“Good thing you’re home and hearing this from me instead of the local gossip queens,” Nadia pants as she flops onto a chair, snatching a pastry from the table. “I ran all the way from the bus stop, starving and mad as a stray dog. …Oh, my favorite—potato and dill!” She lifts her big brown eyes to mine, her gaze filled with sympathy. “Polly, Ruslan’s back.”
I freeze for a moment, struck by an inner thunderclap, gripping the soft dough so hard it squishes between my fingers… just like the memories of my ex-husband seeping through. I don’t want to think about him, but memory is relentless, finding every crack to slip through, and suddenly his last message flashes before my eyes:
“I’ve got someone else. Sorry…”
I didn’t forgive him. Didn’t even try. Instead, I saved that message to remember the pain he caused, to smother my love for him with hatred. Even now, five years later, I sometimes reread those few words, searing the wound anew. Five years! Yet the mere mention of his name brings a sharp pang, as if it all happened yesterday. Ruslan left me without explanation, without even looking me in the eye. He just vanished, and a week later, I got that pathetic text. He turned off his phone, and no one—not friends, not distant relatives—knew where he’d gone. They just shrugged with pity. We were even divorced without my consent; first, I got an email notification, then a thick envelope in my mailbox. We had no shared property, and Ruslan didn’t know I was pregnant at the time.
My first love… we were together for just six months, though I’d been smitten with him since high school, always swooning over the guy who lived across from our neighbor. Ruslan was seven years older, barely noticing me until one day, after I’d started community college, he offered to take me for a ride on his motorcycle…
Nadia was a witness at our wedding, later became godmother to my son, and has always been there when I felt like howling but held myself together with every ounce of strength. I’m not the kind of woman whose broken heart strips life of meaning. No, I won’t let a man trample me, rip out my soul, and wipe his feet on my pride. They’re not worth a woman’s tears—at least not the ones who act as cowardly and despicably as he did. I loved him so much… I never suspected he was capable of something like this. It didn’t seem like my Ruslan. And I still can’t fathom how someone could whisper sweet nothings in my ear in the morning and pack a bag to disappear by evening…
“I guess it was bound to happen eventually,” I reply in a hollow voice, avoiding Nadia’s eyes. “His family’s here, his parents’ graves are here. I just hope he’s not staying long and our paths don’t cross.”
“Yeah, family who’s convinced you went wild and got yourself knocked up the second Ruslan bailed. I can just imagine the stories they’ll spin for him,” Nadia mutters, stuffing the last bite of pastry into her mouth and reaching for another. “By the way, he didn’t come back alone. He’s with some floozy. They were walking arm in arm along the boardwalk. When he saw me, his face changed instantly… what a jerk.”
“Nadia, I don’t care. He’s been a stranger to me for a long time.”
“He’s Yegor’s father. And if you don’t want Ruslan finding out, you need to agree to a date with Marat. Especially now, Polly. Don’t make that face—think about it seriously!”
“You can’t pull off a fierce look with your mouth full,” I sigh, shaking my head. “I’m not the least bit in love with Marat. My heart doesn’t even skip a beat for him. And our weird meeting on the beach? I don’t think it’s some cosmic sign. How can you kiss a man you don’t love?”
“Easy!” Nadia bursts out. “Especially if you know that man will be your rock. Love comes later—that’s the easy part. But he’s smart, gorgeous as a Greek god, loaded, owns three upscale resorts, a restaurant chain, and some other big business. Women flock to him on the beach like seagulls to a picnic!”
“Exactly. Why would I want a guy who’s got a new girl every day? He’ll play with me and toss me aside. Am I my own worst enemy?”
“Yes, Polly, you are your own worst enemy,” Nadia says, fortified by pastries and ready to argue her point. “You could’ve had a brilliant future. You were invited for an internship in France! France, for heaven’s sake! Because you cook like a dream, you’ve got a God-given talent. One day, you could’ve been the head chef at some famous European restaurant. And what did you do instead? You gave up on yourself and now you’re making pastries that your mom sells to tourists on the beach all day.”
