Love on ice

Chapter 7: Girls day out

Breakfast had been perfect, Dad’s syrniki golden and crisp, the house filled with warmth instead of the usual tension. But as soon as the plates were cleared, reality crept back in. Tonight was the Wilder dinner. And Jace.

I scrubbed the last dish with more force than necessary, the hot water turning my fingers pink.

"Anya?"

Lillian’s voice startled me. She stood in the doorway, car keys dangling from her fingers. "I’m getting my hair done. Thought you might want to come. Maybe a trim?"

I blinked. We didn’t do things like this. Our outings were strictly functional doctor visits, grocery runs. Not… salons.

I opened my mouth to refuse, then caught my reflection in the window. My hair, usually sleek and precise, now brushed past my shoulders in uneven waves. The ends were split, neglected.

"Fine," I muttered. "But just a trim."

Upstairs, I changed into high-waisted denim shorts, a fitted white top, and a loose flannel.

Practical, but not entirely unfashionable.

Platform wedge sandals gave me an extra inch of height, useful for glaring down at certain hockey players later.

Lillian waited by the car in jeans and sneakers, looking oddly young. The boys were already lost in some video game battle, Nikolai’s shouts echoing down the hall.

The mall was crowded, the air thick with perfume and chatter. Lillian nudged me as we walked. "Thought about what you want? You could go shorter if.."

"Just a trim," I repeated, pulling up Pinterest on my phone. But as I scrolled through sleek bobs and layered lobs, something rebellious stirred in my chest.

The salon was quiet, all soft lighting and hushed voices. A stylist with neon-pink nails eyed my hair critically. "You’ve got great texture. Ever considered layers? Face-framing pieces?"

I hesitated. Lillian, already settled under a cape, nodded encouragingly.

"Do it," she said.

An hour later, I barely recognized myself. The stylist had taken off just three inches but added subtle layers that made my hair swing when I turned my head. Face-framing strands softened my sharp cheekbones.

"Better," Lillian said simply.

The spa was next; facials, manicures, pedicures. I sat stiffly through the exfoliating masks, the lotions, the buffing and polishing. But when the technician massaged my hands, working out knots I didn’t know I had, my shoulders finally dropped.

"You’re wound tight," Lillian observed as our toenails dried hers a pale pink, mine a defiant blood-red.

"I have reasons," I muttered.

She didn’t push.

Clothes shopping was a blur of fabric and fitting rooms. Lillian vetoed anything black ("You’re seventeen, not a widow"), steering me toward summer dresses and cropped jackets. I drew the line at floral prints but conceded to a deep emerald-green sundress.

"For the dinner tonight," Lillian said, smug.

Exhaustion hit us both by late afternoon. We split up Lillian to McDonald’s for burgers, me to Starbucks for iced coffees.

The Starbucks line stretched longer than I expected, winding around the velvet ropes like a sluggish serpent. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, the soles of my platform sandals sticking slightly to the tile floor. My new haircut felt strangely light against my neck, the layers brushing my shoulders with every turn of my head.

"Excuse me"

The voice came from just behind my left shoulder, too close for comfort. I turned to find a guy about my age holding two overflowing iced coffees, his arms extended awkwardly to avoid spilling. His dark brown hair was slightly damp at the temples, as if he’d rushed here from somewhere, and his T-shirt bore the faded logo of a band I didn’t recognize.

"You’re about to lose your wallet," he said, nodding toward the back pocket of my denim shorts.

I frowned, reaching back instinctively. Sure enough, my wallet was halfway hanging out, ready to tumble to the floor. I shoved it back in with more force than necessary.

"Thanks," I muttered, turning back toward the counter.

"No problem." He shifted his grip on the drinks, one tilting dangerously. "I’m Mateo, by the way."

I gave him a sideways glance. I didn’t want to ignore him, so instead I gave a curt nod.

At that moment as if on cue the barista shouted, "One Cookie Frappuccino and one Iced Caramel Vanilla Latte for Anya!"

Mateo’s eyebrows shot up. "Anya? Are you Russian?"

"Yes," I cut him off, stepping forward to grab my drink.

"Hey, no way." He juggled his coffees to pull out his phone with one hand, showing me his lock screen a snowy Red Square at dusk. "My mom’s from Moscow. I go back every winter."

I paused, the cold cup sweating in my hand. His Russian accent when he said "Moscow" was terrible, but genuine.

"Anya!" Lillian’s voice cut through the crowded café. She approached with two McDonald’s bags balanced in her arms, her gaze flicking curiously between me and Mateo.

"I should…" Mateo gestured vaguely toward the exit, already backing away. "Enjoy your drink, Anya."

He disappeared into the crowd before I could respond, leaving behind only the faint scent of citrus and something warm, like roasted coffee beans.

"Friend of yours?" Lillian asked as we made our way toward the mall’s central seating area.

"Some guy who noticed my wallet falling out," I said, stirring my drink absently. "Apparently his mom is Russian."

Lillian hummed knowingly but didn’t press further. As we settled at a table and unpacked our food, my mind kept circling back to that brief encounter the easy way he’d laughed at my sharpness, the familiarity of that Red Square photo, the way he’d said my name without stumbling over the syllables.

A complete stranger. One I’d probably never see again.

After our meal, Lillian and I drove home. The moment we stepped through the front door, the smell of fried chicken hit us like a warm embrace.

Nikolai and Dad were already at the kitchen island, a mountain of KFC boxes between them, grease stains on their shirts and guilty smiles plastered across their faces.

"Did you leave any for us?" Lillian asked dryly, setting down her shopping bags.

Nikolai held up a half-eaten drumstick. "Maybe."

I rolled my eyes and grabbed the last piece of crispy chicken before Dad could claim it, earning an indignant squawk from him. The familiar rhythm of our chaotic little family settled around me, Nikolai’s loud chewing, Dad’s terrible jokes, Lillian’s quiet laughter as she wiped sauce from Nikolai’s chin like he was still five years old.

Upstairs, I spread my new clothes across the bed, smoothing the fabric of the emerald-green sundress I’d chosen for tonight. The color reminded me of the deep forests outside Moscow, the ones Mom used to take me to when I needed to clear my head.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.

"Two hours until we leave," Lillian said, leaning against the doorframe. "You should rest."

I nodded and was just about to take a short nap when my phone buzzed. A text from Katya:

"Saw Irina’s new routine. She fell during a triple axel. Karma is delicious."

I smiled, but it faded quickly. The thought of stepping onto the ice again even just for fun sent both longing and terror twisting through my stomach.

I placed the phone down and set the timer for an hour.