Page 32 of Your Sharpest Edge
Dimitri had left this week with whatever sidepiece he had, which I only knew because he’d been bragging to Dirks about it in the locker room after our last game. The thought of her being alone while he was off with someone else gnawed at me. I didn’t want her to be by herself, so I canceled my plans to go home and decided to stay with her, hoping she’d come over or at least reach out. Here we were, out of the comfort of the apartment, and I had no idea how to act.
My mind raced as she sat across from me in the booth. Expressing what I was feeling without crossing the line seemed impossible. Every time I looked at her, words got stuck in my throat. I wanted to tell her I was here for her, that I would alwaysbe there for her, but it was hard to convey that without sounding like I wanted more. Which I did, of course, but she couldn’t know. Not now, not in this way. The private booth in the back of the small restaurant felt more like a confessional than a safe haven.
I glanced at her, searching for the right words, but the only thought in my mind was how much I wanted to protect her from the pain she was enduring. The silence between us grew heavier with each passing second. She seemed lost in her thoughts, and I grappled with what I could say to reassure her, to make her smile, but the words wouldn’t come.
“It smells delicious in here,” Anastasia finally said.
The restaurant was only a couple blocks from the house, and it fit no more than ten tables inside. It was packed, and every single person was staring because of the work of art I was wearing.
“It’s my favorite.”
What a dumb thing to say.
As we perused the menu, I found myself mesmerized by the way her delicate hands traced the lines of the pages. The desire to reach out and intertwine our fingers was almost overwhelming.
The waitress came by, and Anastasia went first.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” she replied, handing her menu off.
“Two chicken lo mein plates, please,” I responded promptly.
The waitress wrote our orders down and left. I felt stuck again, unsure of where to even begin, but then she leaned over the table.
“Everyone is staring at the shirt,” she whispered.
A smirk spread across my face as I matched her gesture and leaned in.
“It’s because it’s a work of art. Something they’ve never seen before.”
She leaned back and chuckled. “Yeah, definitely something they haven’t seen.”
The restaurant was tucked on a street that felt almost like an alleyway or passage to another street. Cars weren’t allowed to park or drive down the street, so aside from the occasional passerby at this late hour, it was pretty empty.
“Thanks for wearing it though.”
I looked down, tugging at one of the empty holes sticking out on my chest. “What? This ole thing? I’d wear it every day. An Anastasia Sokolov classic.”
Her smile fell from her face as she looked back at me. “Sokolov.”
I furrowed my brows in confusion. “Your last name?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “My maiden name is Ilyiana.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” I offered.
“It is.” She laughed. “My best friend Layla, who moved out here with me, would always laugh because her last name is Ilyian, so we always said we were like sisters separated at birth or rather by a rogue lettera.”
“Do you ever talk to her?”
“Layla?” She asked, and I nodded.
“No. Not really. She’s super busy up in LA now...”
Something told me it had more to do with her husband not allowing it.
“Isn’t your competition coming up?” I asked, remembering that she was competing in an individual skate locally. The prize wasn’t the best, but it was a way for her to get her foot into this new space.
“Yes. I’m so excited about it.” She pointed to my shirt. “I just hope my ice-skating skills surpass my sewing abilities.”
