Page 75 of Hate You Most

Can you feel what you do to me? she almost whispered. Because I think if I started counting the things I love about you, I’d forget how to stop.

The door clicked open and she stepped into the hallway.

The memory shattered.

Viktoriya gasped. Her breath caught painfully in her throat as tears welled up in the corners of her eyes. Her body reacted before her mind could process it. Emotion flooded her mind all at once—longing and regret so sharp that it stole the air from her lungs.

Dakota pulled back instantly.

“Hey, hey” she said softly, moving the hair away from her face. “Viktoriya.”

She hadn’t realized she was crying until Dakota’s thumb brushed her cheek. Her touch was careful.

“You’re crying,” She said gently.

Viktoriya blinked, disoriented. She touched her face, fingers coming away wet. “I—I didn’t mean to.”

Dakota shook her head. “No, no. It’s okay.”

She moved away slightly, giving Viktoriya space. “What happened?”

Viktoriya pressed her lips together. “I remembered something.”

She pulled Viktoriya into her arms, careful and sure. Viktoriya melted into the touch immediately, forehead tucked beneath Dakota’s chin, breathing slowly as she anchored herself there.

It was a fact, solid and undeniable, that Dakota Sanchez was a lesbian. That Dakota Sanchez was her wife.

And where did that leave Viktoriya? If she accepted this part of herself, she would never return to Russia. She wouldn't want to be there when her nation found out about that part of her.

It was a fact of alleged rumors and impalpable truths, that Viktoriya Volkova was a lesbian, too. She was in love with her rival. She was in love with her competitor—and she was in love with her wife. She was in love with Dakota, and she couldn't keep running from it, because it was tearing her apart from the inside out.

Dakota’s hand moved in slow, soothing circles along Viktoriya’s back, as if she understood that some nights weren’t meant for anything more than survival.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

November 28th, 2022.

— Dakota Sanchez apartment. Detroit, Michigan.

Viktoriya had been left alone in the apartment. This wasn't the first time—after all, Dakota had to go to work—but it was the first time she'd truly noticed her absence.

She was at the rink, coaching small children, and if there was an emergency she was only eleven minutes away. Dakota had asked three separate times if she would be okay alone, and Viktoriya had reassured her every time she'd been asked.

She could handle being left alone, she wasn't a child and wasn't dependent on Dakota for survival. Still, the lack of distraction that settled over the apartment once Dakota had left was heavier than she'd expected.

When Dakota was around, there was always some kind of noise: the hum of the coffee machine, the quiet scrape of a chair being pulled across the floor, or music drifting faintly from Dakota’s phone while she moved around in the kitchen. Without those sounds, the apartment was too large. The high windows that looked out over Detroit only made it worse, the skyline stretching gray and quiet in the late morning light.

Viktoriya stood by the kitchen counter for a moment, her fingers resting against the mug Dakota had used earlier. The coffee had already gone cold.

She tried to ignore the restless feeling that crept into her chest. The doctors had said she didn't need the calm environment anymore. She shouldn't overwhelm her brain, but she was free to look into anything she wanted from her past. Her memory had come in small bursts, but it was taking too long. Viktoriya was growing impatient.

She moved slowly through the apartment, without any real direction. The living room. The bedroom and the spare room. The bookshelves and chair tucked beside the large windows. Everything was neat and comfortable and carefully arranged, but it still didn’t feel like the home of two people who'd spent years building a life together.

Viktoriya had noticed that before, but she hadn’t dared say it out loud. There were books, clothes, shoes—little pieces of Dakota scattered everywhere—evidence that she clearly lived there. But Viktoriya herself barely seemed to exist in the space. A few sweaters and pairs of leggings in the dresser. A pair of sneakers next to the door, and her worn skates beside them. Nothing else.

No photographs. No framed memories. No wedding pictures. For two people who were supposedly married and in love, the apartment strangely lacked their shared life.

Viktoriya stopped beside the couch and folded her arms loosely across her chest. She stared out at the skyline again. She was losing her mind in the quiet.