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"And I could count every star in the sky, darling, just by looking into your eyes."
"Okay, let me see if I've got this straight. You're telling me you just grabbed the first backpack within reach and got off the train without checking if it was yours."
"You know, when you put it like that, it sounds really bad."
"Dude, you can't tell me it doesn't look like you did it on purpose."
"I didn't do it on purpose!"
"Of course not, buddy. I wouldn't dream of implying that."
Wink, wink.
"Go to hell, man," Bob replied, throwing the bar rag over his shoulder and gathering up the last of the dirty glasses off the counter. On his way, he knocked into a misplaced chair and swallowed a wince, just so he wouldn't give Walker the satisfaction of laughing in his face again.
Okay, let's recap this whole thing for a second, yeah? Because we're starting to get the wrong idea here. And no matter what Walker's jokes are trying to imply, Bob Reynolds was no subway thief. Fine, yes, he had his rough patches back in the day, like everyone does, man. But hey! He wasn't a bad guy, are we clear? A little scatterbrained and whiny sometimes, maybe. But nobody could deny the guy was a solid friend. Did he steal a few bucks to buy some weed? Sure. Did he do it more than once? Well… we're not counting. The point is that was years ago. Let's give him some credit here, folks. Bob hadn't gotten into trouble since he was seventeen, and he'd kept it that way ever since.
Fine, maybe he'd been a little tired after pulling that extra shift at the bar, okay? And it was exam season—the sleep deprivation was more than justified. He was human, for God's sake. Raise your hand if you've never dozed off on the subway. Come on, folks, nobody's brave enough? Besides, why should he get accused of being a thief? For all he knew, Bob could've been the victim of some elaborate ring of systematic theft based on the involuntary swapping of belongings, preying on his obvious state of unconsciousness. Did something like that exist? Probably not. But they couldn't prove otherwise either.
The defense rests.
"Come on, you've got to admit this doesn't look good for you," said Walker, pouring himself a shot of whiskey and knocking it back in one go. "Damn, that's strong!"
"As far as I know, falling asleep on the subway isn't a crime."
"Did you at least find out whose it is?" he went on, pouring himself another before Bob could snatch the bottle away. "They might give you a nice reward. Maybe there's something important in there. Have you opened it yet?"
"Not yet."
"Oh, come on! What are we waiting for?"
"What makes you think I brought it here?"
"You don't have it here?"
"Of course I wouldn't bring it here, with you around," Bob replied, ignoring John's look of outrage and grabbing the whiskey bottle off the bar, putting it away again. "That'll be sixteen dollars, by the way."
"Come on, man!"
"You know the house rules, Walker. And no 'kiss the bartender' coupons. That's disgusting, and it's why Olivia quit. So you owe me a replacement for Saturday afternoon."
"Her loss," the blond replied, dropping a twenty on the counter. "Here you go. Keep the change and buy yourself something nice, sweetheart."
"Screw you."
Once again, Walker's annoying teasing—which, to be honest, was starting to get on Bob's nerves—broke through the sacred silence of closing time. Seriously, man, sometimes he wanted to shove the bar rag down his throat. But like most of his little fantasies, it stayed in his head.
"Okay, quit playing dumb with me. Did you find out who that backpack belongs to or not? Because for all we know it could belong to a serial killer, and you'd be even more screwed than you already are."
"It doesn't belong to a serial killer."
"And how do you know that? It's not like—wait—son of a bitch! You opened it!"
The way Walker shakes him makes Bob stumble in place and grab the edge of the table to keep from doubling over. Not that he's a weakling, okay? But hey! The guy had been on his high school football team. And he'd kept himself in shape. He was a straight-up muscle machine.
"Cut it out, man. And technically, I haven't peeked yet," said Bob, steadying himself and getting back to work.
"Oh, so it's just gut feelings and all that nonsense?" Walker's interest quickly faded again.
Suddenly, Bob pulls a phone out of his back pocket and sets it on the bar, right in front of his friend. For a few seconds, Walker doesn't get it. Then his eyes go wide with surprise, and he looks at Bob as if asking for confirmation that it was, in fact, what he thought it was. Come on, man! Wasn't it already obvious enough? Since when did Bob have a phone that fancy?
"What the hell? How do you have that? Where did you get it? Wait—you stole it!"
"Seriously, man. Is that what you think of me? Of course I didn't steal it! And before you say anything more ridiculous than that, listen first, okay? That phone was in one of the front pockets. It belongs to the owner of the backpack."
"Damn! And it's one of the latest models. How much does that cost? At least two months' rent?"
"At least two months' rent. And surviving on instant noodles."
"Okay, fine. So the mystery backpack belongs to someone rich enough to afford little luxuries like that. What's the next step? Do you know her name yet? Do you at least have her info?"
"I wish I could say yes, but no. I tried unlocking it with a pattern, but it's got a digit passcode."
"How hard can it be? Have you tried one, two, three, four?" said Walker, grabbing the phone off the bar and lighting up the lock screen. The image of a blonde woman blowing a bubble with her gum, wearing sunglasses and headphones, appears. "Hey, wait, man… is that a girl?"
"It's a girl."
"Damn… she's pretty hot."
Bob takes a few seconds to answer.
"Y-Yeah…"
And for once, he had to agree with Walker. The girl was pretty, okay?, too pretty. And her photo was so good it could pass for an indie album cover. She was, most likely, one of those girls Bob could only see walking by from a distance, going the other way, ignoring guys like him. But hey, not that he minded. Not everyone could be as outstanding as John Walker.
How pathetic.
"Okay, let's see. One, two, three, four. Right?" said John, punching in the most laughably obvious code in history. "Damn, that's not it."
"Of course it's not! What did you expect? That it would just unlock itself like magic?" it's Bob's turn to poke fun a little. "Try the number one four times, or zero. In case you mess it up again."
"Very funny, Bobby." John's amusement seems to be replaced by a flicker of annoyance.
"You know? I hate it when you call me that."
"And it bugs me when you try to get smart with me, you know? Now we're even, buddy."
"Whatever, man. I'm about to close up, and this whole thing has worn me out. See you tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay," Walker stretched lazily in his seat before standing up. "Oh, and this little matter is far from over between us. You're gonna have to keep me posted on all of it."
