Page 87 of The Nanny Goal

Once we’re all settled around the table, Emery turns to my dad. “How do you say bon appetit in Russian?”

“Priyatnogo appetita,” he says quickly, then slows it down.

She repeats the syllables, then speeds it up. Her accent is unmistakably American, but the effort is A+.

I want to know what else she’d like to learn in Russian.

Beside me, Inessa picks up a purple carrot and dabs it in her special pink dip and then tries feeding it to Forrest. He plays along. Emery watches them, one elbow on the table, eyes bright.

For a second, it feels like the last two years didn’t happen, that we’re on an alternate timeline where this isourtable. Our family, combined, instead of two families connected primarily by hockey and crisis.

And then Emery’s mother turns to me with a big, wide smile and says, “And how is Tatyana, Alexei?”

Emery’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth.

As if I needed a clearer reminder from the universe aboutwhyour two families will never be one. Regret churns in my chest as I force a polite smile. “She’s fine, I believe. We haven’t spoken recently.”

“Because she is infantile,” my mother adds in Russian. “She only cares about her jet-setting yacht life.”

“Mama.”

“What? I almost died. I can say what I think now and you can’t stop me.”

My father laughs. “She has a point.”

“Excuse us for speaking in Russian,” I say to the Grangers.

“I’m sure it’s very complicated,” Emery says under her breath, and if nobody else notices the jealousy-tinged sarcasm, that’s a miracle.

I narrow my eyes at her. She knows exactly how complicated it is, because I bloody well told her.

My mother keeps going in Russian. “You don’t need to be polite about her to these people. They are like family.”

I wish they were.

But the way a simple dinner has so quickly gone off the rails, I don’t have much hope of that happening. My chance for that was two years ago and I blew it.

“Rice?” Emery asks brightly, picking up the bowl and passing it along.

I wish I’d sat next to her, so I could take it from her and make sure our fingers brush in the contact.

I crave connection with her and am irritated that tomorrow’s game has brought everyone here, when we could otherwise have a quiet night together.

How many of those will we have before she leaves us behind?

Not enough.

I grab the salad, following her lead. I take some, then pass it along, and everyone follows suit. Our plates fill with the delicious dinner, and the conversation turns to the game tomorrow, and the rest of the season.

* * *

I’m on edge until everyone is gone. My parents have retired for the night. Emery’s family has left for the hotel.

Now it’s just the three of us.

Inessa has brought her favourite blanket to the edge of the living room, where the carpet stops before the kitchen tile, and she’s spread it out for some of her toys to have a rest. Tucking them in for the night as she hums to herself.

Emery moves around the kitchen, barefoot and quiet, scraping plates and loading the dishwasher. A few wavy strands of hair have tumbled free from her braids.

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