I kept forgetting that Aleksandr was navigating a new country and culture with no family at all. Had jackass always been his personality, or was it his wall of protection? How had he acted around his parents?

When we finished scraping for the day, we went inside to wash the stray flecks of dried paint off our hands. Then we made our way to the kitchen where Gram stood at the stove stirring a saucepan of hot chocolate.

“Smells amazing, Gram.” I hugged her from behind. “Thanks.”

“There’s a plate of graham crackers and apples over there.” She nodded to the counter near the sink, as she poured the steaming liquid into two mugs.

“Do you want to hang out or do you need to get going?” I asked as I shook mini marshmallows into my hot chocolate. It was a game day. He’d come over to scrape after his morning skate.

“I stay a little bit.” He added marshmallows to his drink. “Thank you, Mrs. Berezin.”

“Thank you. You helped us out so much,” Gram told him, as she rinsed out the pan.

I picked up my mug and the plate of food and headed downstairs. Aleksandr followed me with his drink and two napkins.

“This is great,” Aleksandr said. From the bottom of the stairs, he could see the basement in full. The section to the right housed a couch, an old recliner, and a TV. A bumper pool table that my grandparents have had since the seventies took up most of the left side of the room. A table hiding Gram’s sewing machine and a large dresser we used to store out-of-season clothes took up the rest of the space.

It was weird to hang out at my grandparents’ house with a guy. I’d rarely invited friends over when I was in high school. At college, I’d dated a few guys, but no one I would ever bring home to meet them. For some reason, I thought if I ever had a boyfriend there would be very little interaction between him and my grandparents.

Since I’d moved to college, my relationship with my grandparents had improved dramatically. The previous years had constant ups and downs, stemming from my being a grieving child acting out for attention and understanding. There’s a significant difference for those two generations apart. If the time between one generation and the next is considered a gap, the time between nonconsecutive generations is a canyon. How can it not be? My grandparents lived through multiple wars, a depression, and their daughter being killed.

“Thanks.” I set my drink and the plate of graham crackers and apples on the table next to the couch, then pressed the Power button on the TV. The old box hummed, warming up for about a minute before the picture popped up. It was an ancient TV, but it served its purpose.

“You have Atari?” Aleksandr’s huge, disbelieving eyes focused on the dusty, black rectangle on the floor next to the TV.

I didn’t realize he’d be impressed by that. I didn’t play video games, so upgrading to a Wii or Xbox didn’t make sense. We’d had the Atari for ages. I played it only when my cousins were over.

“Yeah. Do you want to play?” I asked.

“Uh, yes!” He set his drink and the napkins on the table. “I’ve never seen one of these in real life.”

Aleksandr and I settled on the floor in front of the TV, because the joystick cords weren’t long enough to reach the couch. He sat close to me, the outside of his thigh touching mine. It warmed me in the cool, damp basement. My sweaty palms were not a result of holding the joystick. It was a hindrance, actually.

Being in my grandparents’ house made me feel like the timid creature I’d been as a child. I hadn’t been nervous about hanging out with a guy since high school. So why was Aleksandr’s thigh making my palms sweat and my insides flip?

“Watch out for that snake!” Aleksandr grabbed my knee, watching as I expertly maneuvered my Q*bert guy around, illuminating the blocks of the pyramid game board.

“Don’t worry, Coily will eat my dust,” I brushed off his warning.

Aleksandr laughed out loud. “You named the snake Coily?”

“No. That’s his name. The snake is Coily, and the green dude with the sunglasses is Slick, which is totally lame, but who am I to argue with Q*bert’s creators?” I shrugged.

“You’re the best, Audushka,” Aleksandr said in between laughter. He looked past me to the wall. “Is that Tretiak?”

“Yeah.” I nodded without taking my eyes from the TV screen.

I didn’t have to check the wall to know a poster of the greatest Russian goalie of all time hung there. Vladislav Tretiak, Bobby Orr, Henri Richard, and the Production Line (Gordie Howe, Sid Abel, and Ted Lindsay) all hung in poster form on the basement walls. The first three were reproductions of colored drawings that had been made into posters. My grandpa came home with them for me one day. The Production Line poster had been a giveaway at Joe Louis Arena during a Red Wings game I’d attended.

“You keep surprising me.”

“Why? You knew I was a hockey freak.” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, not willing to lose a Q*bert life for this conversation.

“I knew that, yes, but I don’t know any girls who have posters of hockey legends on their walls. And I don’t know any Americans who have a Tretiak poster at all,” he explained.

“What can I say? I’ve always had a thing for Russians,” I said without taking my eyes from the screen.

In a flash, Aleksandr tackled me, and his mouth came down on mine. I dropped my joystick, clutching his shoulders to keep from falling over. His tongue was strong as he parted my lips and entered my mouth.

The tinny swearing sounds of Q*bert dying rang out in the background, but I didn’t care. Aleksandr pulled me closer until I was in his lap. The kiss intensified, his tongue rolling over mine, pressing harder, softer, then harder again. My back arched, chest slamming against his when I felt his teeth tug at my lower lip. He pulled away.

“Sorry.” He smirked. He didn’t look sorry at all. His eyes were bright. His lips moist and red. He could devour me.

I wanted him to. I shook my head to shake out the thought.

“Dude, you killed my guy,” I said with a smile, turning my eyes to the screen. A new Q*bert stood at the top of the pyramid ready to bounce.

“You can play mine.” He pushed his controller toward me before climbing onto the couch.

“Nah. I have Atari hand.” I rubbed the spot on my right hand where the base of my thumb and index finger come to a curve.

I leaned over to shut the game console off and joined Aleksandr on the couch. I intended to change the TV channel to one that showed real shows, not just the blue screen, but as soon as I got on the couch, Aleksandr grabbed me from behind and dragged me into him.

“I don’t know if we should start this, Sasha,” I said, my nose brushing his, our lips inches away from another intoxicating kiss.

“We already have, Audushka,” he said, looking into my eyes, expression soft.

“Can we just, I don’t know.” I exhaled, shaking my head. “Take it slow?”

“I’m in no hurry.” He pressed his forehead to mine and dropped a kiss on my nose. Then he slid his arms across my stomach, and we settled into the couch.

I watched his eyes flutter shut. Listening to his breath was peaceful, as it had been when he’d been in my bed. I’d never felt comfortable enough to sleep with anyone, always worried about ridiculous things. Was I too heavy? What if his arm fell asleep? Would I snore? Or worse, drool?

I felt so comfortable with Aleksandr that I honestly didn’t think I’d care if I snored or drooled. With him, I could laugh it off, rather than be mortified.

Snuggled into his chest, I smelled the faint aroma of cloves, which he hadn’t touched the whole time we were outside scraping. Probably didn’t want another strike against him with Grandpa, though I could totally picture Gram asking to bum one.

“Audushka,” Aleksandr whispered in my ear, rubbing my back in a soft swirling motion. “Audushka, you have to wake up.”