Page 30

Chapter 30

Empty House

Dmitri

F ive-thirty a.m. Like clockwork, my eyes snap open. No alarm necessary. A decade of early morning practices has made my body its own ruthless timekeeper.

For a single, disorienting second, I reach across the sheets, fingers seeking warmth. Softness. Copper hair spilling across my pillow.

I find nothing.

Just empty space. Cold sheets.

Like the last seven mornings. Like every morning stretching ahead of me.

Der’mo.

I stare at the ceiling, my heartbeat a dull, empty thud against my ribs. The house is silent. Too silent.

Down the hall, I hear nothing—both Ris and Galina still lost in dreams where people don’t leave.

I sit up, muscles stiff and aching from last night’s brutal game. We won. It should feel good. It should mean something.

But victory tastes like dust when she’s not with me.

When the house I come home to feels like it’s missing its heartbeat.

The gym calls to me. My sanctuary. My confessional booth. The place where pain makes sense.

I flick the lights on, the hum of electricity filling the silence. No music. The weights don’t need a soundtrack.

Just me. And the iron. And the quiet agony of repetition.

I load the bar with the usual heavy load. Maybe physical strain will distract me from the gaping hole in my chest.

Maybe if I push hard enough, I won’t see her standing in my kitchen, wearing my shirt. Won’t hear her laugh in the back of my mind. Won’t feel her pressed against me in the dark, breathing my name like a prayer.

I duck under the bar, the weight settling heavy across my shoulders.

I drop into the first squat, exhaling sharply.

One. She’s gone.

Two. I let her leave.

Three. What kind of a fucking moron does that?

By rep ten, sweat beads along my forehead, dripping between my shoulder blades. My quads burn. The familiar fire is welcome—a distraction from the tighter, sharper ache in my chest.

I rack the bar, rolling my shoulders, giving myself a few minutes before the next set.

In that short respite, the silence presses in.

The silence of this house without her.

The silence of the music room above me, where she used to play, her cello weaving through the air like something alive.

My grip tight around the bar, I drop into another rep. Then another. Eight turns to ten. Then twelve. I push through, muscles screaming, but it’s not enough.

It’ll never be enough.

I catch my reflection in the mirror across the gym.

Sweat-soaked. Hollow-eyed. A man who had something ripped away.

Or worse.

A man who pushed something away.

“Papa’s sad when you’re not here. I heard him and Babushka talking.”

Ris’s innocent words slice through me, sharper than any blade.

I’d nearly combusted when she said it in front of Erin. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was too fucking true.

And what had I done?

Exactly what I’ve done since Elena died.

Locked it down. Shut it off. Built walls so high and thick not even a determined six-year-old can breach them.

I snatch a towel, wipe my face roughly. Twenty minutes on the treadmill to flush out my legs. Then bench press. Then abs. Stick to the routine.

Focus on the season. The playoffs. Being a father.

Not on Erin’s laugh.

Or the way she looked at me when I was balls deep inside her, falling apart.

Or how her back fit perfectly against my chest, like she was designed to be there.

Fuck.

The treadmill beeps as I increase the incline, pushing my body faster, harder, desperate to outrun my own thoughts.

It doesn’t work.

By six-forty-five, I’m showered, dressed, mask back in place. A version of myself that looks whole if you don’t look too closely.

The scent of coffee and something sweet drifts up from the kitchen. Galina. Probably making blini or syrniki , the kind of Russian comfort food meant to replace the emptiness in your heart.

As if carbs and fat can fix what’s hollow inside me.

I step into the hallway, pausing outside Ris’s door.

She’s been sleeping later since Erin left, like her little body is staging a silent protest. Like if she stays in bed long enough, maybe the world will reset.

Maybe Erin will be here when she wakes up.

I lift my hand and knock softly.

“Ris? Time to wake up, Amnushka.”

Silence.

No rustling of sheets. No sleepy mumbling.

Just the same empty quiet that has filled this house since Erin walked out the door.

