She's also holding a black cat. A very large, very fluffy black cat wearing what appears to be a tiny black cape.
I blink. "Um. Hello."
"You are late!" Babushka says, but she's smiling. "Come, come! Vitya is already here, useless in kitchen as always."
She steps back, and I enter the apartment.
Despite the external gleam and personality-less trimmings in the lobby, the place itself is exactly what you'd expect from a Russian grandmother who's lived in Brooklyn for decades.
Lace doilies on every surface. Religious icons on the walls. Nearly four hundred framed photos.
And the overwhelming smell of something delicious cooking.
I breathe in the fragrant, flinching when the cat in Victor’s grandmother’s arms rears back and hisses at me.
"This is Rasputin," Babushka says proudly. "He is very dramatic. Like his namesake."
"He's... wearing a cape," I creak out.
"Of course! Is Wednesday. Wednesday is cape day."
"Obviously."
Rasputin hisses again and squirms out of Babushka's arms, landing on the floor with surprising grace for something that looks like a furry potato with attitude. He stalks off toward the kitchen, cape billowing behind him like he's the villain in a very small, very weird movie.
"Come!" Babushka takes the wine from my hands without looking at it and links her arm through mine like we've known each other for years. "Vitya! Your wife is here!"
I'm pulled into a kitchen that's about the size of my entire apartment.
Victor is standing by the stove, looking absurdly tall and out of place in the tiny space, wearing jeans and a grey sweater that makes him look less like a CEO and more like a very attractive, very confused person who accidentally wandered into someone's grandmother's kitchen.
As tall, dark and brooding as ever, he finally turns to me, sheet-gray eyes meeting mine, as something passes across his face. Relief? Panic? Mild indigestion?
"Harper," he rumbles.
"Victor," I reply, because apparently we've regressed to an awkward roll call.
"Good! You remember each other!" Babushka says. "Sometimes couples forget after Vegas." She pats my arm. "Tequila is powerful enemy of memory."
Victor closes his eyes like he's praying for patience.
"Now," Babushka continues, completely unbothered, "Harper, you help Vitya with pelmeni. He is folding them wrong. Too much air. They will explode in pot."
"They're not going to explode—" Victor starts.
"They explode! Last time, I find dumpling on ceiling for three days!"
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Victor notices and glares at me.
"Something funny?" he asks.
"No.” I clear my throat, nodding. "Exploding dumplings are very serious."
Babushka hands me an apron—this one says "GOOD FOOD, GOOD MOOD, GOOD ATTITUDE"—and gently pushes me toward the counter where Victor is standing next to a pile of dumpling wrappers and a bowl of meat filling.
"You work together," she says firmly. "Marriage is teamwork. Like making pelmeni. Too much filling, disaster. Too little filling, sad. Must be balanced."
"That's... very philosophical," I say.
