Page 27

Chapter 27

Busted by a Six-Year-Old

Dmitri

T he hardwood floor creaks under Ris’s tiny feet as she attempts a plié, her tongue poking out in fierce concentration. Galina, ever the picture of poise, moves with the certainty of a woman who could probably still out dance an entire corps in her sleep.

“See? Just like that, Risochka.” She adjusts Ris’s arms with a few precise corrections, her movements so smooth it’s like watching a magician pull invisible strings. “Now turn out from the hips—yes, perfect.”

Next door, Erin’s cello drifts through the air, Saint-Saens wrapping around us like silk, delicate and haunting. She’s been at it for hours, throwing herself into the music like she’s running from something. Or from someone.

“Your daughter has a natural sense for dance and rhythm,” Galina muses, her eyes sharp. “She should take ballet. It would help with her skating.”

“I like figure skating, Babushka .” Ris wobbles through an ambitious spin. “Papa says I’m getting really good!”

“Even more reason.” Galina’s smile is reassuring. “Ballet builds the foundation for everything else.” She pauses, just long enough for me to brace. And then, far too casually, “Speaking of foundations...”

Here we go.

“The house feels different,” she continues, adjusting Ris’s posture again. “Warmer. More alive somehow.”

I grunt noncommittally, keeping my gaze locked on literally anything else. But my stupid traitorous eyes flick to the left, toward the wall where Erin’s music hums through.

“Papa makes Erin breakfast every morning!” Ris supplies helpfully.

My stomach drops.

“Or she makes us breakfast! And she helps me practice cello, and we make pancakes on weekends, and?—”

“Amnushka.” I try to head her off, but?—

“—and sometimes she sleeps in Papa’s room when she has bad dreams!”

Der’mo.

Galina’s eyebrows shoot so high I’m genuinely concerned they’ll never return to their original position. “Bad dreams, hmm?”

Ris nods enthusiastically. “Uh-huh! But it’s okay because Papa keeps the bed really warm and sometimes Erin talks in her sleep, but mostly it’s just mumbling. Oh! And one time Papa carried her upstairs when she fell asleep on the couch.”

I clear my throat, deeply regretting every decision that has led to this moment. “Ris, why don’t you show Babushka your skating medals?”

Ris perks up instantly. “Okay! But don’t move, Babushka , because I’m bringing all of them, even the one from when I was four and mostly just fell down a lot!”

She tears off toward the stairs, and I don’t look at Galina. Maybe if I stay perfectly still, she’ll lose interest.

“Bad dreams,” she repeats, her smirk positively lethal.

I’m never letting Ris stay up past bedtime again.

I chance a glance at her. Bad decision. The woman is radiating smugness.

“She’s quite talented,” Galina says mildly, as if she isn’t actively setting my entire existence on fire. “The way she plays... It reminds me of Elena performing. That same passion.”

The comparison hits like a check to the boards. My jaw tightens. “Galina?—”

“Not in a painful way,” she adds quickly. “In a healing way. Like the house is remembering how to breathe again.”

I exhale sharply, not ready for this conversation. Not when everything with Erin feels so fragile.

“Dima.” Galina’s voice softens as she steps closer. “I see how you look at her.”

“I don’t look at her any particular way,” I mutter, but the words ring hollow even to my own ears.

Galina laughs, a genuine, warm sound. “My dear boy, you look at her the way you used to look at Elena. Like she’s something miraculous you can’t quite believe exists.”

Heat crawls up my neck. I press my lips together, determined not to give Galina more ammunition.

“It’s good,” she says simply. “For you. For Ris.”

“Galina—”

“Elena would be happy,” she cuts in, her voice steady but gentle. “To see life here again. To see you both opening your hearts.”

I swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat. “She’s leaving for the summer. And then starting a tour in Europe in September.”

“Ah.” Galina tilts her head, completely unfazed. “And she’ll return when it’s finished, yes?”

“You don’t understand.” I drag a hand through my hair, frustration building. “It’s Dubrovnik. It’s thirty cities across Europe with Luka Havran. It’s the kind of opportunity musicians dream about.” I meet her eyes, willing her to understand. “I can’t ask her to give that up. Or to split her focus. She deserves to chase these dreams without...complications.”

“Complications?” Galina arches an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“She’s twenty-four, Galina. Twenty-four. Her whole career is ahead of her. The last thing she needs is?—”

“You?”

I exhale sharply. “Yes. Me. A thirty-two-year-old single father with a complicated life and playoff schedules and a daughter who—” My voice catches, and I have to force the next words out. “Ris is already attached to her. You saw how they are together.”

Galina waits, letting me work through it.

“What if she leaves and doesn’t come back?” The question scrapes my throat raw. “What if this tour turns into something bigger? What if she meets someone else? What if...” I press my lips together, the real fear finally surfacing. “What if I let Ris believe Erin might stay, and then she just...doesn’t? She has already lost her mother. I can’t let her lose someone else she’s starting to love.”

“Ah.” Understanding dawns in Galina’s eyes. “So it’s not just Ris’s heart you’re protecting.”

I look away, unable to hold her gaze.

“You’re afraid,” she says softly. “Not of her leaving, but of her not choosing to return.”

I scoff. “She needs space to explore, to figure out who she is as an artist. I won’t be the reason she gives up on that.”

Galina shakes her head, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “You travel constantly, Dmitri. Always on the road during the season. And yet, you always come back.”

“That’s different,” I insist.