I exhale, pressing my palm against the doorframe.

“Ris?” I say again, a little louder.

Still nothing.

I push the door open, bracing myself.

A tangle of blankets. A tiny, curled-up form buried beneath them, only a tuft of blonde curls visible at the top.

One arm clutches Mr. Waddles.

The other is wrapped around her cello.

“Ris,” I say, softer this time. But my voice still sounds wrong, rough with something I can’t swallow down.

No response.

I step closer, crouching beside her bed, watching the slow rise and fall of her breath. She’s never held the cello in her sleep before.

“Amnushka,” I try again, smoothing a hand over her curls. “School day. Let’s go.”

She stirs, peeking out with bleary, hopeful eyes.

“Is Erin back?”

The question slices through me, clean and unforgiving.

I exhale slowly, trying to steady the ache expanding in my ribs.

This.

This is what I was afraid of.

It’s one thing for me to miss her. To carry this hollow, gnawing absence in my chest.

But Ris. God, Ris.

I don’t know how to protect her from this kind of heartbreak.

“No, Amnushka.” I keep my voice even. Gentle. Like saying it softly will make it hurt less. “Remember? She moved back to her apartment in the city.”

Her lower lip trembles. “But why? Why can’t she live with us?”

She blinks up at me, too innocent, too trusting, too fucking unprepared for this world.

“Doesn’t she like us anymore?”

I sit on the edge of her bed, gathering her into my arms. She feels small. Light. Or maybe that’s just my awareness of how easily things break.

“Of course she still likes us,” I murmur, smoothing her wild curls. “But her work is important. She has her own life.”

Ris pulls back, fixing me with Elena’s eyes.

“You miss her too.”

Not a question. A fact.

Brutal and honest in the way only a child can be.

“I’m fine.” The lie scrapes my throat.

She narrows her eyes. “Mr. Waddles says you’re sad.”

I huff a soft laugh, tapping her nose. “Mr. Waddles talks too much.”

She doesn’t smile.

Not like she would have a week ago.

Jesus.

“Come on, Babushka’s making breakfast, and you need to get dressed.”

She sighs—one of those deep, full-body sighs that only a six-year-old can truly execute—but untangles herself from the blankets, setting her cello carefully on its stand.

“I’m supposed to practice,” she informs me seriously. “Erin says ten minutes every day makes a big difference.”

My chest tightens.

“After school,” I say. “Now, purple dress or blue skirt?”

“Blue skirt and purple shirt,” she counters. “With the butterfly clips.”

I nod, ruffling her hair. “Deal.”

I leave her to get dressed, but the ache follows me down the hall.

Because this? This routine?

It’s a poor fucking substitute for what I really want.

Erin.

Standing in the kitchen wearing my T-shirt, her hair a mess, her sleepy smile just for me.

I blink hard, shoving the thought away as I step into the kitchen. A picture of warmth and comfort, sunlight spills through the windows, gilding the countertops in gold.

Galina moves with grace, a spatula in one hand, her posture as perfect as if she’s still on stage.

She doesn’t turn.

“There he is,” she says smoothly. “Our champion.”

“Just a regular season game,” I mutter, reaching for the coffee she’s already poured.

“Risochka said you scored the winning goal.” She puts a blini into the pan. The sizzle punctuates her words. “Very impressive.”

I grunt, noncommittal. It was just a garbage goal. A rebound that ricocheted off my skate. Nothing worth remembering.

Galina turns then, sharp eyes sweeping over me. Taking in the dark circles, the tight jaw. Cataloging me.

“You look terrible,” she announces flatly.

“Thanks.” I take a scalding sip of coffee. “That’s what every man wants to hear at seven in the morning.”

She waves her spatula like she’s swatting away my bullshit.

“When did you sleep last? Three days ago?”

“I sleep fine.” Another lie.

Her eyebrows lift, skeptical.

“Of course. That’s why you haunt the gym at five-thirty like some restless ghost.”