“Because we need to survive and raise a child. I didn’t give up on myself—I chose my son over a career. I don’t like where this conversation is going, Nadia. You’re implying I should sell myself to Marat just to live the high life, since he’s apparently generous and likes women who throw themselves at him,” I snap, taking out my frustration on the dough.
“Why are you getting so worked up? Plenty of women are ready to throw themselves at him—I wouldn’t say no myself—but for some reason, he’s set on getting your attention, Polly. Don’t be a fool! Fate is handing you a chance, and you’re still wallowing and chewing on your misery. Maybe the guy’s genuinely head over heels for you?”
“Oh, don’t talk nonsense. Guys like him don’t fall in love!” I head to the stove, and Nadia trails after me.
“Why not? Is it so hard to fall for you? Polly, you’re pretty as a picture. Better than any model out there. Look at your figure! Not a single pastry has gone to your hips, and no one would guess you’ve had a kid. You don’t even look twenty-five, and I kind of hate you for it. Agree to meet Marat, I’m begging you. Just one date, and we’ll see what happens next. Want me to get down on my knees?”
“So you’re not going to let this go?” I bite my lower lip.
“Nope. Not while Ruslan’s around. You shouldn’t be alone—I mean, without a man. Let him see that no one’s pining for him or shedding bitter tears. And if you run into him, walk right past without a glance. I know it won’t be easy for you. You adored him so much, I’m honestly amazed you didn’t lose your mind. Yegor probably saved you. Ruslan has no place in your life anymore, and he needs to feel that, especially since he had the nerve to come back. Text Marat today!”
“No way, I’m not messaging him first,” I shake my head with all the stubbornness I can muster.
“Fine, when was the last time he texted you and you didn’t reply?” Nadia doesn’t give up easily, so she tries a different angle.
“Yesterday. He wrote… hold on,” I wipe my hands and grab my phone. “Here it is: ‘Look at the beautiful morning outside. Shame you’re not here with me.’ What was I supposed to say to that? I ignored his sappy romance.”
“God, I want to shake you. So many women would kill to be in your shoes,” Nadia grumbles, and I’m sure she’s already crafting a clever reply in her head.
“Nadia, he could’ve sent that message to a dozen other girls. I don’t believe in the sincerity of a text with a smiley face.”
“I’ve got it! Text him back. Trust me!”
“Oh, I know that look on your face,” I say, hiding my phone and peeking into the oven. “I’m definitely not going to like whatever you’ve cooked up. You’re such a troublemaker. I’m still not sure I even want to meet him.”
“Come on, Polly, what’s the worst that could happen? You’ll go to a restaurant, take a walk, chat. It’s not like Marat’s going to drag you to bed by force. You’ll finally feel like a woman again! It’s been years since you’ve had any action. No man’s touched you since Ruslan. Everything’s probably rusted shut down there. Do you even remember what a grown man’s equipment looks like? They come in all shapes and sizes, you know.”
“Good Lord, Nadia, you’re ridiculous. No wonder Granny Zina calls you a floozy,” I snort, laughing. We often tease each other like this, having been friends since kindergarten.
“That old hag was probably one herself back in the day! Grab your phone and write: ‘Too bad men have forgotten how to talk face-to-face. It’s easier for them to slap together three words and stick a smiley on it.’ Let’s see how Marat reacts. Polly, you’ve got to do something, or you’ll be baking pastries and smelling like cabbage until you’re old and gray!”
“Fine, just to get you off my back,” I type the message. “I don’t think anything will come of this little stunt. He’ll probably send me a rose emoji or something and call it a day. You’re always saying guys these days are lazy and run from relationship challenges like deer from a forest fire.” I send it, and Marat reads it instantly, but there’s no reply. I’ve already pulled out a batch of pastries and put in a new one. My phone stays silent.
“Dream on, you hopeless romantic,” I smile at Nadia. “Want some blackcurrant liqueur? It turned out amazing this year.”
“This doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he’s busy, driving, or in a meeting,” Nadia’s optimism is hard to break, and that’s why I love her. But Marat’s silence doesn’t bother me. What gnaws at me is a deeper pain, one buried so far inside, a pain that looks at me through the eyes of a Ruslan who’s no longer mine. He’s back, and now even the air smells… and tastes different.
