the weight of his gaze.
What is happening right now? Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
My jaw practically unhinges, and I’m looking at him with my mouth hanging open, letting a draft in. “What? What?”
“You’re incredibly talented. I admire your skill and your work.” Russia says this like I don’t already know.
I nod, because yeah, I know. I can always be better, sure, but I know I love my art, and by virtue of working hard on it, it’s going to come out good, even if I’ve never been completely a hundred percent satisfied with it.
“Thanks,” I mumble, struggling not to squirm in my seat, struggling to not extrapolate and make would-be connections as to why he’s talking to me this way, what he wants from me.
My heart pounds, and my ears start to ring as his mouth starts to move, so it takes me a second to realize what he’s saying.
“I’m sorry, what?” I say, leaning forward a little, watching his mouth, paying all the attention to his mouth. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Nothing, nothing at all. What are you going to get?”
I feel like I missed something, embarrassed him somehow, even while I spaced out.
“No, no, say what you were gonna say!”
Russia sighs, sheepish, glancing up from the menu, those blue eyes making me shiver, they’re just such an interesting color.
“Would you like to come with me to Alex’s house this weekend? Their son’s coming home from the hospital and I think you should be there.”
I blink at him, stuck, my brain repeating the information but not synthesizing and understanding what it actually means.
Russia wants me to do what now?
Russia wants me to meet his friends...this weekend?
Russia wants to take me to meet his friends this weekend...with him?
What the what?
