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The thought shocks me back into reality. I have absolutely no reason to wonder something like that aboutLevin,of all men, and just thinking it is dangerous. Getting close to him, wondering things about him, letting myself haveanythoughts that aren’t how I can bring all of this to as swift an end as possible, is dangerous.
I have to focus on the task at hand, not wondering what Levin is like as a romantic partner.
Bistro L’Flor was one of Grisha’s and my favorite spots when we first started dating, a French restaurant that’s designed to look like a small, rustic café while actually serving some of the finest food in Moscow. Grisha liked it because of his expensive taste, I liked it because of how small and quaint and cozy it felt. The building exterior is rough-hewn stone, with a dark shingle roof, and café tables out front with a wrought-iron fence around the patio. Both Grisha and I always preferred to eat inside, though, so I know that’s where I’ll find him.
By the time I walk the block from where the cab dropped me off, I’m cold down to my bones, enough for the relief of the warm restaurant to help overshadow my nerves. Inside it’s fairly busy, with the chatter of guests at the round wooden tables filling the space. The hostess sees me immediately, and to my surprise, recognizes me. Although I shouldn’t be that surprised, I suppose—Grisha and I had a standing weekly reservation here, and sometimes came more often than that.
“Ms. Petrovna.” She smiles pleasantly at me. “Your table is ready, I’ll take you there.”
It’s our usual table, one of the ones closest to the roaring stone fireplace. Part of the rustic “charm” of the furnishings in Bistro L’Flor is that none of the velvet-cushioned chairs are the same color. The ones at “our” table are a deep blue, the reason Grisha claimed he chose this table specifically when he first brought me here, that and because the proximity to the fire was romantic. Right now, the fire feels life-saving, I’m actually almost able to feel my fingers again.
I don’t think I could ever get used to being treated like this—even if Grisha and I had dated for years, married, grown old together. Not that that was a possibility, ever—I know that now. But it still feels so strange to have a hostess recognize me, to have a dedicated table at a restaurant, the same way it felt strange to have a driver take us everywhere, a maid cleaning up after my things, and a dozen other small things that reminded me on a daily basis that Grisha and I came fromverydifferent lives.
“Lidiya!Dorogoy!”Darling.Grisha stands up the second he sees me, coming around the side of the table and clutching his gloved hands around mine instantly. It seems as if he’s almost going to go in for a kiss before he stops himself, pulling back and clearing his throat. “I’m so glad you came,” he says, and his voice sounds sincere enough that I might almost believe him, if I didn’t know so much now. “I’ve missed you,dorogoy.”
“We have a lot to talk about, Grisha,” I say carefully. “I didn’t want to leave things the way we did, though.”
“Neither did I.” He looks almost earnest, standing there in front of me. He’s as handsome as ever, dressed in charcoal suit trousers and a soft dark green sweater, his dark blonde hair freshly cut short and his blue-grey eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that makes me want to take a step back. His face is shaved smooth, and I remember all too well what it felt like under the palm of my hand, touching his cheek as he kissed me in a dozen different places all over Moscow, two dozen even, three.
We’d had a whirlwind romance, Grisha and I, and it should have ended the moment I found out he was married. But here I am.
He pulls out the chair for me and I sink into it. “I took the liberty of ordering our usual bottle of wine,” he tells me. “I hope that’s alright. I just—I wanted it to feel like before. Like—”
“Why?” The word slips out of my mouth with more honesty than I’d meant it to—deep down, I really do want to know why. Why Grisha would do this to me, why he would do it to his wife, what made him think this wasokay.
Grisha looks up at me as he pours our wine, his mouth opening as if to answer, but before he can the waiter appears, fresh-faced and eager to take our order.
“Can I start you off with some appetizers?” He looks between the two of us, his smile fading slightly as he senses the tension.
“The Gruyere onion soup for me,” Grisha says, “and escargot. Lidiya?”
“Um—pickled shallot salad.” I’d meant to order something different from my usual, but it’s the first thing I blurt out.
“Very good.” The waiter gives us a bright smile, leaving quickly as Grisha swirls the wine in his glass, looking at me.
“I wish I had a simple answer for you, Lidiya. It’s complex. My wife and I haven’t been on good terms for many years, but I’ve stayed because we have children. There’s still affection there, of course, but not the kind of love we once had. We’re very different people, she and I. It’s part of why we live separately now, for the most part. During the week the children are in school, and I can stay in the city where I prefer to be, while she can stay out at the country house where she’s happiest. On the weekends we go back to the family home, and pretend that everything is alright, for their sake. It’s our arrangement, until they’re old enough to leave home, and then—”
“And then what? You divorce? She doesn’t seem to understand there’s an arrangement, or want a divorce. She definitely didn’t seem to think you had some kind of open marriage—”
“Well, no,” Grisha hedges. “She doesn’t want to divorce, not even when the children are older. She thinks that the marriage can still be fixed.”
“She still loves you.” Even as hurt and angry as I am, even with how I feel about Grisha now, it still hurts to say out loud. “Of course she wants to fix it.”
“Love has to go both ways. And I don’t love her any longer. But Lidiya—” Grisha looks at me, his eyes full of emotion. “I’d resigned myself to a loveless, cold marriage. I didn’t dare hope for more. But then I met you—and I couldn’t help myself. You were so vibrant, alive—at that museum function where we met, so passionate about your work. So beautiful. I felt as if I loved you instantly, and I couldn’t bear not to be with you. You felt like a second chance, a breath of fresh air, and I—”
I hold up my hand, feeling my chest tighten. Luckily the waiter arrives at just that moment with our appetizers, setting them down with a flourish.
“Aremonsieurandmadameready to order?” he asks, and Grisha frowns.
“Lidiya?”
I haven’t even looked at the menu, but it doesn’t matter. I know it by heart, I’ve read it a dozen times. “I’ll have the duck with blueberry sauce,” I tell him, forcing my voice not to crack. My usual, again.
“I’ll have the lamb,” Grisha says. “But no rush on the entrees.”
“Of course.”
When the waiter is gone again, Grisha looks at me, reaching out to touch my hand. It takes everything in me not to snatch it back. “Lidiya—”
