| |
I make us reservations at that restaurant, the one where I started all this shit, and leave him a text message, even leaving a voice mail on his phone that I will be there, at the booth we were in last time (if I can beg and plead my way to it and make it seem like it’s life or death), and now I have nothing else to do but wait and think.
I’ve taken care with my makeup, trying to mask the redness under my nose, the redness in my cheeks from swiping all the time to take care of the onslaught of tears. My hair’s straightened, silky-straight down my back, hiding the undercut from view, my hair parted right down the middle so you don’t even see my ear piercings.
My hands are adorned with rings—gold and silver—bringing even more attention to the tattoos on my fingers and hands, the comforting weight of the jewelry giving me something to twist and turn as I wait for Russia to show up, watching my phone and the time he has left to show up.
I’m dressed comfortably, my hoop earrings big enough for a car to drive through them, my makeup leaning towards the neutral side, foregoing the eyelashes today. My lips are in a pale pink color, not my usual red or wacky colors that I like to use to complement my smoky eye looks.
I wore my black Doc Martens, just needing that extra bit of comfort, that style that I needed to make me feel better about myself, like I’m ready to take down an army, all by my lonesome.
I’m sitting at the booth now, leaned all the way back against the cushion, wishing I’d chosen the other side of the booth to get a look at the door, keeping my eye trained on it, to make sure that I can see him walking towards me, but it’s too late for that now, too late to switch seats as it’s already five minutes out from the time I told him to meet me.
I know he read my text message, I saw the notification, but whether he shows up or not is another question entirely, and then I’ll really have my answer, once and for all.
I link my hands together, and stare at the opposite side of the booth, the empty space, where I hope Russia will be sitting across from me a lot sooner rather than later.
My stomach lining has been sacrificed to the vampire butterflies in my belly, and the heat along my neck and back from my hair is starting to make me sweat, making me want to put my hair up in a top knot and fuck this façade, fuck this effort.
I keep my hands linked together so they don’t shake, my phone beside me, screen black, glancing down and tapping the screen every few seconds or so hoping I’m going to see a notification there—a message from Russia telling me that he’s on his way.
The screen stays black, though, no matter how long I stare at it, wishing it’d light up with something. I even become too afraid to touch my phone, to wake it up from its sleep state so I can see the empty screen, no notifications, all the while marking down the time until eight o’clock sharp.
It doesn’t help matters that I’m practically the only one in the restaurant on a Tuesday night, even though it’s supper time—the weather’s so nice, a lot of people are choosing to grab something quick and eat outside in makeshift picnics on benches, in cars with the windows rolled down.
The city comes alive in the spring as soon as the weather turns, and sooner rather than later, terrasse season’s going to be upon us, where pedestrians like me are going to have to share the sidewalks with encroaching tables from all the restaurants taking up space, everyone eating outside, enjoying the beautiful weather before winter comes around again to bite us in the ass.
I hold my breath, trying to decide if I should check my phone, glancing outside to see if he’s coming from a long way off, so I can prepare myself.
I do it fast, a lightning strike of movement that has me clocking the time against the screen of my phone—another five minutes (or so) before Russia’s supposed to meet me here, and we can talk, and I can grovel and apologize, and we can air all this out, and I can tell him that I love him, and everything will work out.
A measly three hundred seconds to go while I wait here, holding my breath, struggling to breathe.
This might have been a bad idea, just giving him orders like that, instead of requesting him to meet me somewhere, like a normal person, but it doesn’t matter now, when all I have to do is wait, my waning patience getting crushed underneath my heavy heart.
It doesn’t help either that I have an eager beaver of a young kid for a waiter—fresh into university if I’m gauging it right, probably just finishing up his first year at McGill or Concordia, or maybe one of the French universities like UQAM, or UdeM, even though we’re not really in that part of town.
“Can I get you anything to start, or are you still waiting on someone?” The kid asks in French, the word someone being emphasized, and I swing my glare over to him, even though none of this is his fault—it’s my fault, I screwed up, I was scared.
“Still waiting,” I croak, cough, and clear my throat. “Can I get a glass of water, though?”
The kid nods, his head jerking up and down. “I’ll bring a couple of waters, no problem. I’ll be right back.” He smiles, practically prancing away to his workstation and pouring the glasses of water from an icy pitcher of water.
I turn back to look at the opposite seat, still empty.
I touch my phone again, watching the minutes pass me by now, nothing but three minutes left, my heart starting to squeeze down now, making it hard to breathe, hard to be here by myself, staring at the space opposite me.
I won’t die if Russia never shows up, I won’t. That’s not how life works.
But I’ll find myself wondering in the quiet moments between work and family and friends, in between living as much as I can. I’ll remember tonight and wonder what would have happened between us if I hadn’t chase him off, if there could have been a future for us, a future where we could have been happy together, for as long as we wanted.
I know the time’s running out, the sand running through my fingers, the hourglass losing time, slipping away and away, ready to start over.