"You're not gonna give up, are you?"
"Not when the first interesting thing to happen around here just happened."
"Just get out of here."
Walker responds in the only way he knows how to annoy his friend: blowing kisses from a distance. Bob throws the rag at him and Walker dodges it effortlessly. The last thing Bob hears is his friend's loud laugh as he shuts the door, right before disappearing into the still-busy streets of the city. Once he's gone, Bob can finally enjoy some peace. Not that he minded Walker's visits during his closing shift. Come on, the guy was possibly his only friend since he'd moved to the city. And yeah, he could be a pain in the ass, the biggest pain in the ass in history, sometimes. But he could trust him, hard as that might be to believe. And aside from the fact that he might be the most stubborn person Bob had ever known, well, that also made him a loyal friend. Bob glances at the wall clock, nearly striking midnight. He stretches, completely worn out from the pace of work, and hurries to put up the last chairs and finish bagging the trash to take it out to the dumpster down the block. What a crappy day, seriously, man. Come on, the old Bob would've given anything for a hit, or a pill strong enough to numb him out completely, just to shut his brain off. Hey! Everyone calm down, he doesn't do that stuff anymore, remember? Settle down a little. He's a new man and all that motivational garbage.
Although sometimes, without meaning to, he ends up drifting back to that tiny attic apartment, and his father's shouting still haunts him even though he'd managed to escape it a long time ago. He's not that kid anymore—now he's a man trying to pick up his broken pieces and glue them back together. Surviving an ocean that keeps dragging him away from the shore. And the weight of the world feels so painfully heavy that he feels like he can't keep carrying it all on his own shoulders anymore. And all he wants is to be home, lying in bed, competing with the dead spider on his shelf to figure out which one of them is more pathetic.
"You think you're good enough, Bobby? Look at him, big man in the big city. A piece of trash who's never gonna amount to anything."
Shut up, Dad.
"Oh yeah, sure, look at him… the college boy. Think you're better than us now? You'll come crawling back sooner than you think."
Screw you.
And then that inevitable wave of melancholy would come, along with the urge to end it all. Just to make it stop, once and for all. And he'd search desperately for some meaning in his life, fighting the urge to head out and track down his old dealer.
And then that emptiness would settle in…
Come on, man. Wouldn't you like a joint?
Damn it, damn it, damn it. What's your problem, buddy? You've got an exam tomorrow. You don't have time for that garbage anymore.
"I need to sleep…"
An incoming call from an unknown number abruptly cuts through Bob's thoughts. The ringtone is a song from the late nineties, "Bitter Sweet Symphony." Come on, man! That's his favorite song. It's the girl from the subway's phone. Shit! It nearly slips out of his hands. He swipes his thumb across the screen and answers the unregistered number.
"Hello?" His voice trembles a little. His palms have started to sweat.
Okay, so she wasn't a serial killer. But she could be a female version of a serial killer. Gender equality reaching every corner. Walker would already be slapping his shoulder and shouting: I told you, man!
And now he was really screwed.
"So, is this about the world's most ridiculous robbery? Because trust me, buddy, I don't have time to deal with a rookie."
The woman's voice on the other end was slightly deep, with a distinctive accent.
"Oh, no… I'm not a thief."
"Really? I'd say you're the dumbest thief who ever tried to rob me. So, guess what? You left your stuff with me, smart guy. I don't know who taught you how to steal, but you had a terrible teacher."
"Wait, seriously, this is all a mistake! I… I didn't take your things on purpose. I just—I just mixed it up with my own backpack. Come on! You have to admit they're practically identical."
There's a brief pause, and Bob feels like he could bite his nails off from the unnecessary suspense. Oh, please, why does everyone automatically assume he's a thief? Okay, we're not going to recap what's already been said. Moving on.
"They might be somewhat similar."
"Somewhat similar? They're the exact same size, color, shape!"
"Fine, let's say I believe you…"
"Come on, man!"
"…you have exactly twenty-four hours to give it back to me," the woman continued, ignoring Bob's complaint, "and you'd better not think about running. I can track my phone's GPS and send the police straight to whatever hole you're hiding in."
What a demanding girl!
"Wait, you have my location? Why don't you just come get it and we can settle this already?"
A husky laugh came through on the other end. Bob had to admit it was a really pretty laugh.
"I'm not an idiot, buddy. I'm not risking going to your place just so you can rape me, or something worse."
Good lord, now he'd gone from thief to potential sex offender. Wonderful! Great! Fantastic! And all of that was sarcasm, in case that wasn't already clear.
Okay, man. He'd had a rough day, alright? He was tired, hungry, and had class tomorrow. He just wanted to get this over with and go on with his life the way he'd been doing so far.
"Fine," he sighed, rubbing his tired eyes, "tell me where to meet you and let's settle this."
"Come to the Chelsea Piers Sky Rink."
"Wait, that's in Manhattan, right? That's forty minutes away on the subway. I can make it after class."
"Good for you. You've got until 4:00 p.m. I'll be waiting at the entrance. And you'd better not try to play smart and bail on me."
"I said I wouldn't!"
Again, that pretty laugh rang out, and Bob swore he heard a hint of amusement in it.
"See you tomorrow."
"Wait!" he said, before the other person could hang up. "You… you didn't tell me your name. How will I know it's you? I could end up handing your things over to the wrong person."
"You'd better not do that"—well, who would've guessed? Angry sounds pretty good too.
"I'm Bob… Bob Reynolds."
There's a short silence, and Bob's almost certain the call's been dropped. Man, his hands are sweating way too much. It's so obvious this is his first contact with a girl since high school. This is not the time to be a weirdo, Robert! Are we men or mice?
I won't answer that…
"Yelena. Yelena Belova." The answer was met with hope and relief. Well, at least this girl wasn't ignoring him. That's good, right?
"Yelena…" he repeated. Wow, so she was Russian. Well… that explained her accent. "That's… that's a pretty name."
His voice cracked for a second. Like a teenager whose voice is changing.
"Alright, weird boy, I expect my backpack tomorrow, and you'd better not get curious. I want everything intact when I check it."
"You have my word as a Boy Scout."
That promise would've carried a lot more weight if he'd actually been a Boy Scout. But that's a minor detail.
