Page 24 of Notes About Vodka (Happily Ever After Hangover #1)

Chapter Thirteen

VAL

“I think my favorite way to enjoy vodka is with freshly squeezed grapefruit juice over ice.

Basically, a greyhound.”

After kissing Laura at her door, I can't stop thinking about her.

She's taken up space in my mind since I first heard her voice, and I don't want her to leave. There’s this constant hum, this pull, like gravity.

I’m falling. Hard. Is this what being in love is like?

I’ve kissed a lot of girls. But Laura… that kiss was different.

There was something magnetic about the way she so carefully opened up for me. The way she let me explore her, how she responded when I slid my tongue into her mouth.

She looked at me afterward like she was letting me in, nipping my lower lip with her teeth, her eyes full of something I can’t quite name. Her lips were so soft, her breath warm, her body fitting perfectly into mine. I want more of that.

I want more of Laura.

And I know she’s married—technically—but Sam doesn’t matter.

Not anymore.

The guy’s a loser, and she’s already out the door. I want to be there when she is finally out of that mess for good. And all mine. Not his.

Hell, I will be there.

I’ve got plans. Big ones for us.

Romance isn’t exactly my specialty, but I’ve been trying, getting creative.

Over the past week, I’ve sent her flowers, wine, and a pair of wireless headphones I found out she needed for the new keyboard that surprisingly showed up at her apartment.

Fuck, I may love you, too, Skipper.

The other night he texted me on social media. Blessed me out about how to treat his best friend . And then encouraged me to make her feel alive again, treat her like a woman falling in love again deserves.

I couldn’t breathe for a moment after reading that message.

We kept texting.

He gave me a brief version of her life, and although vague, I feel for my girl.

The other day, I arrived at work early and caught her playing the piano—some beautiful classical piece I didn’t recognize. I stood there in the dining hall as she hummed along, her fingers gliding across the keys, her face peaceful, lost in the music.

She looked up, caught me staring, and smiled like she didn’t mind one bit. When I handed her the headphones, her whole face lit up. That’s a look I could get used to.

“Val, what in the world?”

“So you can practice at home without bothering your roommates. I know you like to play late at night, and the piano here isn’t always available with the other staff needing to practice, too.”

“Dammit, Valerie,” she says, calling me the feminine version of my name. I’ve slowly gotten used to the nickname, in fact, I kinda like it. “Why are you doing this to me?”

I smile at Laura before replying, “I like seeing you smile. I like doing things for you.” I push a strand of hair behind her ear before whispering, “Let me take you out.”

“Val…” Laura starts, but I turn and leave. I’m not going to let her say no. I will only stick around when I know it's going to be, yes .

Plus, I am really enjoying this cat-and-mouse game with Laura . I know you want me, too, moya lubimiya, my love.

I’ve also left other little presents here and there. I folded an origami flower and slipped a note inside, which she found only after unfolding the tulip. Just wanted to show you I’m thinking about you, my beautiful sirena.

I watched from the bar as she opened the note, and I loved seeing the blush creep up her neck. My heart soared when her bright gray-blue eyes found mine, like sunlight radiating from within her.

Getting her to agree to dinner is still like pulling teeth. I don’t know why she’s hesitating—maybe she’s afraid it’ll feel too real, too soon. Or maybe she's scared of what it means to let someone in again, to let her guard down and risk getting hurt.

I get that.

But I’m not giving up. Every time I see her, I bug her about it. I can’t help it. I want to take her out, show her more of my world, our possible world, let her see that I’m serious about this.

Three weeks and one eternity later…

I finally get the note I’ve been waiting to appear. I had mentioned something about trying authentic Russian food at the beach and her eyes lit up.

Later that night, tucked into the right front pocket of my jacket, was a guest check with the words, “Okay, yes. Let’s go out.”

I found your weakness Zaitseva.

“You sure you’re ready for Russian food?” I ask, smirking as I lean against the doorframe of Pianissimo after the shift before our date.

She rolls her eyes but grins back at me. “Yeah, okay. As long as you promise no weird stuff. Remember, this isn’t a date.”

“Oh, trust me. You’re going to love it. And weird? That’s a subjective term. And a date… well, you believe what you want to, Laura babe.”

The next morning, Laura meets me at the subway station close to her apartment.

We take the long ride through the city, watching the skyline pass by until we eventually end up at Tatiana’s, this little spot in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn.

Russian Town, as many like to call it, is right on the ocean.