I click on my phone again, checking the time.
One minute, nothing but sixty measly seconds until he’s supposed to show up.
I sit up straighter, taller, thanking the kid who brings over the glasses of water, while I keep staring intently at the other side of the booth, like I’m thinking about a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.
I’m alone now, waiting for Russia to show up, to suddenly appear there, to materialize in front of me, and I want to reach out, to hold onto his hand and make sure that this is real, that he is real.
But the booth remains empty as I glance down at my phone, the clock ticking over onto a new hour.
I slump, the muscles in my body curling in on themselves, making myself a smaller target. I stare down uncomprehendingly at the menu beneath my hands, wondering how I’m going to sit here and pretend like I can eat something when it feels like I won’t ever find joy in food ever again.
That’s transient, I know, that feeling won’t last forever.
But I loved and I lost, and I’m certainly not the first person to have gone through this, certainly won’t be the last.
But no matter which way you cut it, it sucks, and it sucks hard.
I sniffle, grabbing the napkin blindly, rattling my cutlery, to bring it up to the corners of my eyes, still worried about my makeup, my understated look that made me look the part for him, toned myself down because I couldn’t come up with anything spectacular, wasn’t inspired when I looked down at my eyeshadow palettes to come up with something that was totally me.
I made this understated version of myself, not to fit in—no, not really, but to show myself that I could, if I wanted. I don’t have to be so loud all of the time, I don’t have to shine the brightest in a given room, as long as Russia looks at me like I already do.
My knee gets bumped underneath the table and I freeze, holding my breath, keeping my head down, caught between wanting to know and not wanting to know, afraid to get the confirmation that this might be some cruel joke.
Maybe it isn’t Russia, maybe it isn’t him at all, just some rando guy trying to pick me up like has been known to happen, and really, I’m not in the mood to chase this stranger off acting like he’s some kind of shark in the water, scenting the blood of a weakened fish.
I grit my teeth, clench my jaw, try to stifle the sniffle, but you can’t really hide that when you’re afraid snot’s going to ruin your face, so I sniff hard once, then lift my head.
Oh.
Oh.
“Meelaya, why are you crying?” Russia asks, his coat still on, his cheeks and the tip of his nose pink, his breath coming out in pants. “I got here as fast as I could.”
My lower lip starts to wobble, and I duck my head fast, pressing my napkin to my face, sniffing hard to get the tears as far away from my tears ducts as possible, pulling in a deep, deep breath.
I glance up again, just to confirm, confirm, that it’s Russia sitting across from me.
“You’re here,” I say, my voice breaking at the tail end.
Russia just smiles, reaching out a hand, and I’m half-afraid to break the illusion, to figure out that this is all some kind of fever dream, that I’ve conjured him up in my head and I’m still in the throes of my nap, stuck in my bed after work, contemplating what to wear, how to present myself for tonight’s apology.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
I tentatively reach out, making a noise in the back of my throat when I finally touch his skin, then place my palm against his own, watching his fingers wrap around my hand not in a bruising grip, just a reminder that he’s here, that I’m here, that we’re both here together.
“I’m sorry,” I groan, looking up at him. Is it possible that he got even more handsome in our time apart?
Was it really only two days ago where I screwed up so badly and accused him of loving someone else when he hasn’t shown me otherwise?
“I’m sorry I accused you of not wanting to be with me when you’ve told me, when you’ve shown me that it’s just not the case. I’m sorry I was worried, that’s on me,” I say, squeezing his hand a little tighter now, wanting to make sure he stays put. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you how I felt, before. I’m sorry about that.”
Russia holds onto my hand now with both of his, cradling mine between the two of his, like he doesn’t want to let me go either.
“Can I talk now?”
I nod quickly, throat tight while I keep sniffling.
“I didn’t expect you to reach out actually, and I thought you were done with me,” he huffs out on a laugh, but we both can hear that it’s at his own expense.
“I just...I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, have been loud when I wanted the attention whether it was good or bad.” He points to the crooked edge to his nose. “I got this because I was mouthing off, being obnoxious, being an asshole.”
“I know,” I say, nodding. The sound of her name from his lips doesn’t hurt me as much anymore. “I know that.”
“Did she tell you that I thought I was in love with her?”
I nod again, more slowly now, carefully.
“I thought I was, because we were friends, and it’s easy I think, sometimes, to fall into love when a friendship is already there.”
“It can be easier, sure,” I say. “You’re comfortable with the person, up to a certain point, and they know some of your faults, what you let them see.”
“Sera and I were never really that close, though. We would hang out, sure, but I never really got the chance to know her, to see her. Not like I see you, not like I want to know everything about you. Half the time she was making references, and I couldn’t figure them out. I got annoyed with them, but she made me feel special. And I selfishly thought that it was only me that she could make feel that way, when that wasn’t the case.”
I shake my head, finally, finally getting it. “She does that to everyone.”