“Is it?” Her eyes gleam with challenge. “You’re barely at home during playoffs. This house stands empty while you’re fighting for the Cup. And still, Ris knows you’ll return.”

“Because she’s my daughter?—”

“And she’s your anchor,” Galina cuts in. “Just as you could be Erin’s. A place to return to. A reason to come home.”

I stare at her, speechless.

“People who truly want to come back, do.” Her voice softens. “You know this better than anyone. Sometimes we must give others the freedom to leave so they can choose to return.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Galina’s shoulders lift in an elegant shrug. “Then you’ll survive. As you have before.” She reaches out, her fingertips just brushing my arm. “But Dima, has it occurred to you that perhaps she wants both? Her music and you?”

I shake my head, still unconvinced. “You make it sound so straightforward. Yes, I’ll miss her terribly when she’s not here. But it’s not that simple.”

“It never is.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

Down the hall, the music shifts into something lighter—that Brahms piece Erin’s been working on with Luka.

Galina sees it. The moment my face changes.

“You’re scowling, Dimushka” she observes.

“I don’t scowl.”

“Dmitri Alexandrovich.” She gives me the look—the one that stripped paint when I was twenty-two and dating her daughter.

“Papa gets grumpy when Erin talks about Luka!” Ris pipes up helpfully, reappearing with an entire armload of medals. “But Erin says he’s just being silly.”

I seriously consider shipping my daughter to boarding school.

“Luka Havran?” Galina’s voice drips with amusement. “The cellist from YouTube?”

“He’s taking Erin to Cro-ay-sha,” Ris continues, completely oblivious to the way each of her words is currently turning my organs inside out. “But maybe she’ll change her mind and come to Fire Island with us instead.”

“Amneris.” My voice is firm, and she looks up at me, not understanding.

But the damage is done.

Galina’s expression shifts into something terrifyingly knowing.

“Ah,” she says softly, like a detective who just cracked the case.

And just like that, I’m completely busted.

The music stops abruptly. Footsteps. Then Erin appears in the doorway, flushed from practice, a strand of copper hair escaping her messy bun. She’s wearing one of those off-the-shoulder sweaters that make my hands twitch.

Actually twitch.

Criminal, that’s what it is.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, her gaze finding mine and lingering in a way that makes my grip on self-control even more tenuous. “I wanted to see if you needed anything. I was gonna get?—”

“Perfect timing!” Galina claps her hands like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. Because she has. “Ris was just showing me her positions. Perhaps you’d like to join us?”

“Oh, I don’t—” Erin starts, but she doesn’t stand a chance. Ris is already dragging her into the room with the sheer force of a six-year-old on a mission.

“Please? You can play something for us to dance to!”

“Actually,” Galina interjects smoothly, “I think your papa mentioned that new ice cream store in town?”

Ris gasps, scandalized. “Sixteen Handles? The one with all the toppings? Before dinner?”

“Why not?” Galina shrugs, all innocence. “If your papa allows it, of course. We could have dinner a bit later today.”

I recognize the tactical retreat for what it is. Galina, bless her heart, is creating an opening. And Erin, oblivious, shifts on her feet, pulling at the hem of her sweater, making the already loose neckline slip just a fraction lower.

“Just this one time,” I say, forcing my voice to sound normal. “Get your shoes.”

Ris takes off like a shot, leaving us in charged silence.

Galina surveys the scene like a grandmaster watching pawns shuffle into place. Then, with a graceful rise, she announces, “Well. I better go and help Ris find matching socks.”

Liar.

Then she’s gone, leaving me alone with Erin for the first time all day.

The air crackles.

“Hi,” she says softly, shifting slightly, her weight swaying in a way that has no right to be distracting. “I, um…” She tugs at that ruinous sweater again. “My things are packed. I was thinking I’d head out soon, let you all have some family time?—”

The words hit me like a crosscheck to the ribs.

“You want to leave tonight ?”

“Yeah, I mean…” She glances at the floor, not quite meeting my eyes. “Galina’s here now, and you guys probably want to?—”

“Stay for dinner.” It comes out desperate.

She blinks, mouth parting slightly. Closes it again.

“You are planning to leave tonight?” Galina’s voice cuts through the tension as she reappears in the doorway like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Oh no, devochka , that won’t do at all.”

Erin startles. “I don’t want to impose?—”

“Impose?” Galina waves this away like she’s swatting a particularly irritating mosquito. “You must stay. At least a few days. I’d be incredibly grateful. I don’t know Ris’s routines. She’s in a new school this year.” She turns to me, eyes twinkling. “And Dima leaves Monday morning, yes? After drop-off?”

I nod, hardly daring to breathe.

“Well then,” Galina’s tone brooks no argument, “I hope you’ll stay and show me how things work around here. The morning schedules, introduce me to Ris’s friends’ moms…” She pauses just long enough to make me sweat. “Unless you have to go to the city?”

“I…” Erin’s eyes flick to mine, then away again, her fingers tightening around the hem of that damn sweater. “No, I guess I can stay a few more days.”

“Perfect!” Galina claps her hands.

“Found my shoes!” Ris thunders back downstairs, brandishing mismatched sneakers like a trophy. “Can Erin come too?”

“Oh, I was hoping it would be just you and me, Risochka,” Galina says smoothly, already shepherding her toward the door. “Some quality time with your grandmother.” But just before she steps out, she turns, catches my eye?—

And winks.

My mother-in-law, the wingman.

She gave me a few more days with Erin.

It’s not much. But it’s something.

I owe her at least ten pints of ice cream for this one.