Page 29

Chapter 29

Leaving Home

Erin

M y suitcases stand by the door, packed and zipped tight, like they’re holding in everything I’ve spilled into this house over the past several weeks. I’ve checked three times to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, but I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m leaving the most essential parts of myself behind.

Like my heart. Lodged somewhere between a Russian defenseman’s ribs and a six-year-old’s stuffed animal collection.

“Are you sure you have to go?”

Ris hovers in the doorway, hugging Mr. Waddles to her chest, her blonde curls wild from sleep. She’s already dressed for the day, but she’s still wearing her bear slippers, as if she hasn’t quite committed to morning yet.

“You could keep sleeping in Papa’s room,” she suggests, hopeful. “He doesn’t snore. I checked.”

I bite my lip. Hard. Because crying is not an option. “Galina’s here now, sweetie. And I have to get ready for my trip.”

“You can get ready here,” she argues, the kind of pure, devastating child logic that makes adults sound like complete idiots. “You can practice in the music room. You said it has the best light.”

I exhale, crouching down to her level. “I know. But sometimes grown-ups need their own space.”

Her bottom lip wobbles. “Don’t you like us anymore?”

Oh God. If my heart wasn’t already splintered, that just shattered it completely.

“I love you both so much it hurts,” I whisper, pulling her into a hug before she can see the tears welling up. “But your papa needs his house back. And I need to?—”

What, exactly?

Run before I get in too deep?

Before I let myself want something I can’t have?

Before Dmitri confirms what I already know—that I was never meant to stay?

“Cello’s downstairs.”

The deep rumble of his voice cuts through the moment like a blade.

I look up. Dmitri fills the doorway, arms crossed, expression carefully blank.

“Anything else you need carried down?”

I straighten, swiping at my eyes as discreetly as possible. “Just these two bags.”

A single nod. Then he steps forward and lifts both suitcases like they weigh nothing. Those arms—those ridiculous arms—the same ones that held me last night like they never wanted to let go.

The same ones I clung to while we pretended this wasn’t ending.

Last night was like drowning, and neither of us fought it. We let it pull us under, hands grasping, mouths desperate, bodies pressed so close it felt like we could will time to stop. He touched me like he was memorizing every inch, like I was something fleeting. I left marks on his back, proof that I’d been there, that I’d mattered.

But not once—not once—did either of us say the words that could have changed today’s goodbye.

Instead, we held each other through the night, tracing silent patterns against skin, pretending morning would never come.

But it did.

And now here we are.

Me, trying to look fine while breaking apart piece by piece.

Him, stacking bricks on top of bricks, building his walls so high I can’t even see over them anymore.

“Breakfast is ready,” he says, voice gruff. “You should eat before we leave.”

His eyes won’t meet mine. Haven’t really met mine since this morning.

“No, I’m good,” I lie. Because if I try to eat anything now, it’ll just sit like cement in my stomach. “We should probably just get going. Rip the bandage off.”

He flinches. Just the tiniest shift, barely there. But I catch it, because I’ve spent weeks cataloging his micro-expressions like they might mean something.

Like he might still stop me.

“Are we ever going to see you again?”

Ris’s voice is so small it makes my ribs feel too tight, like they’re crushing my lungs.

Dmitri’s jaw locks. “Ris. We talked about this. Erin will give you lessons on Mondays and Fridays. Until she leaves for her trip, and we find you a new teacher.”

“But that’s not the same.” Her face screws up, and oh no, those are real tears. “That’s not the same as having her here all the time.”

I can’t breathe. Can’t think past the ache in my chest. Can’t look away from her wobbling lip or Dmitri’s ironclad expression.

“I’ll come visit,” I promise, crouching down again. “Not just Mondays and Fridays. Whenever you want me to.”

“Every day?” she asks hopefully.

“Maybe not every day, but?—”

“Why not?” Her chin juts out, stubborn and fierce in a way that is so Dmitri it hurts. “Papa’s sad when you’re not here. I heard him and Babushka talking.”

My head snaps up, my pulse hammering.

Dmitri’s face flickers—panic, regret, something too raw to name—before it goes blank again.

“Amneris,” he says sharply. “That’s enough.”

“But it’s true!” she protests. “You said you’ll miss her when she’s?—”

“Amneris,” he cuts her off, voice like steel. “Help Babushka with breakfast. Now.”

Her little fists clench. Her whole body vibrates with fury. “Grown-ups are stupid ! ” she yells, then storms off, a tiny hurricane of betrayal and righteous six-year-old rage.

