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I approach the line, glancing across the street at the fancier row of cars waiting for particular passengers.
And then freeze, my heartbeat pounding in my ears like a percussion drum.
My fingers loosen on the strap of my bag. I almost drop the small piece of luggage, barely clenching my hand in time to keep it from falling.
Nick is leaning against the side of his favorite car, watching the flow of traffic leave the airport with his arms crossed. There’s an invisible bubble around him. Despite the busy street and sidewalk, the hustle and bustle of activity, no one walks near him.
I glance around for an omnipresent SUV, for Grigoriy or Roman to be standing around on standby or as security.
Nothing.
Nick is here, alone, and I’m confused.
I approach him cautiously, half worried this is a prank sleep deprivation is playing on me.
But the closer I get, the clearer Nick becomes.
“Privyet.”
One dark brow arches, followed by a rapid flurry of Russian.
“That’s all I know,” I admit.
Nick looks like he’s fighting a smile.
“Yet.”
“Yet,” Nick repeats, rolling the single syllable.
I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t know if I’m making the right decision. And all that not knowing has coalesced in the pit of my stomach, dragging me down every day like an anchor. I need to stop assuming and start asking.
Wind blows, the cold cutting through me like a sharp blade. It’s frigid and dark, no trace of anything but frostiness in the air. Or emanating from the man in front of me.
He does shrug his heavy coat off though and drapes it around my shoulders. It smells like his cologne, spicy and expensive.
“Spasibo,” I say, using up the rest of my Russian vocabulary.
“Are you hungry?”
“I…yes.”
I’m waiting for Nick to ask what I’m doing here, but he doesn’t. He nods and takes the bag from me before getting in the driver’s seat.
I steal glances at his profile as we drive away from the airport and into the city, inhaling the scent of his spicy cologne. He’s acting like this was a planned visit, like this was an expected arrival. It’s thrown me for a loop, to say the least.
Since I’ve put as much planning into what I’ll say to him as I have into the rest of the trip—none—I stay silent as we drive. If he wants to act like this is normal, maybe some of the knots in my stomach will untangle themselves. I focus on the sprawling architecture of the city instead until we stop in front of a stone building with carved archways and scrolling accents.
Based on the way the valet starts fumbling and tripping over himself, he recognizes Nick. The same is true for the hostess who meets us inside the glass doors, although her appraisal is more appreciative than fearful.
“I’m not dressed for this,” I whisper to Nick as we weave through the center of the restaurant. Not only am I wearing jeans, I’m wearing jeans that have been through fifteen hours of travel and a black tea spillage. Most of the women here are wearing silk evening gowns and fur wraps.
“You look beautiful,” Nick tells me, placing a palm on my lower back and guiding me toward the back of the restaurant.
He sounds like he means it, and it flusters me. So does the fact that it feels like everyone is looking at us. I can’t understand any of the chatter or even the soft music playing in the background. I’m especially attuned to the body language and the atmosphere, noticing every head that turns our way. Each tilt and whisper.
Nick ushers me into a private room, and I feel like I can properly breathe again. The sense of comfort is leached away though once I realize we’re alone, tucked away, out of sight.
“This place is nice,” I say, eyeing the framed prints on the walls so I don’t have to look directly at him.