The call cut off abruptly, and the phone locked itself once more, Yelena's picture—sunglasses, headphones, and all—lighting up the screen, making Bob stare at it for a few more seconds before slipping the phone back into his rear pocket. He was alone again in that quiet bar. It was strange—suddenly everything felt a little lighter than it had a moment ago. He was even a little less tired.
Tomorrow had never seemed interesting before. Until now.
Shit, shit, shit, shit… He'd overslept again! No time for breakfast! He'd grab something at the cafeteria. He couldn't miss the subway! And it was already hard enough running with two backpacks.
Great! Fantastic! The day was off to a splendid start. He barely made it to his first class on time, slipping into the room just as the professor was closing the door.
The rest of the morning went by in a blur of endless derivations in Electromagnetism, a lab session where he nearly spilled coffee on an oscilloscope, and a Classical Mechanics seminar where he spent more time fighting to keep his eyes open than actually solving equations. The cafeteria coffee tasted like hot water with sweetener. The vending machine sandwich looked like it had been sitting there since last semester. Disgusting. By the time the clock struck two in the afternoon, Bob felt like he'd aged five years in just a few hours. He shoved his Physics notes into his spare backpack, took a deep breath, and remembered that the trickiest part of the day was still ahead.
Okay, he really hoped everything would go well.
"Hey, Bobby."
"Screw you," Bob replied at the sound of Walker approaching. John Jay was barely thirty minutes away from CCNY by bike—close enough that Walker would show up every now and then after class, for the sole purpose of getting on his nerves. Well… and to insist, for the umpteenth time, that Bob put in a good word for him with Olivia. The funny thing was, Olivia had already quit. So honestly, Bob had no idea why Walker was looking for him so early.
"So much love for your best friend."
"You're my only friend," Bob's voice was flat.
Okay, that sounded really sad.
"Even better," he said, flashing his charming smile. "Damn, man. You look like crap."
"Thanks?"
"No, no, no. I mean, you look like you could use a solid hour of sleep."
"Tomorrow's my day off, I'll manage a bit longer."
"Wait a second," John started, and Bob can already see it coming. "Why do you have two backpacks? Come on, man! It's one thing to be a nerd, but don't overdo it."
"Only one's mine, dude."
"Wait… don't screw with me, Bobby, don't tell me that's…"
"The obvious is obvious. And stop calling me Bobby, for God's sake."
"Dog, you're going to meet up with her!" John burst out laughing, completely ignoring that last part.
"Can you say it a little louder? I don't think the humanities program heard you."
"When did you set this up with her?"
"Yesterday, when she called and we agreed to meet up for the swap."
"Just like that?"
"Just like what? I don't get it—what did you expect?"
"Well, didn't you two talk a little? I mean, come on, man, we both saw her picture. The girl's hot. Don't tell me you didn't try to get to know her better."
Of course he had—he'd gotten her to tell him her name, hadn't he? That was already a victory. But John didn't need to know that. And honestly, he had no interest in telling him.
"Anyway, I'm running a little late," he said, glancing at the time on his phone screen. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go clear my name."
"Wait, man... hold up."
Now what?
Seriously, he needed to run if he wanted to catch the subway and make it to Chelsea Piers. Before he could snap at him, Walker rummaged through his backpack and tossed him a burrito wrapped in foil. Bob caught it purely on reflex. It was still warm. He stared at it for a few seconds before looking up at his friend.
Ah.
There are moments in every man's life when an entire friendship between buddies fits inside a warm burrito. And nothing more is needed.
"Thanks," said Bob.
Walker shrugged, like it was no big deal.
"Yeah, yeah… don't mention it. Hey! Put in a good word for me with Olivia."
Bob couldn't help letting out a small laugh.
"I will."
He raised the burrito in a farewell gesture and took off running toward the subway station. Once again, he managed to squeeze onto the train just as the doors were closing. Only then did he let himself breathe. He unwrapped the burrito and took the first bite. Good lord! It was delicious. After the infamous vending machine sandwich, this practically counted as a feast. Fine, let's give Walker some credit here. The guy could be an insufferable pain in the ass ninety-nine percent of the time, okay? But, man. That remaining one percent knew exactly when to come through with something that would catch Bob completely off guard. And in the best way, of course. He finished the last bite as the train pulled out of the station and rested his head against the window glass.
Alright, guess all that's left now is to wait.
It was the first time Bob had visited that side of the city. And it's not like he hadn't gone sightseeing before, okay? He knew Central Park. John had dragged him there a couple of times in his many failed attempts to get him to adopt a healthier lifestyle. He'd also strolled through Rockefeller Center and blown way too many dollars on a ridiculously overpriced coffee in Times Square. In fact, he knew New York better after the four years he'd lived there than he knew his own Florida. Then again, to be fair, back in Florida he'd spent most of his time too high to remember much of anything. And the heat was a genuine nightmare almost all year round. Yeah… he definitely didn't feel much nostalgia about going back.
He walked along the piers with both backpacks slung over his shoulder, letting the breeze off the Hudson tousle his curly hair. It was the first time he'd set foot there, and it didn't take long to understand why so many people talked about the place. The river seemed endless, much bigger than he'd imagined, and the water lapped gently against the wooden pilings with a calm, almost hypnotic sound. There were joggers speeding past him, couples strolling hand in hand, families pushing strollers, and cyclists cutting through the walkway, ringing their bells to clear a path. Everything seemed to be moving at once, but somehow no one crashed into anyone else.
Bob slowed his pace almost without realizing it. To his left, the Hudson stretched out like an enormous sheet of glass dotted with tiny golden glints. To his right, the buildings of Manhattan rose so high it seemed impossible that anyone could actually live up there. Further ahead, several yachts rocked gently against the docks while a seagull swooped down to steal a French fry from an unsuspecting tourist.
Wow…
Yeah, you won't find that in Florida.
Bob pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time. It was three fifty-four. Great. He was six minutes early.
Perfect.
He picked up the pace until he spotted the Chelsea Piers Sky Rink in the distance. Like he said, running with one backpack full of Physics books and notes was already hard enough. Now imagine doing it with two. And no, contrary to what you might be thinking, Bob wasn't nosy at all. So seriously, he had no idea what the heck Yelena was carrying in there, or why that damn backpack weighed so much.