And then it’s just us.

Me and the human embodiment of emotional constipation.

Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. I focus on a spot just past his shoulder because looking directly at him feels impossible right now.

“She’s upset,” he says finally, like that explains everything. Like it smooths over the fact that he’s been talking about me with the mother of his dead wife.

“Yeah, I got that impression.” I try for lightness, but it falls flat, my voice too raw around the edges.

He shifts, adjusting his grip on my suitcases. “We should go. Traffic will be bad soon.”

“Dmitri—”

“I’ll get these in the car.” He’s already turning away, shoulders set, spine rigid. “Five minutes.”

And then he’s gone.

I stand there frozen, in the guest room that hasn’t felt like a guest room in weeks.

One last look.

The way the early sunlight spills across the window seat. The copy of Humiliated and Insulted still sitting on the nightstand. A tragic masterpiece telling of love and devotion, of loss and choices that can’t be undone. Of people who wound each other, not because they don’t love enough, but because they don’t know how to hold on.

I force myself to look away. To move.

The drawer I’d claimed as mine is empty now. Just like the bed. Just like the space I’d carved for myself here.

Just like me.

Downstairs, the goodbyes are quick and brutal.

Ris clings to me like a koala, her tiny arms locking around my neck like she’ll never let go.

I wish she wouldn’t.

“Promise you’ll come back,” Ris whispers into my hair, her voice so small, so certain. “Promise.”

“I promise, sweet girl.” My voice wobbles embarrassingly. “For lessons. For visits. Whenever you want.”

Dmitri stands by the door, keys in hand, his face carved from stone.

Galina lingers nearby, her sharp gaze flicking between us, missing nothing. There’s sympathy there, but also something sharper—impatience, frustration. Like she’s watching a chess game where one player refuses to make the obvious move.

“It’s not forever,” she says, gently prying Ris from my arms. “Just a new chapter.”

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

Ris watches, silent tears slipping down her cheeks as Dmitri herds me out. The last thing I see before the door closes is her small hand waving goodbye.

The car ride is suffocating.

Dmitri grips the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him together, his knuckles white against the leather. I keep my eyes on the window, cataloging landmarks as they blur past.

The coffee shop where we took Ris for hot chocolate. The park where we had the picnic with Ris’s school. The grocery store where I always bought Ris’s favorite pasta.

Each memory a fresh wound.

“Galina will be good for her,” I say, desperate to fill the silence. “Between her ballet background and Ris’s skating?—”

“Yes.” His voice is flat.

“And with playoffs heating up, you’ll be away a lot, so?—”

“Yes.”

I press my lips together, swallowing back everything I actually want to say.

Ask me to come back after the festival.

Tell me you want me here.

Tell me you love me.

Instead, I stare at the dashboard, counting mile markers like measures in a difficult piece, forcing myself to breathe in time with the road.

When we reach my building, he shifts into park but doesn’t move.

“Thank you,” he says finally, his accent thicker than usual. “For everything with Ris. She...she’s never connected like that before. With anyone.”

My throat tightens. “She’s an amazing kid.”

“Yes.” His jaw flexes. “The best.”

I hesitate. “Dmitri?—”

“I’ll get your bags.” He’s out of the car before I can finish, leaving me alone with all the words I don’t know how to say.

By the time I make it to the curb, he’s already unloaded both suitcases and my cello. Efficient, as always. Ready to leave. Ready to be done with this slow, excruciating goodbye.

“I’ll take these up for you.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just grabs the bags and heads for the building door.

The climb up the stairs is endless. His shoulders are stiff, his silence heavier than the luggage in his hands. I count my breaths, trying to focus on anything except the burning need to stop him, to fix this somehow.

At my apartment door, my fingers fumble with the keys, clumsy and uncooperative. He waits, patient, unreadable, as I finally manage to get it open.

“Just...anywhere is fine,” I murmur as he steps inside.

He sets the bags down carefully, then straightens, his gaze sweeping the small space. Taking it in. Memorizing it, maybe. The way I’ve been memorizing everything about him.

I grip my keys too tight, the metal biting into my palm. Say something.

“We’re on for the lessons?” My voice barely makes it out.

He nods once. “Monday. Four o’clock.”

Two days from now. It feels like a lifetime.

“Right.” I swallow hard. “Please tell Ris, I’ll...I’ll see her then.”

Another nod. His body is already angled toward the door. Escape imminent.

But then he hesitates. His gaze flicks around my studio again, something shifting in his expression. Something almost reluctant.