As soon as we walk into Tatiana’s, it feels like home. The smell of fresh bread, pickled herring, and smoked meats hits me in the best way, stirring up memories of family dinners and holidays back in Sochi.

We sit by the window, the Atlantic stretching out in the distance, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing softly against the shore mixing with the salty breeze. The sun’s already starting to dip below the horizon, casting a golden light over the water and filling the room with warmth.

“Are you ready for the real Russian experience?” I ask, grinning as I pick up the menu.

Laura smirks, “I was born ready.”

I order us a flight of infused shots—horseradish vodka, pepper, honey, and cranberry. And a little zacuskca, or charcuterie platter.

“We’re doing this right,” I tell her.

She laughs, and I can tell she’s a little nervous. I love that about her—the mix of confidence and vulnerability, the way she steps into the unknown even when she’s unsure.

The shots come out, along with a spread of other Russian dishes—borscht, pelmeni, blinis stuffed with mushrooms, caviar, and sour cream.

Laura takes a small sip of her shot and coughs, her eyes widening as the pepper vodka hits.

“Wow. That’s… That’s intense,” she manages between gasps.

I chuckle, downing mine without a flinch. “It’s an acquired taste. Try another.”

She watches me, amused, but there’s something deeper in her eyes. Like she’s seeing a part of me she didn’t know existed.

As we dig into the food, we start talking about everything—her friends, Skipper and Rhea, and how they all met.

She laughs about Skipper’s eccentric personality and how Rhea is always the voice of reason.

I love the way she talks about her friends, the warmth in her voice, the way her eyes light up.

In return, I tell her about my buddies back in Russia, how we were all terrible kids.

“We used to sneak behind the condo after school, smoke cigarettes, and steal vodka from my dad’s stash. He always knew, but he never said anything. Just gave me that disappointed look, like he was waiting for me to grow out of it.”

She laughs, but I can see the curiosity in her eyes. “Do you talk to them much?”

I shrug, trying to play it off, but there’s a pang of guilt in my chest. “Not as much as I should. My parents are still there and currently an 6- hour time difference via phone. I think I’m a pretty bad son, honestly. My mom always asks when I’m going to visit, but life here… It’s complicated.”

Laura frowns a little, resting her chin on her hand. “Why don’t you talk to them more?”

“I don’t know. Time zones, maybe, school, work, just excuses, you know?” I run a hand through my hair, feeling that familiar sting of guilt. “I miss them, though.”

She looks at me, her gaze softening. “Maybe you should call them right now. They probably miss you just as much. And if its only 6 hours? Could they be waking up? Or are they still asleep?”

I nod, her words sinking in. She’s right. I know she is. And somehow, hearing it from her makes it hit harder. I want her to know all of me, the good and the bad, and maybe reconnecting with my parents is a part of that.

Her eyes soften, and she smiles that Laura smile—the one that makes me feel like maybe, I’m not such a screw-up after all. It’s also the telltale sign that she has an idea.

“Have you ever tried Skype?”

“Skype?” I repeat, a little clueless.

“Yeah! It’s a video chat thing. You can call them whenever. And actually look at them face to face. Rhea uses it all the time to talk to her parents in Puerto Rico. I could help you set it up.”

“Well, okay then. I’d really like that.”

“First, call your dad, I know it's probably expensive to make the call, but ask him to Google Skype and download it.” Laura tells me.

She’s right, to call that distance just from my cell phone can cost several dollars per minute, and Skype sounds like a potential solution.

“Well, Val, call him. What are you waiting for. We have the time now, so do it and maybe tonight you can actually talk to him.”

“Okay, well what time is it right now?”

“Just a little after 4 p.m., what’s the time difference again?”

“Right now, it’s only 6 hours between, so it’s 10 at home.”

“Then call, Val, call!” Laura begs me.

“Fine,” I mumble. I haven’t talked to my parents in a few weeks so I have a feeling they are not going to be happy with me. Especially since I don’t know when they go to bed and if I wake them up and its not an emergency…

What will that mean, will they be mad…happy…

Typing in their number, the phone rings.

“What’s that sound?” Laura asks.

“Huh?”

“The sound, the ringtone.”

“Oh, yeah, European dial tones are different.” I tell her just as my mom picks up the phone.

“Previt?!?!?!?” my mother, Lyudmila, answers.

Soft Russian music plays in the background and I can hear a variety of voices from where I’ve pressed the speakerphone button resonating from the background.