He pushed through the glass doors and stepped into the lobby. Man. He had to fight back a whistle at how impressed he was. The inside of the Chelsea Piers Sky Rink was seriously incredible. Okay, he felt a little out of place, surrounded by moms waiting for their kids, children eating in the cafeteria, and a few athletes chatting loudly by the front desk. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going.
Except Bob.
He pulled his phone out with the intention of calling Yelena. Then he froze.
Damn it! He had no idea what number to dial. The night before, Yelena Belova had called him from a hidden number, straight to the phone he'd been carrying around. And since the device was still locked, he couldn't pull up her contact either. Perfect. He'd crossed half the city only to realize he had no way of letting her know he'd already arrived.
Oh God… why did stuff like this always happen to him?
Come on, Bob. Think. Everything has a solution.
His gaze swept the lobby until it landed on the reception desk. The woman working there had just finished with her last customer. Well, man, what are you waiting for? Hurry up!
It was now or never.
"Um… e-excuse me…" Bob approached, feeling more uncomfortable than ever.
The woman looked up from her computer and gave him a professional smile.
"How can I help you?"
"Yes, I… well… I'm looking for someone."
"Sure, is she a student or does she teach a class?"
"I… have no idea."
The woman tries to keep her professional composure, but even Bob can read the faint irritation on her face. She seems to take a deep breath and put on a more approachable look.
"Alright, what's her name?"
That one he knew!
"Yelena. Her name is Yelena Belova."
"Did you say Belova?" the woman seems to soften up a little now. "She's on the west rink. You get there this way," she said, pointing him toward the route he needed to take.
Bob thanked her for the information and headed off where the receptionist had directed him. When he finally crossed through a long hallway with glass walls, he had to stop for a moment to take in what he was seeing.
An enormous ice rink took up almost the entire space, lit by huge windows that let in the afternoon light. Dozens of skaters of every age glided back and forth across the wide white surface with almost insulting ease. Some were practicing jumps and impossible-looking spins; others could barely stay upright, clinging to the railing. The metallic scrape of blades cutting through ice mixed with the music coming from the speakers and the instructions a coach was shouting from the center of the rink.
Impressive. Truly impressive.
Bob scanned the rink with his eyes. Now all he had to do was figure out which one of them was Yelena Belova.
Wow, what an idiot. Of course. He pulled out Yelena's phone and lit up the lock screen. Yelena's picture appeared again, just as radiant as ever. Bob caught a little girl skating past nearby and stopped her. When he showed her Yelena's picture, the girl smiled and covered her mouth, as if Bob's question was the funniest thing she'd ever heard in her short life. Then she pointed a finger toward a female figure not too far off, dressed in tight black athletic wear, arguing about something important-looking with an older woman. The older woman was giving her some kind of instructions, gesturing toward the rink and making sweeping motions in the air. The younger one looked unreadable. Bob squinted and held up the phone to compare. That was her! Without a doubt, that blond skater was Yelena Belova.
She glided across the rink with a grace and elegance that struck something in Bob. It was the way her hands stretched out and her body lifted into consecutive, perfectly executed spins. As agile and powerful as an unstoppable gust of wind. Even the people practicing nearby had to stop and clear a path while they watched, amazed at the incredible performance. It was a carefully choreographed dance. Her legs lifted, her back arched into an almost perfect curve. Until that moment, Bob had no idea how amazing it was to watch someone glide across the ground in such a display of strength and control. Yelena made it all look effortless, but Bob was pretty sure that if he tried, he'd end up landing on his ass.
There was something strange about seeing the woman from the photo turn into an actual, real person. On the phone screen she'd already looked really pretty, but the image didn't do her justice. It didn't capture the way the light reflected off her blond hair, or the confidence in the way she moved across the ice, or that relaxed expression that seemed to say this place belonged to her.
Bob forgot, for a moment, why he'd even come.
She was breathtakingly beautiful.
Their eyes met for a few seconds, but for Bob, everything played out in slow motion, man. Like one of those absurd movies that seem impossible. Bob doubts she'll even recognize him—come on, she had no idea who the guy was who'd walked off with her stuff by mistake. But then, suddenly—dude, what the hell?—Yelena botched a spin and landed hard on her butt. Bob doesn't have to be a genius to figure out that this never happened. Because immediately the whole place went silent, like someone had said a really filthy word and someone was about to rush the kids out of there. Yelena's face was so red it was hard to tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. She looked up right away and saw him for the second time. This time, there was no doubt she'd recognized him.
Great, man. Can you screw it up any worse?
The older woman, who moments earlier had been giving Yelena instructions, looked genuinely upset and, for a moment, seemed to be scolding her. Yelena kept her professional composure, accepting her mistake and getting up off the ice with the same grace she'd been skating with moments before. Bob watched her make her way off the rink toward the resting area. The entire time, Yelena Belova never took her eyes off him, that deep, direct stare fixed on him.
Okay, was that good or bad? Should he just hand off the backpack to someone else and run for his life? For at least three minutes and fifty-eight seconds—the length of "Creep" by Radiohead. What a great fact, man! Bob stayed rooted in place, not knowing where exactly he was supposed to go. Just as he was thinking he should go look for her, an unfamiliar girl walked up to him. From the look on her face, Bob could tell right away she wasn't thrilled about coming over. Well, tough luck, because he wasn't exactly having fun feeling like an idiot and being the center of attention either. Just look at him, for God's sake! A grown man surrounded by kids and moms. He wouldn't be surprised if someone decided to call the cops.
"Are you Bob?" the girl asked. She had dark skin, and her hair was pulled into such a tight, neat bun that not a single strand moved. Bob could only think she'd probably end up with a headache later.
"Um… yeah?"
"Are you asking me or telling me? Come on, man! Be more specific. Are you Bob Reynolds or not?"
"I am Bob Reynolds."
"Wasn't that hard, was it?" the girl smirked, crossing her arms.
Okay, had he said Yelena Belova seemed like a lot to handle? Retracted! Yelena seemed like a sweet, charming angel by comparison. This girl was, without a doubt, the most exhausting one of all.
"What is it you want from me?"