“It’s smaller than I remember,” he murmurs, and there’s a trace of pain in the way he says it.

“It’s enough.” For one person. For a life without them.

He turns to me, and for a single, shattering moment, his mask slips. The raw need in his eyes slams into me, knocking the breath from my lungs.

“Erin—”

He doesn’t finish.

The silence stretches, thick and unbearable, every second a plea, a question, a goddamn heartbreak waiting to happen.

Ask me.

Tell me you want me.

But he doesn’t.

“Goodbye, Dmitri.” I finally break first, the words splintering as they leave my lips.

Something flickers across his face—anguish, frustration, something too quick to name—before he shuts it down completely.

“Goodbye, Erin.”

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the distance between us.

I watch from the window as his SUV pulls away from the curb, leaving me with the crushing weight of everything I couldn’t say.

My apartment feels wrong. Smaller. Quieter. Empty.

I sink onto the couch, curling into myself, clutching a pillow against my chest as if it could hold me together.

It’ll get easier, I tell myself. It has to get easier.

But all I hear in the silence is Ris’s voice echoing in my head.

“Papa’s sad when you’re not here.”

And all I can think is: Me too, sweet girl. Me too.

* * *

Three hours later, my phone’s insistent buzzing yanks me out of my own personal purgatory. I’ve accomplished exactly nothing since Dmitri left—besides staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of last night in agonizing, slow-motion detail.

[Luka]: Studio’s booked for 2pm. Can’t wait to hear your Brahms interpretation.

Reality slams into me. Right. The recording session. Dubrovnik. The dream I’m supposed to be thrilled about.

[Me]: Will see you there.

I force myself into the shower, cranking the water hot enough to scald, hoping it’ll burn away the mess of emotions clinging to me like smoke. But no amount of heat can erase the image of Ris’s tear-streaked face. Or the way Dmitri stood in the doorway this morning, rigid and silent, his jaw locked so tightly I thought it might shatter. The way he let me leave without a single word to stop me.

By the time I get to the studio in Chelsea, I’m ten minutes late and feeling about as eager as someone walking into a firing squad.

The space is sleek and modern—glass walls, natural light, perfect acoustics. Luka is already there, tuning his cello, his expression brightening the moment I step inside. His hair is artfully mussed in that way that probably takes twenty minutes in front of a mirror, his slim-cut jeans and designer shirt exuding effortless European cool.

Normally, I’d appreciate the aesthetic. Today, I just find myself cataloging all the ways he isn’t Dmitri.

“There she is, my beautiful duet partner!” Luka stands, arms wide in greeting. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned me.”

His voice is smooth and sophisticated—nothing like the rough edges of Dmitri’s Russian growl.

“Traffic,” I lie, setting up my music stand. “You know how it is.”

“Of course.” His gaze flicks over me, assessing. “You look different today.”

Something in his tone makes my spine stiffen. “Different how?”

“Like you’ve been crying,” he says simply, no judgment, just quiet observation. Then, with a knowing tilt of his head, “Boyfriend troubles? The hockey player?”

My fingers go rigid around my bow. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Luka chuckles, rich and amused. “Please, draga , I have eyes. The way he looked at you that night at Le Poisson Rouge? Like he wanted to drag you offstage and ruin you.” He lifts an eyebrow. “And your friend Sophie? Not subtle when it comes to dropping hints about your…entanglement.”

Heat crawls up my neck. I busy myself with rosining my bow, pretending I don’t feel the weight of his scrutiny. “Can we just play?”

Luka doesn’t press. He simply nods, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Brahms first? Or shall we warm up with something lighter?”

We begin, and for the next hour, the world outside ceases to exist.

Whatever else Luka might be, he’s a phenomenal cellist. Our instruments slip into conversation, weaving a language that doesn’t require words. The Brahms sonata flows between us, every note familiar, yet new. His interpretation bends to mine like he can anticipate my every thought.

Even with my heart in pieces, the music still finds me. Still heals me—if only for a little while.

I close my eyes during the adagio, surrendering to the aching beauty of it, letting the melody take the raw edges of my pain and transform them into something bearable.

And when the final note fades into silence, the space it leaves behind feels almost sacred.

“That,” Luka says softly, “was magical.”

I open my eyes to find him watching me, his gaze steady and intense. The kind of look that makes unease unfurl inside me.

“You play with your whole heart, Erin.” He sets his bow down, his voice gentle. “I’ve never met anyone who gives themselves so completely to the music.”