“Yeah, she does, and when I realized that, belatedly, when she got engaged to Hunter, that she had found the man who makes her feel special, I just... How could I step in front of that, keep her from that, when she wouldn’t feel the same way with me, couldn’t? She loves Hunter, and Matty, and they love her back just as much, more even, because she deserves that.”
I nod again, my throat so tight, the pain so acute that I can’t bring myself to speak, to say anything of value right now, just sitting here, stewing in my emotions.
“And I love you, Sophie Kincaid.”
My stupid chin wobbles again and he makes a cooing-like noise at me, reaching over to capture a couple of tears that have escaped, thumbing them away from my face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, Sophie, I do. Do you think you could love me back?”
I nod quickly, clutching onto his hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Russia smiles, getting even more handsome, more beautiful with it. “I don’t want you to ever think that there’s someone else in my heart, meelaya,” he says, and my throat bobs, and it’s hard to keep the sniffles contained.
Jesus, someone’s going to think something bad’s happening over here when it’s something good, so, so good.
“Does that mean I can finish up your tattoo for you?”
“Yeah, you can. I’d be honored if you would finish it for me.”
I nod, glancing down at our clasped hands, holding him just that little bit more tightly.
“Okay, okay.”
Russia brings our hands up, pressing a kiss to the back of my hand, and I let myself sag against the table, tired and excited, elated and nervous about our next step, what that’s going to look like—but it doesn’t even matter, doesn’t matter what it looks like, as long as it feels good for the both of us, as long as we take the next step, together.
“Never thought I would be here,” Russia says, and I frown.
“Here? What do you mean? At the restaurant, or with me?” I’m still feeling raw, still jumping to conclusions, my grip spasming around his hand, tightening.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not the most out-there kind of person. I had virgin skin before you inked me. Got tattoos, even if it was a dare, to get you to notice me.”
I snort, watery and tired sounding.
“That sounds like some sort of kink that I’ll have to research later,” I say, grinning at him, my heart eighteen times too big for my chest, for my body, for this restaurant. “Of course I noticed you, of course I did. Don’t you remember how dumb I acted?”
Russia shakes his head, a soft smile along his mouth that I’m going to be kissing later. “You don’t remember how dumb I acted? Asking you to tattoo me, right there in front of Katie and Dean. They’re going to hold that over my head for the next decade.” He sighs, shrugging, working his shoulders with it.
I nod, because yeah, they’re going to be annoying for the next little while, if not forever.
“Just don’t get bored of me, okay, meelaya?”
“Never,” I say, and think about what I said to Katie the other day: never say never, because it somehow ends up happening anyway. So I amend my statement in my own head.
“I won’t. I just want to be yours, and I want you to be mine.”
Russia nods, solemn and steady, and my heart thumps in the spaces between words. “I love you. I’m going to tell you as often as I can.”
“As long as you keep calling me meelaya, then it works.”
Russia grins now, bringing our hands up again, to press a few kisses on my knuckles, pressing his smile into them, too, so I can keep it there, like an invisible tattoo.
“Meelaya,” he says, and my whole body shivers at the sound, my smile as big as a house. “What would you like to eat?”
“I want mozzarella sticks,” I say, having thought about my consolation prize if Russia didn’t show up to the restaurant. “And spinach dip with nachos.”
Russia doesn’t even bat an eye and keeps nodding, as if he wants me to continue.
We end up ordering a lot of food, the kind of food that requires three Styrofoam cases for the leftovers, and we end up walking to his place, Russia’s foot getting better every day now, especially since the sidewalks and streets are no longer icy.
Spring’s finally here, with summer around the corner, and the possibility feels endless.
We swing our hands in between us, and I feel like I could start skipping, start flying to the moon and back, skip among the starlight.
“What’s got you so happy?” Russia asks, tugging my hand a little since I’m taking my time crossing the street, wanting everyone to look and see the both of us—together—finally.
“I don’t know, it could be that I got my head out of my ass and confessed my undying love for you. Or it could be the delicious food I just ate, I don’t know. Time will tell.”
“Time will tell? Time will tell?!” Russia gasps, affronted, but it’s playful, and there’s a happy glint in his eyes, like he gets it, like he feels the exact same way.
I’ve never fangirled over a person before, let alone had this gigantic crush on a guy, let alone on a guy like Russia, who’s usually not my style, not my vibe.
But life’s done crazier things to me in the past—botched piercings, botched tattoos, and regrets of the shoulda-woulda-coulda been variety that I’ll never get a chance to do again.
I’m glad that I didn’t let this, this relationship, this love with Russia, slip through my fingers, be relegated to a past that I force myself not to think about ever again. Never ever again.
I never thought I would find him, the guy I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with, not having to change a part of myself to suit him. It’s why, I think, I always added more change to my body—more ink, more piercings, cut and dyed my hair the way I wanted, a testament to change when all I really wanted was the person I would fall in love with to stay.
Never thought I’d get the chance.
Well, here I am, here we are.
Never say never.