"Me? Want something from you? Absolutely nothing." She paused briefly before continuing. "Yelena's looking for you."
"Yelena?" At the sound of her name, Bob perked up. Wait, what the hell? "Where is she?" he asked.
"Do I look like I keep her on a leash or something?" The girl huffed and rolled her eyes. "God, you're definitely not the sharpest one of the bunch." Bob was about to say he wasn't an idiot and that, in fact, he was majoring in physics. But then she spoke again. "Follow me, I'll take you to her."
"Alright," he replied, without further argument.
I mean, come on. Why bother arguing over trivial stuff?
They left the west rink and crossed back through the hallway to the main lobby. They walked a short distance further, and Bob could already spot Yelena sitting at one of the tables in the food court. Her back was pressed against the chair, her arms crossed. An iced drink sat on the table.
Damn, man. She looked stunning. Like an empress on her throne, waiting in solemn silence for the accused to arrive so she could pass judgment. And from that distance, Bob could appreciate her so much better. Her blond hair was almost as tightly pulled back as her friend's, save for a few loose strands sticking out at the front, framing her face. Her eyes were a beautiful hazel that could easily pass for green in the right light. As still as she was sitting there, she could've passed for a porcelain doll, with a cute little button nose and red lips.
…Wow, man!
"Alright, I'm out," the other girl said, walking off and leaving Yelena and Bob alone.
"Thanks, Ava," said her royal highness, the empress. The woman who went by Ava just waved a hand and kept walking.
Well… here goes nothing. Now, what was he supposed to do? Kiss her hand? Pay homage? Kneel at her feet and beg for mercy? Wait a second… why would he do that? He hadn't done anything wrong!
"I-I…"
"Bob Reynolds, right?"
He'd probably said his own name more times that day than he had in his entire life put together. How many times could a person introduce themselves?
"Yeah," he replied. "And you're Yelena Belova."
Yelena nodded and gestured for Bob to take a seat right across from her. Bob obeyed, because, honestly, at this point in the day, he had no energy left to argue about anything.
"It's a pleasure," her lips curved into a pretty smile, and Bob couldn't help but make an idiot face. "So, Bob… you have something for me?"
Ah right, of course. The one and only reason a guy like him could ever cross paths with a girl like her. Bob handed over his heavy backpack and set his phone on the table. Once more, the screen lit up, showing the photo of the girl sitting right in front of him. Yelena took it, and her face finally seemed to relax. He understood it was a relief for her too, to get back something she'd probably assumed was lost for good, and in a way, Bob could relate. Yelena grabbed her phone and slid it back into the front pocket of her bag. Then she opened it, inspecting to make sure everything was, in fact, still there. Bob had been wondering what on earth could make that backpack weigh so much. Apparently, he was about to find out.
From inside, Yelena pulled out a pair of skates in perfect condition—well, that explained the weight!—along with a water bottle, a change of workout clothes, hand warmers, a small toiletry bag, a mockingjay pin, and a couple of protein bars.
"Yeah, I think it's all here."
"I told you I wasn't a thief," said Bob, feeling more at ease now that his name had been cleared.
"Guess it's my turn now." Bob hadn't even noticed his backpack had been leaning against her chair. Yelena picked it up and handed it straight to him. Finally! Bob felt like he could dance for joy. He opened his backpack, figuring that since Yelena had gone through hers, he was entitled to do the same. Fair's fair, right?
Let's see, let's see. Yep, there it was. His thermodynamics textbook, the same one where he'd written on the first page: Property of Bob Reynolds. Return if lost, I can't afford another one. There was also his folder full of equations, a calculator, an empty, dirty Tupperware that had once held pasta with vegetables, a pack of Tic Tacs…
Wait… Wait! Hold everything! Where is it? You've got to be kidding me, man!
"My hoodie, where's my hoodie?"
Yelena smiled nervously, scratching her cheek with her index finger. Her gaze drifted slightly.
"Yeah, that… well, I left it at my place…"
"Wait, what? Why is it at your place?" Bob accused her, with clear and thoroughly justified indignation. "That's not fair! You went through my backpack!" He pointed straight at her, making her eyes widen in surprise, and drawing a few glances from people passing by or eating nearby, drawn in by the commotion. Yelena's face flushed red with embarrassment. She cleared her throat a couple of times, trying to regain control of the situation.
"Oh, please. Don't make a scene. It's just a hoodie from some bad band."
"Excuse me? A bad band?" Bob's eyes went wide with disbelief. "Oh, no, miss. You are not going to talk trash about Atta Boy!"
The nerve!
"Atta Boy? Who's that? Never heard of them in my life."
Oh, dear God! Someone catch him, someone hold him up, because he's about to faint. He is about to. How could someone be that musically uncultured? Did she even know what she was saying? May heaven forgive her, her whole family, and her descendants for that blasphemy.
Come on, man, breathe and calm down. Get a grip, damn it! Let's give poor Yelena the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she never had the chance to listen to a good band in her life. Right, that had to be the explanation. He coughed a couple of times and sat back down. A little calmer now. After that brief moment of reasoning.
"Right, that explains a lot," he said quietly. More to himself than to Yelena.
"What thing? What are you talking about?" Yelena asked, arching an eyebrow. Confused.
"That you have no taste in music."
"Excuse me?" Yelena exclaimed with an offended smile. "Sorry, buddy. But I have excellent taste in music. Thank you very much."
"Really? Doesn't seem like it. You just proved the exact opposite."
"Yeah, well. Not all of us can keep up with a band practically nobody's ever heard of."
"Anyway," Bob went on. "You said I couldn't open your backpack, and I stuck to my end of the deal. Why didn't you?"
"I said you'd better not go snooping through my stuff. You never said anything about yours."
"That doesn't seem fair to me."
"It's not like you had anything worth stealing anyway. Besides, it was freezing last night. You took my things and my clothes. What did you want me to do?"
Okay, that was a fair point. Damn it, the pretty blonde had a point. Fine, but that still didn't give her a pass to talk trash about his favorite band.
"Alright, that's understandable," Bob decided he'd play the adult here. "I guess you needed it."
