Inside the pizzeria, everything remained as I remembered, except for the waitress greeting the guests. She hardly resembled Galina; she seemed like her complete opposite: instead of light strands, her thick hair gleamed black like a raven's wing, and if she had makeup on, it looked so natural that a quick glance could easily mistake it for innate beauty and freshness. The waitress led us into the hall, holding a stack of menus to her chest and gesturing politely to a table in the corner. The very same table where Nik and I had once sat, and my stomach knotted.
"Can we sit over there?" I asked hastily, noticing Diana unwrapping her scarf. "By the window?"
"Of course," the waitress smiled warmly and placed the menu on the indicated table. I thanked her briefly and slid along the soft seat to the window, trying to stay as far as possible from the area that involuntarily triggered memories. Scenes from the past still brought pain, though not as intense. Sometimes I wondered how Nikita felt. Was everything okay with him? But I quickly reminded myself that Karimov didn't deserve my concern. Not after he deceitfully planted feelings in my heart that my mind couldn't reject, even knowing the truth.
"Why do you sigh so sadly?" Diana asked, touching my hand with her cold fingers. "Are you nervous?"
"No, not really. We're not taking entrance exams. We'll just go to the university, listen to what they say, and leave."
"That sounds uninspiring," Violetta said without looking up from the open menu.
"What can you do," I said, stretching and picking up the folded brochure to choose a dish. "It is what it is."
"To be honest," Dasha joined in, "I'm really nervous. What if they don't like us? What if we say or ask something wrong?"
"I'll just sit quietly and listen to what they suggest," Diana said, radiating confidence. "Anyway, all the important things will be explained, and any specific details can be clarified later with the admissions office."
"Then why are you even going today?" It was hard to focus on the colorful pictures of pizzas, but curiosity got the better of me.
"I want to see what it looks like inside. Maybe the photos on the website don't show the place accurately. It's important for me to know where my classes will take place for the next five years. I'm not ready to accept old rooms with skimpy heating and crumbling plaster here and there."
"Especially after our school," Viola added, grimacing as if she had seen far worse places and felt the difference. I could only guess where the other students had studied before returning to Xerton.
Diana suggested ordering two large pizzas for the four of us, and I liked the idea because I couldn't possibly eat even a small pizza whole. That unpleasant, ticklish feeling inside me persisted and wouldn't go away. This pizzeria was my personal circle of hell. A place that drained my energy just by existing.
My classmates continued talking about something, but only fragments of their words reached me. I wasn't listening, absorbed in watching the cars speeding past the window, searching for even a little peace. As if on cue, a dark cherry SUV rushed by and plunged me into a swamp of pain with renewed force. It must have been Nikita's father returning home from the supermarket, or maybe he was just running errands.
I licked my dry lips and, as if in a trance, tasted the familiar flavor of lemon marmalade. That was exactly how Nik's kiss had tasted. The memory surfaced—the softness of Karimov's lips that day and how devilishly tempting it had been to touch them. Again and again, growing bolder each time, giving in more willingly, sinking into his arms. If this love had always been just an illusion, imposed from someone else's shoulder, then why did my heart clench painfully every time I thought of Nikita?
"Asya, dig in!" Diana's cheerful voice pulled me back to reality. "Otherwise, we'll eat everything before you even blink."
I tried to smile, but my cheeks felt tight. My skin pinched unpleasantly. As casually as possible, I grabbed a piece from the plate, trying to act like everything was fine. The stretchy cheese refused to let go of the pizza triangle, following its beloved to the edge of the table like a devoted suitor, where I finally separated the excess with the tines of my fork.