Her Rustanov Bully: the (possibly romantic?) tale of how I pucked around and found out
Her Rustanov Bully: Chapter 28

The Yolks had a home game on Valentine’s Day, which happened to fall on a Sunday that year.

After an early but delicious dinner of shashlik, a skewered meat dish similar to shish kabobs, I waved Yom off with a cheery, “Break some eggs!”—UMG’s version of wishing good luck.

“I will,” Yom replied with the kind of unshakable confidence I could only dream of having.

Especially as I cautiously climbed the stairs a couple of hours later to leave my relationship status test in front of Yom’s bedroom door.

Or, I guess I should say doors. His private space was guarded by two tall, intimidating ebony wood doors with steely black handles. There wasn’t a lock that I could see. Still, the setup reminded me of some imposing vault. Something that could only be opened by the owner.

Will I ever be invited inside? Do I want to be?

The soft chest feelings fluttered—along with Merry’s story about her German ex gift bombing her before his true intentions were revealed.

What were Yom Rustanov’s true intentions? Toward me?

Those questions ticked like a bomb in my belly as I returned to my room. For the next few hours, I distracted myself by scrolling on my phone and stopping to listen to a series of increasingly dramatic voice texts from Trish about her not-date with Rina at a Tegan and Sara concert:

At 8:05 p.m.: “I looped my arm through hers after we walked through security, and she didn’t shake me off!”

The next message came through about an hour later: a covert side picture of Rina in a backward cap, staring stonily at the stage. Then, “God, she’s so ridiculously masc. Totally my type. Once we get over this ‘no dating’ thing, I’m going to make her wife me.”

And finally, a little after 10 p.m.: “I am so done for. She sang along with ‘Closer’ and knew every word! That’s a sign, right?”

I was just about to send a voice message back, demanding footage of the stoic Rina singing, when a loud knock sounded on my door.

My stomach dropped to my feet, and my anxiety spiked to, like, 14 on a 1-10 scale. Yom was home.

I’d set the test, but even after hours of waiting, I wasn’t sure if I was ready for the result.

I took a deep breath and opened the door anyway.

Then immediately regretted that fifth helping of shashlik.

My stomach pitched dangerously when I found Yom scowling on the other side of the door, holding the small white teddy bear with the red heart I’d left outside his door in one hand. In the other? My second V-day gift: a heart-shaped box of chocolates—the sight of which immediately brought Nirvana’s “Heart-Shaped Box” to mind in a very not-romantic way.

He was wearing the university’s official yellow-and-white Yolk athletic tracksuit, and despite his totally conflicting coloring—dark hair and pale skin—he somehow managed to pull it off. The sharp lines of the jacket contrasted with his lean, broad-shouldered frame like its only design goal was to look good on him. His piercing eyes—gray with flecks of silver, like storm clouds on the verge of breaking—locked on me. And narrowed.

God, why did he have to be so unfairly handsome? Even when he looked seconds away from throwing the bear back at me.

“What is this creature?” he demanded.

“Um…” Any comfort I’d felt around Yom over the past few weeks vanished in an instant. My incoming rejection alarm flared at the sight of him holding my small stuffed gift in his large hand. “Happy Valentine’s Day?”

“Is this why arena is decorated with so many frilly hearts tonight?” Yom’s scowl deepened. “I am not realizing it is this holiday—or that we are supposed to be exchanging gifts.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to get me anything,” I rushed to assure him, trying to keep my tone light, despite the embarrassment clawing at my insides. “I was just thinking you could maybe use it for your Statistics midterm next week. Trish mentioned a study she read where kids performed better on tests when they were given a small stuffed animal to take with them.”

“I am not child,” Yom said, his lip curling in a sneer. “I am grown man.”

“I mean, technically, neither of our prefrontal cortices will finish developing until we’re twenty-five—so, like, three more years, give or take….”

Yom regarded me with a flat, angry stare.

Until I gave up trying to sound smart and admitted, “I was just… just trying to figure out what our relationship status is. You said no more questions, so I thought maybe this could be a kind of test.”

“A test?” he repeated, his sneer—a Rustanov trademark, according to that Epoch Quarterly article—deepening. “I tell you no more questions, so now you are testing me with toy made for children to figure out what we are to each other?”

He said “figure out” like it was some nonsense term I’d just made up. My face burned as I began to feel like an entire episode of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. Except I wasn’t his ex-girlfriend. Just a half-a-night stand.

“Yes, it was a test,” I admitted, trying to keep my dinner down. “A really stupid test.”

Yom furrowed his brow, as if he was still having trouble comprehending me. “Test…”

And now I had my answer—along with another excruciating memory that I already knew would have me cringing for years. Maybe even forever.

My chest ached with… what, exactly? Relief? Regret? Abject humiliation? It felt like everything at once.

