Page 102 of Notes About Vodka

I fire off a text to Tony, telling him I’ll be in to pick up mythings tomorrow. It’s a big decision, but it’s one I don’t even have to think about.

Cooking dinner gives me a sense of purpose. I make one of her favorites: baked chicken, roasted vegetables, and gnocchi with pesto.

It’s half for Laura, even though she will never see it… I can’t help myself, cooking is my stress relief, especially when I’m imagining I’m taking care of Laura. The half is for Rhea when she gets back from her trip with Sebastian later tonight and I pick them up from the airport, but mostly it’s for myself—a reminder that I’m here, that I’m trying, that I still want to be here when Laura returns home.

The smell fills the apartment, and for a moment, it feels a little less empty.

The kitchen is filled with the familiar scents of home—beets, garlic, dill—all of it swirling together as I chop, stir, and sauté, making food I grew up with. I’ve been at it for hours now, hoping that each dish carries something more than flavor. Hoping it’ll speak what I haven’t managed to say the past few days.

Blini are on the counter, golden crepes stuffed with caviar and smetana. Pelmeni sit beside them, small dumplings filled with tender meat and steaming with the butter drizzled on top. The borscht simmers, earthy and vibrant, its deep crimson reminding me of countless family dinners back home. And for dessert, syrniki—soft, warm cheese pancakes drizzled with honey and garnished with the berries I know Laura loves. I imagine her smile when she sees everything, laughing when I tell her it took all day.But she won’t will she Val, because you were an asshole and fucked up.

I ended up cooking more than planning, but it’s all I know to do while I’m stuck in this silence.

The apartment is quiet, too quiet, it’s almost violent.

I set the table, smooth the napkins, rearrange the silverware, as if perfect details could somehow bridge this strange gap that’s settled between us. I know this doesn’t matter, that Laura won’t be home to see this, to sit with me here…but I had to do something.

My phone is heavy in my pocket, and every few minutes I pull it out, hoping to see a message from her.

Nothing.

Me: I made dinner. Russian food tonight—borscht, blini, and your favorite dumplings. And a million other things. Miss you.

I wait a little longer, looking around the empty apartment and half-listening to the silence. When she doesn’t reply, I send another, shorter message, hoping for something, anything.

Me: Hope you’re okay, Laura baby. We don’t have to talk about the other night, I just…want to see you. Call me, please?

My phone stays silent.

In the end, I text Skipper, feeling a twinge of guilt but needing to know something. I just want to know she’s alright.

Me: Hey, do you know if she’s okay? Just want to know if she’s safe.

A few minutes later, the phone buzzes, and I grab it, a breath catching in my chest. Skip’s reply is quick but enough to fill in the blanks.

Skipper: She’s safe. Laura’s spending time with her grandparents. Her grandpa took her mini-golfing this morning. She’s helping out with her grandma—it’s a lot with her having Alzheimer’s.

I read his message over again, the relief washing over me, but it does little to lift the ache in my chest. I picture Laura with her grandparents, sinking into a place of familiarity and care that I haven’t been fully invited into yet. She needs this, Itell myself. Her family. Time away from my mistakes, from the fight I let spiral until she walked out.

And I’m left here with a table full of food she may never see, realizing that everything I should have said out loud is somehow laid bare in these dishes. For now, all I can do is wait and hope that, whenever she’s ready, she’ll come back to this meal, to me, and find something of home waiting for her here.

The laptop screen flickers to life, and soon my parents' faces fill the screen—my mother adjusting her scarf, my father squinting at the camera, like he’s still not convinced it isn’t just a window that can somehow see him back.

“Valik!” My mother’s voice is a little distorted over the connection, but the warmth cuts through. “You look good, but too thin. Are you eating anything other than this girl’s cooking?”

“Yes, Mama,” I laugh, holding back from telling her I just spent the whole day making enough food to feed a whole family. “And actually… About this girl, Laura, I wanted to talk to you about her.”

My dad, who’s been listening silently, gives me a nod and a smirk. “Finally, he talks. You’ve been keeping her too much of a mystery, Valya.”

I chuckle. “I know… And I’m sorry. But, she’s…amazing. The best thing that’s happened to me since moving here.”

They both smile, and my mother leans in closer, practically nose-to-screen. “She makes you happy, I can see that. But is she good to you?”

I think about all the things we’ve been through, the long hours at the bar, late-night talks, and even the recent fight. “Yes,Mama. She is. Even on her hard days, she’s kind, thoughtful. She challenges me to be better, keeps me grounded. And you know, there’s this couple who come into the new bar, Elizabeth and Tony. They both swear up and down that anyone can see I’m in love with Laura.”

My dad lets out a low chuckle. “Good! Someone ought to point it out to you, Mr. Secretive. We’d already guessed!”

“Da, Valik, we can see it right here,” my mother chimes in, poking at the screen. “So? When are you going to bring her to us? I want to see this girl who makes you cook so much borscht!”

---