Not even twenty minutes pass before there’s a knock at my door.
“Stay put, I’ve got it. It’s probably Sasha—he picks up pastries for his diner,” I wave at Nadia and hurry to the hallway. I open the door and… freeze. Standing on my porch, shifting from foot to foot, is Marat himself. Turns out, he knows where I live.
“Pleasantly surprised you replied,” Marat says, more serious than I’ve ever seen him, without his usual charming, white-toothed grins or playful quips. “If that’s the only issue, I’m ready to talk and look into your beautiful cornflower-blue eyes, Polly.”
“Hey,” I exhale, snapping out of my daze. I definitely didn’t expect him to show up at my doorstep.
“Hello. May I come in?” Marat is undeniably striking, almost intimidatingly so. His dark brown eyes have a unique, captivating shape, framed by wavy black hair, sensual lips, a stubborn jawline, and a commanding nose. His father is Turkish, his mother Ukrainian, and I’ve heard his relatives in Turkey are quite well-off, giving Marat a solid start in life. He’s built a successful business here, but he’s still single. Rumor has it he’s very particular about the women he dates—casual flings are one thing, but when it comes to a serious partner, his standards are sky-high.
“I didn’t expect you to just show up like this. I’ve got a friend over, and the kitchen’s a mess… I’ve been cooking,” I bite my lip, trying to hide my embarrassment. He’s dressed in designer clothes, sporting an expensive watch, looking polished as if he just stepped off a magazine cover. And here I am in a simple house dress, sweaty, dusted with flour. He’s got a whole team under him, could pick any bombshell he wants, yet for some reason, he’s fixated on me.
“Do I look like a spoiled rich kid who’d be scared off by a messy kitchen, especially a creative one?” He smiles, restrained and polite, taking a step forward. I move aside, letting him in. Let him meet Nadia—after all, this was her idea. She can deal with it now.
She’s frozen mid-bite with her fifth pastry, staring at him with wide eyes.
“This is my friend Nadia, your biggest fan. Marat, want a pastry?” I smile. He looks so out of place in our kitchen, like a character from a different story.
“Thanks, but I don’t eat stuff like that,” he replies quickly, glancing around. “I watch my health. It’s hot in here—you really need a range hood. So, will you be free soon?” His sharp gaze slides over me.
“She’s free now!” Nadia blurts out before I can even open my mouth.
“Then how about a walk?” He looks at me, a man unaccustomed to being refused. A man whose problems are worlds apart from mine. He doesn’t know what it’s like to save up for three months to buy his son a tricycle, and I’ve long forgotten what it means to relax whenever I feel like it.
“Not right now,” I shake my head, and Nadia nearly slides under the table. “I need to wait for my mom and pick up my son from daycare.”
“If I swing by at six, can you spare some time for me then?” Marat remains polite, slightly insistent, but with a dignity and subtle Eastern diplomacy that masks the commanding air of a Turkish sheikh.
“I’ll be free at six,” I reply, as if I’m doing him a favor. Though, in truth, I am. In my life, I’ve only ever lost my head over one man, and I don’t know how to shift gears to another.
“Then I’ll see you later. Nadia, nice to meet you.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Nadia gapes at me the moment the door closes behind Marat. “Why didn’t you agree right away?”
“Because I want him to respect my time too. And I need to freshen up. Don’t I?”
“Fair point. Then you’ll knock his socks off. I’ll grab Yegor from daycare, and you start primping—take a soak in the tub, pick out a dress. I’ve got a feeling something’s going to change in your life tonight. I dreamed of a waterfall last night!”
“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this. I’m sure I’ll regret it,” I sigh, letting my hair down. “I think I’m a one-man woman. My heart can’t love someone else.”
“Listening to you, you’d think you’ve got no shot at happiness. You do, and we’re going to fight for it. Stop overthinking. Tonight, you’ll be the star of his evening, and maybe you’ll let yourself have a little fun—like letting him cop a feel.”