I scowl.

“I always work out early.” I lean against the counter, adding flatly, “I’m a professional athlete.”

She doesn’t even blink.

“Is self-destruction part of your training regimen?”

The words land sharp. Before I can respond, Ris comes skipping into the kitchen, exactly as negotiated—blue skirt, purple shirt, butterfly clips askew in her curls.

But it’s not her outfit that makes my breath catch.

It’s the bracelet on her wrist. The music note charm bracelet Erin gave her. The one from her first cello lesson. It glints in the morning light as she twirls her wrist, making the tiny charms dance.

My heart stalls.

“ Babushka , look!” Ris holds up her arm proudly, her face bright with unshaken belief. “Erin gave me this for my first lesson! It’s my musician’s bracelet—for good luck!”

Galina shoots me a look, her expression loaded with meaning.

“How thoughtful,” she muses, then after a beat, “Erin is a very special person, isn’t she?”

“The best,” Ris says immediately, with the kind of unwavering certainty only kids have.

She plops into her chair, legs swinging, and then tilts her head at me.

“Papa says she’s busy with work, but she’s coming back soon for more lessons. Right, Papa?”

The air in my lungs turns to concrete. I force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “She’s coming on Friday at four o’clock.”

“And then she’ll stay for dinner?” Her hopeful expression is a punch straight to the ribs.

“We’ll see, Amnushka. She might be busy.”

Ris frowns, considering. “But she likes your cooking.”

She climbs onto her chair, completely undeterred. “You should make chicken Kiev for her. It’s her favorite.”

Galina’s eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into her silver hair.

The I told you so is unspoken. But deafening.

“Breakfast,” I say firmly, my voice a scrape. Desperate to change the subject. “Eat before school.”

Ris accepts the plate Galina slides in front of her, then immediately drowns her blini in maple syrup.

I frown, unimpressed. “That’s enough, Ris.”

She doesn’t even look up. Just keeps drowning.

“After my lesson, can Erin stay and help with my math homework?” she asks, completely innocent.

I barely suppress a groan.

“Amneris.”

“What?” She blinks up at me, the picture of wide-eyed, oblivious mischief. “She is more patient than you.”

Galina chuckles, placing a plate in front of me. “Your papa is very smart, Risochka, but even he admits some things are better explained by others.”

Ris hums, pleased with herself.

I stare at my own plate—a perfect stack of blini. I used to inhale these before every playoff game. Now, the thought of food turns my stomach.

“Sorry, Galina.” I push the plate away, reaching for the protein powder instead. “Training diet. Need to keep it clean.”

She narrows her eyes, seeing straight through the excuse. I ignore her, dumping powder into the blender. Almond milk. Spinach. Something I don’t have to taste.

“Since when do you refuse my blini?” She crosses her arms. “You ate them before every playoff game last season.”

“New nutritionist.” I slap the lid on, probably harder than necessary. “Very strict.”

Galina snorts.

“Strict, hmm?” Her disbelief could fill an Olympic-sized pool.

Then, softer. Sharper.

“Or perhaps your appetite disappeared with your cellist?”

My jaw locks. I slam the blender on. The whirring drowns out everything.

Ris sighs dramatically but keeps eating, stuffing syrup-soaked bites into her mouth with single-minded determination. She’s halfway through her breakfast when she suddenly freezes. Fork suspended. Eyes wide with inspiration.

“I know!” she exclaims, nearly toppling her orange juice. “Erin could come to Fire Island with us this summer!” My grip tightens around my coffee mug. “There are plenty of rooms!”

Galina, of course, jumps right in.

“That’s an excellent idea,” she says, ignoring my warning glare. “Erin would love Fire Island. All that fresh air and sand.”

“And ice cream!” Ris adds enthusiastically. “And seashells! And?—”

I exhale, long and slow. My fingers loosen around the coffee mug, but my pulse kicks up.

Fire Island.

Could she?