There was a pause. They both stayed in a diplomatic kind of silence, watching each other. Yelena's lips pressed together slightly, and her gaze sharpened, locking onto Bob's. He swallowed hard. So this was how mice felt when a cat had them cornered? Suddenly, Yelena burst into laughter, catching Bob completely off guard. Her laugh was clear, bright. Like bells ringing in the wind. Her whole body shook, and she even slapped the table a couple of times.
Girl, what's gotten into you?
"You're really funny, Bob Reynolds," she said, a little calmer now, though the smile hadn't left her lips. "I haven't laughed like that in years."
"You're welcome?"
It was nice to know he was still good for a little comic relief.
"Anyway, I'm really sorry for taking your hoodie. I promise I'll return it. So… is there any way I could make it up to you?"
"Well… you were right when you said you needed it, and it was my fault in the first place for not paying attention. It wasn't my intention to get off the subway without checking my bag either. It's just… I was still half asleep."
"I know," said Yelena.
"You know? But… how?"
"You had your head resting on my shoulder for the last fifteen minutes of the ride," Yelena said casually, like it was as simple a fact as the time of day, or whether it might rain later.
Oh my God. What had he done, what? Bob went straight from confusion to embarrassment in a matter of seconds. Just imagining himself leaning against Yelena, close to her face, and probably drooling on her the whole time. Please, God! Let him not have drooled on her, please.
"I… I'm so sorry!"
Well, so much for not being such a punk, huh, Bobby?
Get out of here, man! This was not the moment for self-sabotage or any of that self-pity crap. We'll get back to you later.
"It's fine," she waved it off. "I'd say you behaved yourself. I mean, you didn't snore in my ear or anything. You pretty much just dropped like a rock."
Well… thank god for that.
"Wait… so you knew I was asleep when I got off?"
"Honestly, it crossed my mind that maybe you were faking it. I mean, a hot guy sound asleep on my shoulder, then suddenly waking up and practically running off with my backpack? I thought it was one of those tricks pickpockets pull. But then we talked for a bit, and every second you seemed less guilty. A little clueless, even," she smiled again, "but I still couldn't let my guard down."
Out of that whole explanation, only one thing caught Bob's attention.
"You… think I'm hot?
Seriously, Bob? That's all you got out of what she just said?
Yelena looks surprised, but her expression quickly softens again into that serene smile.
"Don't you have mirrors in your house?"
"I—yeah, I do, bu-but…"
"Ah, so it's just false modesty."
"Oh, no! I promise it's not, it's just…"
It's just that no one had ever taken the time to look at him and call him "hot." Damn, that feeling again… he can feel it coming.
"Bobby, Bobby, Bobby… poor, stupid, gullible Bobby. Getting all happy over a few nice words? How pathetic, you piece of trash."
Back with a vengeance, huh, man?
Whatever.
Yelena's laughter rang out again, drowning out every negative thought. Like someone had flipped a switch, lighting up the whole room at once. It was impossible not to feel swept up by her, especially when she started laughing with her whole body, like she genuinely felt happy.
"I'm just messing with you. You really are funny."
Once again… you're welcome?
Bob wondered how much time had passed. Talking with Yelena felt good, honestly. Not every day do you sit in the café at Chelsea Piers Sky Rink chatting with a Russian figure skater you met on the subway after accidentally mixing up her backpack with yours. Of course not, man. That kind of thing only happens once in a lifetime. But—and here's a huge but—he had to get to work.
"I have to go," he said, seeing it was already five fifteen and he needed to run if he wanted to make it in time for his shift. "I'm running late for work."
"Right, of course. Sorry."
"It's fine," said Bob, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. "Hey, you said you wanted to make it up to me, right?"
"Um… yeah?"
"Buy me a coffee… I'm about twenty seconds from passing out."
"Sure thing."
There wasn't much traffic that night, thankfully, aside from the usual regulars who came in to grab a drink with their coworkers and watch the game. The typical crowd. Most of the bar's customers were college students trying to drown out exam stress with cheap beer, office workers stopping by for a whiskey before heading home, and the occasional neighborhood regular who always took the same barstool. The murmur of conversations blended with the sports commentators on TV and the occasional clink of glasses during a toast. For Bob, that routine held a kind of comfort. After the chaos of the afternoon, pouring a pint, wiping down the bar, and listening to pointless arguments about whether the Knicks needed another point guard or whether the Yankees would make the playoffs again felt almost therapeutic. No one expected deep conversation from him. Just a well-poured beer and a round that wouldn't take too long to arrive.
Walker showed up later that night. As usual, he ordered a beer and stuck around to keep him company, commenting on the game with the same enthusiasm as everyone else. Little by little the bar emptied out, until only a couple of scattered regulars were left, along with Walker, leaning on the bar with a bottle of beer near his lips and that carefree smile that never seemed to leave his face.
"So… you free enough now to tell me how it went with the girl?"
Yeah. It was about time he asked.
"Not much to tell," Bob answered, wiping down the bar for the eighteenth time in the last hour. "We talked for a bit and I gave her stuff back."
"Oh, come on, man. There's gotta be more behind the word 'talked.'"
"Since you're so insistent—we flirted a little, nothing major. I asked her out this weekend. She said yes and told me I seemed like a real catch."
"Seriously?"
"Of course not, man." Bob exclaimed. It was fun messing with Walker every now and then. He had it coming, being such a gossip. "And besides all that, why the sudden need to butt into my love life?"
"What can I say? I've been a little bored lately."
"Idiot," Bob smiled, "you seriously don't have anyone else to bother?"
"You're the only one whose life I find as interesting as a tragic comedy. Come on, man, give me some credit. I'm a good friend who worries about you." He paused briefly before continuing. "The only one, actually."
"Don't remind me," Bob shot back, opening another beer and sliding it over to Walker. He took it happily and had a swig while Bob went to collect the money a couple of guys had left on one of the tables in his section.
He wiped it down and carried the dirty glasses to the back of the bar. Every task was done mechanically, and none of it took long.
"Oh, man," Bob heard Walker say. "You've gotta be kidding me."
"What's wrong now?"
"Your hot blonde just walked in—wait… who's that other girl?"
