"It does. Tremendously."
Before I can respond with something appropriately cutting, my phone rings. Not a text this time—an actual call. From a New York number I don't recognize.
I answer cautiously. "Kade."
"Mr. Kade!" The voice is bright, enthusiastic, and vaguely familiar in a way that makes my spine straighten. "This is Trevor from the Game Over Chapel of Eternal Love! We're so thrilled that your wedding video went viral! We'd love to feature you and Harper in our new ad campaign—'Love Levels Up at Game Over!' We're thinking billboards, maybe a Super Bowl commercial?—"
I hang up as Christian and Roman are both staring at me.
"This is exactly why I’ve never gotten married,” I say flatly.
Roman loses it. He's laughing so hard he has to set down his scotch before he spills it. Christian is trying not to grin, and he’s practically turning red.
“I’m glad you fuckers find my misfortune entertaining,” I nearly grow.
"It's so entertaining,” Christian manages between laughs.
"You're going to be on a billboard," Roman wheezes. "You. The Ice Prince. On a billboard for a gaming chapel."
"Over my dead body."
"'Love Levels Up,'" Christian quotes. "Oh my god, that's perfect."
"I'm getting new friends."
"No you're not," Roman says, recovering slightly. "We're the only ones who put up with you."
I signal the waiter for another bourbon, as my phone rings again.
"Jesus," Christian swears. "You should get married more often. This is the most action your phone's gotten in years."
I flip him off and look at the screen.
BABUSHKA KATYA
Fuck. I let it go to voicemail.
It rings again immediately.
"That your grandmother?" Christian asks, glancing at the screen.
"In the annoying but lovable flesh."
The phone keeps ringing, and Roman laughs. "Might as well answer it. She's just going to keep calling."
With an exhale and an impending sense of doom, I answer. "Babushka."
"Vitya!" Her voice fills my ear, warm and sharp. "Where have you been? You have been hiding from me. Luckily, I saw the video of you and your Harper woman! Your new wife!”
"Babushka, she's not my?—"
"She has beautiful voice. Like sparrow in morning. And she looks polite. Very polite. Not like those terrible girls your mother try to set you up with."
"This isn't?—"
"This Sunday, six o'clock. You bring her to my apartment. I make pelmeni. And borscht. And blini. She needs to eat. She is too skinny."
"You haven't even seen her in person."
