7 . NICK

“You’re a natural,” I say as Storm pinches the dough closed around the wad of potato-and-onion mixture .

“You’re just saying that,” she sighs. “I’m wrecking these .”

“There’s an art to making piroghis. Just like playing piano. It takes time .”

I take the dozen little dumplings she’s made and toss them into the boiling water. Then I stir a spoonful of sour cream into the stroganoff before turning off the heat. It needs to sit and settle while the flavors blend before I serve it, which will give me time to boil and fry the piroghis .

“So,” Storm says, taking a seat on one of the stools at the kitchen island. “I may be out in left field here, but I have this crazy feeling that you might be Russian .”

I give her a look of mock surprise .

“Whatever gave you that idea, comrade?” I say in an accent I spent years trying to rid myself of. It sounds ridiculous to my own ears now .

“Well, holy shit!” Storm giggles. “Nick finally makes a joke !”

As always, her laughter makes me feel lighter .

“Technically, it’s Nikolai,” I say, careful to avoid my last name. I doubt she’d recognize it, but we have a policy, don’t we ?

“I suspected as much,” she says with a nod. “There’s just a tiny hint of an accent in your normal voice. Like when the American actors on Game of Thrones try to sound British. It’s not something you can put your finger on, but there’s just something a little bit different about it .”

“You’re one to talk about accents, Arkansas .”

She claps her hands together with a grin. “Two in a row! Bravo !”

If you had told me a week ago that I’d be laughing and making jokes with a beautiful young woman, I would have stared at you grimly until you went away. Now here I am, bantering like a kid on his first date .

Then I push it too far .

“You know,” I say in a comically thick accent, “in Soviet Russia, president assassinates you ! ”

Storms blinks at me, uncomprehending .

“Uh,” I mutter. “That was a Yakov Smirnoff joke .”

She gives me a sympathetic smile – emphasis on the pathetic .

“Sorry, I don’t know who that is .”

What are you doing, old man? She’s a child. Of course she doesn’t know who Yakov Smirnoff is! She was born in the ‘90s, not the ‘70s !

The piroghis thankfully choose that moment to boil over onto the stovetop, so I take advantage of the distraction to drop them into the cast iron pan with some butter and onion .

“Can I help?” Storm asks. “I want to finish off what I started .”

“Of course.” Her hand brushes mine as she takes the wooden spoon from me. “It’s best to keep them moving so that the dough doesn’t brown too much .”

“Why bother frying them?” she asks as she stirs. “Everything is already cooked .”

I shrug. “Not everyone does, but this is how my baba made them .”

“What’s a baba ? ”

“Grandmother. My mother’s mother. I never knew my father’s .”

“I never knew any of my grandparents,” she says quietly, looking at the pan .

“That’s a shame. My baba taught me a lot when I was young .”

“Did she come to America with you ?”

I hesitate. “No. She died right before we emigrated .”

In fact, she was murdered by the last remnants of the KGB before we fled under cover of darkness. But that information definitely falls under the “don’t tell” policy .

“How old were you?” Storm asks. “When you came here ?”

“Seventeen. It was right after the breakup of the Soviet Union .”

She nods and turns off the burner. “I think these are done. Yeah, we learned about the U.S.S.R. in school .”

I glance at the piroghis ; she’s right, they’re perfectly golden brown .

“You really are a natural,” I say. “Time to eat .”

We dish up – Storm takes even more than I do, which is understandable, given how little she’s eaten since she got here – and take a seat at the kitchen dinette. It occurs to me as we do that I’ve never actually eaten in the formal dining room. The very thought of a lone person eating in something so large and ornate seems ridiculous .

Suddenly, living in this cavernous mansion alone seems ridiculous .

“So why did you leave?” she asks, forking her first piroghi into her mouth. Then her eyes almost bulge out of her head. “Holy shit, these are good !”

“I told you, you’re a natural .”

She grins through the food. “Thanks. But let’s get back to the subject. I really want to know how you ended up in America .”

I’m violating our agreement here, but some part of me also wants her to know more about me. Not everything – that’s the last thing I would ever want – but some .

“The union was in chaos back then; everywhere there were republics splitting off and fighting for independence .”

That much is true .

“My father realized that there were a lot more opportunities in America .”

That’s also true. I won’t talk about what kinds of opportunities .

Storm takes her first bite of stroganoff and almost melts into her chair .

“This is so freaking good ,” she moans. “If you keep feeding me like this, I’m going to be huge .”

I grin. “There’s an old Russian saying: better to see it shake than hear it rattle .”

She snorts through her nose and almost spits out her food .

“You’re making that up!” she blurts after swallowing .

“Russian men like women we can hold onto,” I say, grabbing handfuls of air .

“Stop!” she cries, holding her next forkful of beef and noodles just outside her mouth. “I’m going to choke !”

I give in and let her chew unmolested. Look at me, making someone laugh so hard that they can’t eat. My mother would be proud of me .

I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if she’d been around more after we came here. Perhaps I wouldn’t have ended up so much like my father .

Storm finishes a few more mouthfuls before picking up the conversation .

“I’m learning way more about Russia from you than I did in that class,” she says. “What more can you tell me ?”

For a moment, I think about making another joke, but for some reason it seems more appropriate to be honest with her .

“Life under Soviet rule was shit,” I say simply. “No freedom, no choice. You were told what to do, and if you didn’t like it, tough. Americans don’t realize how good they have it .”

A shadow crosses her face as she scoops up the last of her stroganoff .

“Not all of us have it good,” she says quietly .

Those few words tell me more about what led her here to me than anything she’s said so far. For the first time in many years, I feel the undeniable urge to touch another human being. My hand reaches out and settles on top of hers, feeling her warmth, the velvety smoothness of her young skin .

“You’re here now,” I say. “With someone who can keep you safe. That’s what matters; not what came before. Just here and now. Deal ?”

Time stops as her eyes meet mine and she places her other palm on top of mine, sandwiching my hand between hers. Neither of us blinks .

After long seconds, she leans forward and presses her moist lips against mine again, sparking a lightning bolt through my heart. I can taste the tang of the stroganoff as our tongues meet. It’s a tentative greeting, like our encounter in the dojo – two acquaintances saying an awkward hello. But it’s heaven nonetheless .

She pulls away finally, letting go of my hand as she does. But her eyes are still locked on mine .

“Just here and now,” she says softly. “Deal .”