Bob looks up quickly, and, completely stunned, sees Yelena and her friend—the one who hadn't exactly been nice to him—stepping through the bar's doors and pausing for a moment near the entrance. Yelena's green eyes met his for a few seconds that stretched, to Bob, into what felt like a tiny eternity. Or at least long enough for him to appreciate her even more. Her workout clothes had been replaced by a much more casual look—denim pants, platform sneakers, and a caramel-colored jacket over a short-sleeve shirt. She still had the same hairstyle from that afternoon, but a little messier now, with a lot more loose strands. In one hand, she carried what looked like a large, dark gift bag decorated with tiny stars. Slowly, Yelena's lips began to curve into a smile, and she took Ava's hand and pulled her along toward the bar, right where he and Walker were standing.
Wait, was this actually happening? Had Yelena Belova really just shown up at his workplace out of nowhere? And how did she even know where he worked?
"Y-Yelena…" said Bob, stumbling a little over his words. Come on, man! Don't make a fool of yourself. There's nothing to be nervous about, it's just… it's just a girl, that's all…
Except for the small detail that it's Yelena Belova, quite possibly the most beautiful girl Bob had ever seen in his life. And with whom, on top of that, he'd had a little incident not long ago.
Yeah, totally chill, man… nothing to be nervous about.
I'm screwed.
"So, I guess you weren't expecting to find me here," she said, leaning against the bar and commanding the whole scene. The eyes of the few remaining customers were drawn straight to her. Bob had to reboot his entire operating system, because by that point his brain had gone completely blank.
"Honestly, no," said Bob, "but… I'm glad you're here."
Wait a second… did he say that last part out loud? Damn it!
Objective: keep Bob from making a fool of himself.
Obstacle: Bob himself.
Yelena's smile faltered for a moment. Bob noticed the pink tint on her cheeks and how she suddenly turned nervous. As if that one small comment from Bob had been enough to catch her completely off guard.
"Seriously, Yelena? Did you drag me all the way here just so you could flirt with the subway boy?"
As if they'd both just woken up at once, Bob and Yelena broke eye contact. Which was crazy, because Bob himself hadn't even noticed the goofy smile he'd been wearing this whole time while he and Yelena stared at each other. Getting lost in one another all over again.
Seriously, man, it's like nobody else exists around you.
"Bob, did you already meet Ava?" said Yelena, taking her friend's arm and gently pushing her forward. The other girl's face looked thoroughly bored, as if she'd rather be anywhere else on earth. In fact, Bob would bet Yelena was the one who'd talked her into coming along.
"Hi…" Bob greeted her, feeling somewhat threatened by the presence of this serious-looking girl with a not-so-friendly face.
Ava nodded, her gaze still fixed on Bob, her expression more intimidating than ever. What the hell had he done now? Bob didn't remember being rude to her, or saying anything that could've offended her. Come on! Somebody save him… anybody up there? Isn't there someone to get him out of this mess?
"So… you're Ava?" said John, catching the attention of Bob, Yelena, and Ava herself, who shot him an uninterested look.
"Wow, no kidding, smart guy. Figured that out all on your own?"
"Hey, look who we've got here. The life of the party," John smiled. "Let me guess, everyone else is an idiot except you, am I right?"
"Bravo. Want a little gold star for your forehead?" Whether John was fazed by Ava's sharp tongue or not was anyone's guess. What was clear was that she seemed to have found a new target to torment, on top of Bob.
"I'm more of a trophy kind of guy."
"Yeah, too bad. Didn't bring dog biscuits in this bag."
A loud burst of laughter rang out through the place. It was Walker, amused, slapping the bar a couple of times, drawing every eye in the room toward him. Including Ava's, who by that point was wondering whether there was something actually wrong with this guy or if he was just acting like an idiot on purpose. It was the first time, for her, that someone had laughed in her face without her sharp remarks scaring them off. Damn! The guy was tougher than a cockroach.
"I like you," said Walker. "I'll buy you a beer."
Ava's face tensed up, caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. No matter how hard she tried to regain control of the situation, her defenses had already taken a serious hit, and her impenetrable fortress had fallen.
Well, man. Walker was quite the charmer. Who would've guessed?
"Yelena," said Ava, turning to her friend, who, along with Bob, had also watched the whole thing unfold in bewilderment. "Are you done with this one? I want to go home."
Okay, Bob liked Ava a lot better when all her venom was aimed at John.
"Sure, just a minute…" Yelena looked at Bob, giving him an apologetic look and a sheepish smile. She held out her hands, offering him the large, dark gift bag with the yellow stars. Bob took it, a little confused at first.
"What's this?"
"It's your hoodie, what else?" Yelena replied, trying to play it off like it was no big deal, though it was obvious she was a little nervous. "Don't worry, I washed it this morning. I was planning to bring it to you anyway, I just forgot."
In his hands, the garment was, indeed, clean and neatly pressed. With a faint scent of peach fabric softener. And suddenly, he felt like a complete idiot for having yelled at her earlier over that same hoodie, when she'd actually gone out of her way to return it so carefully.
You don't deserve any of this, Bobby. Not even the tiniest bit of kindness. You selfish piece of garbage. Happy now?
No…
Then let's keep it that way.
"Hey…" Yelena's voice cut through the thread of his thoughts and pulled him back. Her face looked a little worried. "You okay?"
Her hazel eyes looked warm, almost amber-colored, under the artificial lights of the bar.
"You… you didn't have to. Really, you didn't need to go through all that trouble."
"Oh, it wasn't any trouble. Honestly, there was a sale on fabric softener at Walmart. Two of the big bottles for just fifteen ninety-five. Can you believe it? It was such a good deal."
She smiled, feeling like an idiot. And so did he, only because he found it incredibly sweet. This girl, who tries so hard to seem cool and act like nothing really matters to her, was actually someone sweet and a little shy underneath it all.
If that didn't melt a man's heart, nothing would, man.
"Thank you," Bob's lips curved into a sweet, nervous smile. His eyes never left Yelena the whole time.
"Yeah, well, don't mention it."
"Still, you really didn't have to."
"Well, you said it was really important to you. It's your favorite band, right? The Saja Boys…"
Wait, what? Wasn't that from KPop Demon Hunters?
"Atta Boy," he corrected her.
"That's what I said," Yelena went on. "So, I figured, the least I could do after using your hoodie was give it back clean."