“You know what, I’m sorry. You’re right. This was a terrible, childish idea.” I reached for the bear. “I’ll just take it back.”

“Nyet!” Yom pulled the teddy bear away before I could grab it. He threw me an irritated look, his jaw tightening. “Tomorrow, I have morning practice. Rina will drive you to university. I have something at lunch, so I will not come. You tell me at dinner how Merry’s first appointment with the obstetrician goes.”

I inwardly frowned. He usually didn’t have morning practice the day after a game, and he hadn’t missed a weekday lunch since the start of the Anything List—even the one I’d canceled. But I wasn’t going to argue about having to wait until dinner to face him again.

“Cool, cool, I’ll see you…” I started, but Yom turned and walked away without a word.

Leaving a cold wave of shame to wash over me in his wake. Yep, I’d definitely gotten the answer about our confusing relationship status.

Nothing to see here, folks. Nothing at all.

“Which made sense,” I told myself the next day—and Trish and Merry over lunch.

“I can totally understand why the hottest guy in school has no desire to be official anything with me, the girl who misled him and cost him an international final in Berlin,” I concluded after recounting what happened with the teddy bear.

“Then why does he have you living up in his house with him after you apologized, like, a thousand times for what happened in Germany?” Trish let out a frustrated huff. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It will when the other shoe drops,” Merry predicted in the ominous tone of someone who had her first off-campus obstetrician appointment scheduled for later that afternoon.

“Can we change the subject?” I asked, picking up a comfort fry with a weary sigh.

Trish nodded with an enthusiastic, “Amen! I really hate that our first conversation in weeks without Yom here doesn’t remotely pass the Bechdel Test.”

She glowered—right before her angry expression crumpled. “Do you think Rina didn’t show up for lunch today because I kissed her?”

“Yes,” Merry answered flat-out at the same time I offered Trish a sympathetic, “I mean, maybe not?”

I fought the urge to glance over at Stepan, now occupying Rina’s old spot as our silent sentinel.

“But it was amazing!” Trish whined. “I mean roller-coaster, rock-your-world amazing. How is she refusing to see…”

Trish broke into a full rendition of “We Belong Together.”

And I once again wondered how someone with as sensitive an embarrassment switch as mine managed to acquire a best friend willing to belt out Mariah Carey in the middle of the food court.

However, that afternoon, I was grateful for having a bestie who could almost always pull the conversation back to herself. It took my mind off the disastrous fallout from trying to give my hot-but-completely-cold housemate a Valentine’s Day gift.

At least for a little while.

My phone pinged with a text message from my dad during my shift at the animal shelter. Since it was a slow day at the front desk, I took a moment to read it.

Well, that would be a disaster, especially considering how much Yom and Paul despised each other.

Plus… I pressed the voice text icon to inform my dad, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

But before I could send it, another text popped up.

My stomach twisted. Dad rarely showed affection—to me or Paul, his naturally born son. The old (but apparently never gone) desire to please him—to prove he hadn’t made a mistake when he let Mom convince him to adopt me—rose in my chest.

“Hey! Your hot hockey player’s manly woman bodyguard is here to pick you up,” Val called out.

She’d made a habit of standing at the window and peering through the shades before the end of my shift.

I didn’t send the denial message to Dad. Or ask Rina about the kiss, though I had several voice texts from Trish, low-key commanding me to do just that. I just didn’t have the heart to help my bestie chase someone who considered her a distraction.

I told myself I’d explain everything to my dad after I finished outlining my midterm paper for my Animal Behavior seminar..

Right before my heart stopped as soon as I entered my study haven.

A gigantic teddy bear leaned against the empty left wall, so tall its head nearly touched the ceiling. And on my standing desk sat a vase with a huge bouquet of red roses.

As fascinating as the bear was, I rushed over to the flowers with my heart in my throat.

I held my breath as I rifled through the bouquet, careful to avoid the thorns, my stomach tight with hope. There had to be a note. Something that would make sense of all this.

But… no note.

Of course there wasn’t. Why would there be?

Just another mixed signal, which I guess I was supposed to interpret as… What?

The impulsive anger I’d worked so hard to regulate since my ADHD diagnosis flared hot and fast, only to crash into a hollow despondency. I looked between the huge bear and the flowers, realizing that I was right back where I’d started—totally confused about where I stood with this guy. I felt even more stupid than I had last night. For daring to hope for clarity that was clearly never coming, no matter what I did.

Maybe that was the answer—that there were no easy answers with Yom Rustanov.

He was a player. And this was just another game to keep me guessing—a reminder that whatever we had would never be simple. Maybe I needed to accept that—at least until the end of the year, when I could finally walk away from all this confusion.

Until then…

I glared up at the gigantic teddy bear with an idea for what to do with it.