I swallow against the knot in my throat. I used to love that about myself—how I could lose myself in the music, how it could make sense of things even when nothing else did. But right now, it just feels like proof of how easily I unravel.

“Dubrovnik won’t know what hit them.”

Despite everything, a small ember of excitement sparks to life. I cling to it, desperate for something to hold onto. “It’s going to be epic, isn’t it?” My voice is quiet, but there’s longing in it. “Playing in those castles, with the sea right there…”

“Life-changing,” Luka agrees, his smile warm. “And after, the tour will open doors you can’t even imagine.”

I nod, trying to let that sink in, trying to summon the same exhilaration I felt when this opportunity first became real. But it keeps slipping through my fingers, dissolving beneath the weight pressing on my chest.

We take a short break, and Luka hands me a bottle of water from the mini-fridge.

“Ready for Mozart?” he asks, already adjusting his bow.

We play for another hour—Mozart, then Vivaldi, then a few improvisations that would normally leave me grinning. But by the time we stop, I feel wrung out. I’ve poured every last ounce of myself into the strings, and I still can’t quiet the ache inside me.

Luka watches me as we pack up, considering. “Dinner?”

I hesitate.

“I know a fantastic little place just around the corner. Best risotto outside of my grandmother’s kitchen.”

“I should probably?—”

“Just dinner,” he clarifies, reading my hesitation. His smile is soft. “You look like you could use a friend right now.”

The unexpected gentleness nearly undoes me. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

The restaurant is exactly as promised—tiny, intimate, the kind of place that practically hums with warmth. A candle flickers between us, casting a golden glow against the deep red of the wine already being poured.

Luka waits until we’ve ordered before speaking. “So,” he says, leaning back, “are we going to talk about what’s going on with you, or shall we pretend everything’s fine?”

I let out a breath, staring into my glass. “We pretend.”

“Yes?” He lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “Because you look like someone tore your heart out and stomped on it.”

“That’s…descriptive.”

“I’m a showman.” He shrugs. “Dramatic by nature.” His tone is light, but his eyes are serious. “Tell me.”

Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the weight of everything I haven’t said. Maybe I just need to hear it out loud to understand why it hurts so much.

“I think I fell in love with Dmitri,” I admit, the words barely above a whisper. “And I think he might have feelings for me too. But neither of us is saying anything, and now I’m just…leaving.”

Luka nods slowly, processing. “The festival.”

“And the tour.” I take a too-large sip of wine, letting it burn its way down. “It’s what I’ve been working toward. I want it so much. But?—”

“You know,” he interrupts me carefully, “there are planes that fly between Europe and the US. There’s even a direct flight from Dubrovnik to New York. It’s quite revolutionary, actually.”

I let out a small, humorless laugh. “It’s not just the distance. It’s…complicated.”

“His little girl.”

I nod, exhaling slowly. “She’s already lost her mother. I don’t want to come into her life only to disappear again. That’s not fair to her.” I hesitate, the words sticking in my throat. Though that’s exactly what I’ve done, isn’t it?

Luka tilts his head. “And what about what’s fair to you?” He pauses. “To him?”

I don’t have an answer for that. Or maybe I do, but I don’t want to say it. Because the truth is, if Dmitri really wanted me to stay, he would’ve said something. He would’ve given me a reason. Instead, he let me walk away.

Our food arrives, giving me a temporary reprieve. But Luka isn’t letting me off the hook.

“You know,” he says after a moment, his tone shifting, “when I first saw you at Le Poisson Rouge, I thought we’d have incredible stage chemistry.” His smile turns mischievous. “You’re beautiful, talented, passionate about music. My perfect performance partner.”

I force a small smile, but my mind is still somewhere else, stuck in a loop of all the things Dmitri didn’t say.

“But?” I ask, sensing there’s more.

Luka spears a bite of risotto, chewing thoughtfully before leveling me with a knowing look. “But I saw how you looked at him when you thought no one was watching.” He shrugs, casual but certain. “And draga , even if I were into women, I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

I nearly choke on my wine. “Wait, what? You’re?—”

“Gay? Yes.” He laughs, delighted by my stunned expression. “Did you think I was hitting on you all this time?”

“I mean…kind of?” My cheeks burn. “The way you act on stage, all that flirtatious energy?—”

“Performance.” He waves his fork with a flourish. “Audiences love a romance, a connection. They want to believe we might be lovers making music together. It sells tickets.” He winks. “And draws in YouTube followers.”

The laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, startled and unfiltered. The first real one I’ve managed all day. “So all this time?—”

“My boyfriend Marko would be very disappointed if I had actual designs on you.” Luka’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Though he did acknowledge you are gorgeous, so I have full permission to put on a show for the cameras.”

Relief floods me, but it’s immediately chased by embarrassment. “God, I’m an idiot.”

“Not at all. I’m an excellent actor.” He preens dramatically, then leans forward, smirking. “And speaking of acting—your hockey player is not exactly subtle, is he?”

My brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“He showed up at our rehearsal last week,” Luka says, like it’s nothing. “Looming in the back of the studio like some brooding guardian angel. I assumed you knew.”

My heart stutters. “He did not.”

“Oh, but he did.” Luka’s eyes dance with amusement. “Full murder glare and everything. Quite intimidating, actually. He’s huge , draga . Stood there for about twenty minutes, watching us work through that tricky passage in Brahms. Then left without saying a word.”

I gape at him. “And you didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

He sighs theatrically. “I thought you knew. And it was rather romantic. The big, scary hockey player secretly watching his love from afar. Very Romeo and Juliet —minus the poison, hopefully.”

I sink back in my chair, my pulse roaring in my ears. Dmitri came to our rehearsal. He stood in the shadows, watching me play, listening. And he said nothing about it.

“He looked ready to snap my cello in half,” Luka adds, taking a sip of his wine. “Which is fair enough. If I were straight and in love with you, I might feel the same way.”

“He’s not—” I start, then stop. My throat tightens. “I don’t know what he is.”

“Oh, he is in love with you, alright.” Luka sets his glass down with an air of finality. “Everything he feels might as well be tattooed on his forehead.”

I think about this morning. The rigid control. The way he wouldn’t meet my eyes. The absence of a single word— stay.

“Then why is he letting me leave?”

Luka studies me, his playfulness dimming into something more thoughtful. “Sometimes we convince ourselves that letting go is the selfless choice. That if we truly love someone, we should step aside for their dreams.” A pause, his voice quieter now. “Your Russian is pulling a Eugene Onegin —you know, Pushkin’s hero who realizes too late what he’s thrown away? All that noble suffering and missed chances.” He shakes his head. “Complete bullshit, of course. You don’t have to sacrifice love. That’s just lazy storytelling.”

His words hit something raw inside me.

“What do I do?” The question slips out, small and uncertain.

Luka tilts his head. “What do you want to do?”

I don’t even have to think about it.

“I want both.” The words come out unshaken, undeniable. “I want to play at the festival. In the grand European halls. And I also want Dmitri and Ris.”

Luka leans back, satisfied. “Then tell him that.” He swirls the last of his wine. “The idiot probably thinks you’re choosing your career over him. Men are very dramatic about these things.”

I huff out something between a scoff and a laugh. “Says the most dramatic person I know.”

“Exactly. I’m an expert.” He grins, lifting his glass in a toast. “To Dmitri Sokolov, the lucky bastard who’s managed to capture Erin O’Connor’s heart. May he have the good sense to realize what he has.”

I hesitate, my fingers tightening around my glass. “He’s not mine,” I whisper, but the words feel flimsy. Like I don’t even believe them anymore.

Luka tilts his head, studying me, his usual teasing replaced with something quieter. “Then why do you look like you’re waiting for him to stop you?”

I open my mouth, but no words come.

Because I don’t have an answer. At least, not one that makes any damn sense.

We finish dinner with lighter conversation, but Luka’s words loop in my head like a melody I can’t shake. By the time we step outside, the air is crisp, the streetlights glowing against the darkening sky. But clarity still feels impossibly far away.

“Dubrovnik is happening,” Luka reminds me, giving me a quick hug. “The festival will put you on the map, draga , even if you’d rather stay in New York right now.” He winks, squeezing my shoulder. “The music goes on, Erin. Your broody Russian will be here when you return—probably pacing a hole in his floor, but definitely here.”

I swallow, nodding. “Thank you,” I say, meaning it.

“Just promise me one thing,” he calls after me as I turn to leave. “When you figure this out—and you will—invite me to the wedding. I want to see the mighty Sokolov in a tuxedo.”

His laughter follows me down the street, but my mind is already somewhere else.

Not on Dubrovnik. Not on the tour.

But on him.

On Dmitri, standing in the shadows of the rehearsal studio, watching me play.

On the way he let me go without a fight.

I step into my apartment, the silence pressing in, the suitcases still unpacked.

And for the first time, I wonder?—

Why did I think walking away from something so perfect was the right thing to do?