If I asked, would she come back after the festival and before the tour?

It’s a possibility.

Or would she choose to stay in Croatia? With that heartthrob Luka.

“Time to go,” I snap, setting down my coffee and grabbing my shake. My voice is a blade, swift and unforgiving.

Ris pouts but obeys, sliding off her chair and stuffing one last syrup-soaked bite into her mouth before trudging toward the foyer.

The second she’s out of earshot, Galina strikes.

“Dmitri Alexandrovich.”

Low. Steely. Full-name treatment.

I exhale through my nose. Here we go.

“What are you doing?”

I pretend not to hear her, rinsing my mug with feigned precision.

Making sure my daughter is whole. Going to practice. Moving the fuck on.

But the silence is heavy, demanding an answer. “Taking my daughter to school,” is all I manage to say, reaching for my keys.

“Don’t play dumb.” Galina steps closer, her gaze pinning me in place. “You’re letting that girl walk away.”

I clench my jaw tightly.

“She’s an adult woman making her own choices,” I say stiffly. Detached. Controlled. “Not some…some possession I can keep.”

Galina’s expression doesn’t flicker.

“Oh?” She crosses her arms, unimpressed. “And did you ask her to stay? Give her a reason? Or did you stand there like a statue, watching her pack?”

I grind my teeth. Blood pounds at my temples.

“She’s going to Dubrovnik. Then on a tour across Europe. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“So?”

I stare at her, incredulous. “So I can’t ask her to stay, Galina.” My voice rises, frustration finally cracking through. “To give that up. Choose me—us—over her future. This girl is going places.”

Galina’s exasperation is palpable. “Who said anything about choosing?”

I shake my head. She doesn’t get it.

“It’s not that simple. Look at Ris, Galina. She’s heartbroken.”

“It’s exactly that simple.”

She steps in, voice gentling, but her piercing stare doesn’t waver.

“Dmitri, look at me.”

I do.

“Ris is heartbroken because from where she’s standing, Erin isn’t coming back. Did you tell her how you feel? Ask her to come back after the festival? After the tour?”

I swallow hard. “She’s always welcome here.”

Galina throws her hands up.

“She’s welcome here? Like a houseguest?”

She shakes her head, disgust clear on her face. “You are stubborn as a mule and twice as dense.”

“I told her?—”

“What?” Galina cuts me off, eyes flashing. “What exactly did you tell her? That you love her? That you want a life with her? That she belongs with you and Ris, no matter where she performs?”

My silence is answer enough.

Galina’s eyes soften, something like pity settling in the lines of her face.

“Oh, Dimushka.” A sigh, tired and knowing. “For such a smart man, you are being incredibly stupid.”

“This arrangement was always meant to be temporary,” I argue, but even I can hear the hollowness in my voice. “We agreed to it from the beginning. I knew that. She knew that.”

Galina lifts an eyebrow.

“Maybe. But things seem to have changed for both of you.” She waits a beat. Lets it sink in. “Or did you assume the deal is on as agreed at the beginning? Confirm it by shutting down? By letting her walk away?”

“Papa!” Ris calls from the foyer. “I can’t find my Spanish folder!”

Saved by a six-year-old.

“Coming!” I call back, but Galina’s hand on my arm stops me.

Her voice dips low. Quiet. Sharp.

“Don’t make this stupid mistake.”

I pull away, my chest tight as I stride toward the foyer. “We’re going to be late.”

She doesn’t stop me this time.

But as I help Ris find her folder—under the couch, because why wouldn’t it be there?—Galina’s words press against my ribs, heavy and unrelenting.

* * *

Back at my desk after morning skate, I stare at the open laptop in front of me

Fingers drumming against the wood.

There’s still time to fix it.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up my phone. Scroll through my Venmo transactions. Find the name I need.

Jacob Levinson.

Emma’s father.

The man who sold us Ris’s cello.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. The words aren’t fully formed yet. But doing nothing?

Not an option anymore.