Page 2 of Notes About Vodka

“I know,” I nod, tears falling freely now. “And that’s the problem. I have been telling you this for a long time now.”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident. “What! But why now? Why like this?”

“Because you’re never here. You’re always over there,” I say, my voice steady. “I need more than an occasional phone call or a fleeting visit. I need a partner, someone who’s present, who cares.”

“I can't believe this is happening,” he says, his voice breaking. “I thought... I thought we were fine.”

“I’ve been trying to make you see. But you’ve beenso focused on your own life, your own goals. I can’t keep living like this.”

“This isn’t fair, you are coming out of left field. I feel like you’re gaslighting me.”

“I’m not gaslighting you!” I yell. “That’s half the problem, you never listen to me, so when you actually do, you only hear partial pieces of the conversation. You tell me all the time that the worst thing in the world is to be ignored, that it gives the most pain. Yet, you have ignored me for years!”

“Fine. You want out? Then get out! Pack your things and leave. I don’t care where you go—your dad’s trailer, a motel, anywhere but here!” he roars, slamming his hand against the counter with a resounding thud. His fists tremble, veins bulging against his skin, and his breath comes in sharp, ragged bursts as if the weight of his anger might shatter him. “You don’t belong here anymore!”

I square my shoulders, refusing to be intimidated. “I’m not going anywhere,” I say firmly, my breath steady despite the fire in my chest—a burning mix of defiance, hurt, and an unyielding need to hold onto what’s mine, no matter how much it scorches me. “I own half this house. Half the restaurant. You don’t get to decide when I leave.” My voice hardens. “We started this together, we’ll end this together.”

For a moment, we stare at each other, memories of late-night confessions and promises made in the dark crashing into the uncertain future hanging between us. Then, slowly, he reaches across the bar, his brows furrowed and eyes glistening with unshed tears, taking my hand in his with a trembling grip that speaks of both fear and longing. For him, it’s a silent plea for forgiveness, a desperate attempt to hold onto something slipping away. For me, it’s a lifeline tethering me to the past, even as the future threatens to pull us apart. It’s a gesture of comfort, of finality.

The end of one chapter and the uncertain beginning of another.

“Okay,” he says softly, his voice breaking with a fragile mix of resignation and hope, as though surrendering to the truth that no matter how much he wants to fight, some things are already broken beyond repair.

And then he repeats again, “Okay.”

Chapter One

VAL

"The word 'vodka' comes from the Slavic word ‘voda', which means water, reflecting its clear, pure appearance."

Pianissimois the kind of place you could easily miss if you aren’t paying attention, but once you’re inside, the world fades into the soft glow of candlelight, the gentle hum of piano keys, and raspy voices from the wait staff. Many who are hoping to become famous here in the Big Apple. Others are just using their talents to scrape by and survive the dirty streets.Pianissimosits tucked between the looming skyscrapers of Manhattan. Its sleek black awning blends into the cityscape. The marquee lights are off, but the sun hits it just right, bouncing off the deep red letters. The cursive writing is bold, yet understated.

For those passing by and notice the deception behind the broken wooden shutters to the weathered glass, it's like a silent invitation into classy, underground New York City.

Outside, the noise of the city thrums to its own beat of fast paced business, but here, it’s like stepping into another rhythm, one that pulses slower, more deliberate, beneath the racing heart of upper Manhattan’s city dwellers.

The sunshine glares into my eyes, forcing me to squint as I slip the keys to my MazdaSpeed6 into my pocket. It's dark gray, sleek, a high-performance sedan with turbocharged power and a rare gem that stands out among the usual city cars. It's one of only 3,000 made in the U.S., and I couldn’t help but purchase one on a random road trip to Atlantic City when my best friend Alexei came to visit from the Motherland a couple of years ago. It felt like fate, seeing it parked on the used car lot, as if it were waiting for me.

My pride swells as I rub my thumb over the key fob. What feels even more exclusive is having a car in New York City and actually being able to afford parking for it. This machine, with its powerful precision, is proof that my decision to stay in America has been a good one. A lucrative one.

It’s not easy to maintain balance here, but I thrive in a city where most people are lucky if they can get around without hailing a cab. The challenges make the successes that much sweeter.

I grin to myself as I light a cigarette I pulled from my pocket.

Arriving atPianissimoa little earlier than my usual 2 p.m. shift, I take my time walking along the sidewalk, taking in the energy of the street as I blow smoke rings into the air. Stretching my neck side to side, I hear a satisfying pop underneath the leather jacket I have on over my bartender uniform. A black button down over black slacks, the outfit matches how I feel all of the time.

With a sigh, I flick my cigarette to the curb, knowing that in a few minutes, I’ll be swapping the comfort of worn leather forthe stiff, stifling weight of a suit coat. It’s too hot for layers, especially this time of year, and the tie I’ll have to knot at my throat will feel more like a noose. I know I look good in the full suit—better than good, if I’m being honest—but that doesn’t mean I have to like wearing it. One day I’ll find a place where I can dress more casually for work. Until then, I sigh.

I push my hand through my dark brown—almost black—hair as I reach the entrance. Taking a moment to look back over my shoulder, I gaze into the August sky before I’m stuck inside these walls for the next twelve plus hours.

It’s hot as Hades in the city but there’s not a damn cloud in sight; I’m sure this heat has translated inside the building because it has been the hottest summer I’ve ever experienced. The humidity is suffocating, the kind that sticks to your skin and follows you around like an unwelcome shadow. It’s as if the incoming rain has already pushed its way into the Manhattan streets, even though the weather man says we are not due for any storms until later in the week. With the long days continuing for another couple of months, it's not going to cool off anytime soon—I fucking hate it. I’m ready for colder days and snow covering the ground, the kind of cold that numbs your face, freezes your fingertips, and makes you feel alive.

Taking a final puff, I quickly stamp out my cigarette before going inside. Picking up the butt from the sidewalk, I dispose of it in a nearby trash can. Only then do I finally open the door, take in a long deep breath, and step into the walls ofPianissimo.

The familiar scene of the piano bar greets me as I enter. This place once was my haven.

Most nights I find comfort within the dim interior. I love the warm lighting, the polished wooden surfaces that smell like almonds, the sound of glasses clinking, and the piano keysbeing played. It's a comforting soundtrack, and one that has become as much a part of my life as the heartbeat in my chest.

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