Bob nods, gripping the garment tightly in his hands. He'd never expected a gesture like that in his life. For as long as he could remember, he'd been reduced to nothing more than a pathetic shadow drifting through the corners of the world, without stirring the slightest bit of compassion in anyone. Not even from his mother, or his father. Like some ownerless beast, a stray dog, he'd often had to hold out a hand, hoping for compassion he'd never receive.
His eyes started to sting, a bittersweet feeling flooding his chest. In his hands, that warm, fragrant piece of clothing—something that might or might not mean anything to someone else—was, in that moment, everything to him.
You deserve nothing…
Absolutely everything.
"Bob?" Yelena's voice was soft and worried, her accent noticeable, and Bob was starting to like the way she said his name. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, it's just… it's just that…" He looked into her eyes, and for a second, Bob thought he saw stars inside her pupils. Millions of them, all shining in unison. And in them, he saw his own reflection. "it's just… I love the smell of peach fabric softener…"
They both fell silent, staring at each other, then smiled. Like a pair of fools.
"Yeah, it's my favorite too."
A throat clearing pulled them both out of that dazed state.
"It's everyone's favorite. Now, can we go?"
Good God! Why did the friend of the girl he was starting to be into have to be such a pain? Walker! What the hell, bro? A little support here, man!
"Has anyone ever told you you're a pain in the ass?" said Walker, earning himself a murderous glare from Ava.
"And has anyone ever told you you're a walking pain?"
"About four times this week."
"Figures," said Ava, crossing her arms and turning back to Yelena. "We've got training tomorrow. Val's going to lose it if you fall again. Just a reminder."
So that was the name of that stern-looking, controlling woman?
Yelena sighs, and Bob knows she probably has no choice but to give in to her demanding friend. As much as he doesn't love the idea of her leaving so soon, he also doesn't want her getting scolded for not being focused, all because she didn't give herself enough rest. Bob had no idea about the world of figure skating, but Yelena and Ava clearly seemed very disciplined, and from what he'd seen of Yelena's performance, he could tell she was one of the best.
"Well… bye then, Bob," said Yelena, holding out her hand to say goodbye.
Bob took her small hand, soft and warm. For some reason, he didn't want to let go, but he had to, or he'd end up looking like a total weirdo.
"Thanks for washing my hoodie."
"Thanks for not selling my stuff on eBay."
Little troublemaker. Yelena gave him one last goodbye and turned toward the exit with her friend. Bob watched them walk away until the two of them disappeared through the doors and out onto the street. He's not sure how many seconds he stood there, staring at the spot where her silhouette had just been. A snap of fingers pulled his attention back immediately.
"What are you waiting for, Bob? Go after her, for God's sake!"
"Right!" said Bob, hopping over the bar and tripping over his own feet. He nearly fell on top of a guy who, far from getting upset, cheered him on instead.
"Run, Forrest, run!" shouted John Walker, egging him on as he watched him bolt through the doors and out onto the street.
And Bob ran, ran until his lungs were completely out of air. He ran until his side started to ache, and he promised himself, while running, that if he managed to catch up with her, he'd take John up on his offer and go to the gym with him.
Please, please… don't let her be gone… please…
"Yelena!" he shouted. "Yelena Belova!"
He scanned the crowd; in that moment, it felt like everyone in the world had blond hair. Damn it! Did everyone plan this together, or what?
Too late, Bobby. So slow and stupid. Did you really think she'd wait for you? Did you really believe you had a shot with a girl like her?
"Yelena!"
Yelena… Yelena… Yelena…
The voice taunts him.
Screw you, man! You're not getting to me this time.
"Yelena!"
"Bob?"
Please, someone tell him this was real and not just some cruel trick of his imagination.
"Yelena?" Slowly, he turns. And there she is. Standing next to her friend. Completely confused.
And even so, she's still beautiful.
"Bob?" she repeats. Stepping away from Ava and walking toward him. As she does, her steps grow longer and faster. "Oh my God! Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Bob answered, feeling that old cowardice creeping back in, wondering if he wasn't making a fool of himself in the middle of the street.
Come on, man! Come on, Robert! Forget everything for a second, forget everything your father ever told you. Forget the fear he planted in you. Because you know it, you feel it inside you. That strength that lives in you, that courage that surges in you in the most decisive moments of your life. It's not just about Yelena, even though she was the spark that lit this fire—it's not just about your need to break free from your Void. It's you, Bob Reynolds. Just you.
Who are you?
Does it even matter? I've been here the whole time, cheering you on, man! I'm like that damn Auryn. And in this never-ending story, you're the true hero. The only one who can take control of his own destiny.
Don't listen to her, Bobby! Come back to me, get back in your gutter, you filthy rat.
Bob! Are we men or mice?
Don't you dare answer that!
Men!
Shout it with me, damn it! Are we men or mice?
Men!
Go on, brave Sentry, fly toward your beloved star.
"Yelena Belova," said Bob, his heart pounding against his chest like a war drum—the anthem of his life. The moment when, for the very first time, he wasn't afraid. The most important chapter of his life. "Yelena Belova… will—will you go out with me?"
And then Yelena snaps out of that daze, and with a radiant smile, the most beautiful one yet, she answers:
"Really? I thought you'd never ask. Of course!"
"You said yes?"
"I said yes."
"She said yes!"
"What an idiot," Ava smiled, for the first time all night.
"Come with me," said Bob, taking Yelena's hand.
"Wait," she smiled, following wherever he was taking her. "Where are we going? Ava's going to be pissed."
Yeah… yeah, Yelena, like that matters to us now. Just keep running, alongside your future husband!
Wait, what?
Because I'm the damn Auryn, Bob. I already told you.
"Let's just run together… run together until we're worn out, run together and never let go of each other's hands."
She seemed to glow even brighter, like the stars in the sky. The stars, in those big, beautiful eyes of hers, sparkling as they stayed fixed on Bob. And Bob, he could count every single one of them.
A hundred, two hundred, a million of them, just for him.
"I won't let go of your hand, Bob."
"Me neither."
I won't either, Yelena.
And from then on, they both kept that promise for the rest of their lives, without failing a single day.
That was the beginning of this whole story, folks. Of this never-ending story.