Page 130 of The Pucking Arrangement

I never knew I wanted this, not until it was here, staring me down.

Until I was waking up to Dmitri’s warmth, drowning in the way he looked at me, caught up in Ris’s giggles, her tiny fingers plucking out melodies beside me.

It’s not just leaving them behind that guts me. It’s knowing that he let me go so easily. That he didn’t fight for me.

The music swells beneath my fingers.

An aria about love and sacrifice, and it hits way too close to home.

My bow trembles slightly as I reach the climax, but I force myself to stay present, to do justice to what might be my last morning practice in this room.

This room where I fell in love with them both.

This room where I’m playing myself out the door.

My phone lights up on the piano. Another message from Luka about rehearsals and travel logistics. We’re leaving in three weeks, but I ignore it for now, just like I’m ignoring the half-packed suitcase waiting for me upstairs. Just like I’m ignoring how Dmitri barely even flinched when I told him about Dubrovnik, how careful he’s around me when he’s here. Keeping his distance during the day, pulling me into his bed at night like he’s starved for me, like we could stretch this out just a little longer.

It sounds incredible.

That was it. NoI’ll miss you,nomaybe I could visit,nomaybe you could come to Fire Island in August.Just easy, effortless acceptance, like he’s already made peace with the fact that we’re going our separate ways. Like he resigned to this unraveling.

Maybe he is. And maybe I should be too.

The doorbell chimes, and my stomach launches into a full-blown Olympic gymnastics routine.

She’s here.

I lower my bow, my hands unsteady.

This is ridiculous. She’s the mother of his late wife, not some ex here to stake a claim. But still, she’s family.Realfamily. The kind that shares history, memories, the quiet, unspoken things about Dmitri and Ris that I’ll never fully understand.

And me? What am I, exactly? The nanny who overstepped? The girl who wandered into their lives and forgot she had an expiry date?

Footsteps echo in the foyer. Dmitri’s low murmur. Ris’s excited chatter. And then:

“Babushka!”

The music room door swings open, and?—

Oh.

Galina Petrovna Antonova steps inside like she’s making an entrance on a grand stage—head high, shoulders poised, moving with the grace of someone who has spent a lifetime perfecting control. Her silver hair is swept into a flawless French twist, her clothing elegant in that understated, European kind of way.

But it’s her posture that catches me. The precise turnout of her feet. The way her arms settle in that impossibly light, lifted position, like she could take flight at any moment.

Once a ballerina, always a ballerina.

Ris hurls herself into her grandmother’s arms, and Galina lifts her with unexpected strength—the kind of power found in ballet dancers, deceptively strong despite their delicate frames.

“My little star! Let me look at you!” She holds Ris at arm’s length, her sharp, assessing gaze soft with delight. “You’ve grown so tall! And these curls—just like your mama’s.”

Dmitri watches them with a rare, unguarded expression, something in him easing as Galina peppers Ris with kisses. The way they move together speaks of years of familiarity, of a bond woven deep with history.

“Still terrorizing your students with your impossible standards?” Dmitri teases.

Galina swats his arm, the motion fond. “Someone must maintain excellence,” she sniffs, though her eyes dance with amusement. “And you? Still breaking hearts on the ice?”

“Only the opposing team’s bones,” he drawls, but his gaze flicks to me, and my entire body goes hot.

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