Karina

  "Dad, wait for me, I'll be there soon." And a meringue smiley face.

  How beautiful! The cake is exactly what I need.

  Or should I write instead, "Dad, wait for us, will we be there soon?" I feel like there's more than one of us.

  On our mother's side, everyone has twins. My mom has a twin sister, Aunt Lika. My grandmother does too. And I had one too; they never told me, but I overheard Mom and Grandma whispering about it. My little sister's heart didn't work when we were still embryos.

  Mom suffered a lot from that, probably why they only had me.

  So, I'm pretty sure Mark is going to be a dad twice over. I haven't had the ultrasound yet, it's too early. I feel good, and when Mark arrives, we'll go together.

  Good thing I Googled "How to originally tell your husband about pregnancy." Dozens of ways popped up. Mark's not my husband yet, but he'll like a cake like this.

  A "You're going to be a dad soon" T-shirt would be nice too. And the stork's message: "I'm already flying, I'll arrive in nine months."

  I don't know about a Kinder Surprise with a pregnancy test. I immediately ruled out all options with pregnancy tests. The way I did it, handing a used test to a man, in any form, isn't too hygienic. You can seal it in film, but that's not a good option.

  But the cake, yes, the cake is the best. Small, to fit the inscription. Maybe Gromov doesn't like sweets at all, I didn't have time to ask. We didn't have time for that.

  I need to call the confectionery to make the cake before Mark arrives. I've been waiting for him every day since he flew to Israel for treatment.

  I think I heard a car horn, I look out the window. I thought I did. It's off-season, demand is not high. No one has come this morning.

  If I weren't alone, I'd lie in a hammock behind the house, under the trees, but I can't. My parents went to visit my dad's mom. She had surgery, and now Mom's taking care of her, and Dad won't move a step without Mom.

  I bite into a juicy apple and lazily browse the news section. Some famous actors who recently married are already on the verge of divorce. A popular singer's husband cheated on her with her friend, and she kicked him out. Good for her, I'd do the same, and send my friend after him.

  My eye catches a familiar name.

  "Martin Gromov, heir to his grandfather Boris Bronsky's billions, returned from Israel where he was treated after an accident on the road..."

  Annoyed, I drop my smartphone. Why do they call Mark Martin?

  Someone made a mistake from the start, and the rest of the media followed suit, multiplying the error. They write that Mark died and his brother Martin survived. But I know the truth!

  It was Mark who survived, I saw Martin's cold, lifeless gaze with my own eyes. No pulse, no heartbeat. I dragged both him and Mark and put them in the driver's seat. Though my eyes were full of tears, I saw everything.

  I called the police and the ambulance and watched the divers search the sea for Mark's body. A living Mark who was in my room at that moment.

  Mark Gromov, famous racing driver, multiple world circuit racing champion, and rallycross silver medalist.

  Who stayed with me for almost two weeks, who said he would definitely come back for me. And whom I'm pregnant with, though he doesn't know it yet.

  And most importantly, if Mark returned, why didn't he call me?

  * * *

  The plane hasn't even landed yet, and I already want to jump outside. I'm ready to descend without stairs, ready to run across the field, to do anything to make it faster.

  I've lost a few days trying to convince Dad to come. He didn't agree until I threatened to leave the house and let the workers handle the gas station. And then, I still waited for my father to arrive at "Four Wheels."

  I braced myself for long lectures, but Dad, surprisingly, didn't say a word. He even gave me more money for the trip, though I had my own. Not much, but I had.

  All this time, Mark hasn't called, but I try not to go crazy. Of course, I feel uneasy deep down, but I try to convince myself that anything could have happened.

  Mark could have lost my phone number. We threw his device into the sea together so he couldn't be tracked. And the piece of paper on which Gromov wrote it could easily have been lost. And he could also be deeply immersed in the affairs he now had to assume in place of Martin. His grandfather, Boris Bronsky, bequeathed his billions equally to both brothers, but Mark had no intention of delving into business.

  "Between the two of us, Grandpa Bronsky's brains went to Marty. All I inherited was his madness," Mark told me. He transferred his share to his brother for management, reserving only the dividends.

  Remembering Martin makes my nose itch. I didn't know him and truly, I feel sorry. But immediately, I'm seized by a guilty conscience, unable to help feeling deep down in my soul relieved that Mark was the one who survived. I've been in love with him since school.

  He promised he would come himself, that's what he said when we parted. He took my chin, pulled my tearful face up, and I drowned in his sea-blue eyes:

  "I'll come back, little one, I promise. Do you believe me?"

  I nodded fervently, holding back tears, but most importantly, I believed. And now I believe, so I make my way to the exit and am the first to jump onto the staircase.

  I don't pass through passport control; instead, I practically fly. I get into the first taxi I see and give the address of the village where the Gromovs live. The driver whistles, throws me a surprised look, but remains silent.

  I know very rich people live there, like Mark's parents. The brothers lived separately from their parents, but now Mark has returned here; I read it in the news.

  At the village entrance, they ask whom we are visiting, and I say the Gromovs.

  "Are you from the catering? Are they expecting you?"

  I'm not one of those, but I nod affirmatively. We'll sort it out later. The guard lifts the barrier, and the taxi enters the village on a road smooth as a mirror.

  I look out the window and recognize the Gromovs' house from afar. Mark showed me photos he downloaded from his cloud, so this house is familiar to me. Near the three-meter-high fence, a whole caravan of cars is lined up.

  And then my heart starts beating at triple speed because I see Mark near one of the cars. My throat knots up, tears are about to spill, and I blink often to hold them back.

  "Stop," I ask the taxi driver and almost jump out of the still-moving car. Otherwise, my heart will burst out of my chest.

  I clench my hands and press them against my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. Otherwise, it might break out of my chest, jump, and run across the smooth asphalt, racing me. Towards Mark. And the closer I get, the harder it beats.

  "Mark!" I call out, he turns around, and I repeat in a low voice: "hello, Mark..."

  I eagerly gaze at his face, so familiar and beloved. He has lost weight during his time in the clinic and also has short hair. But now I can see I was not mistaken.

  It's him. My Mark. This is not Martin. I'm sorry, Marty, I'm sorry, but I love him so much... He looks at me silently, examines my face intently, furrows his brow.

  "I couldn't wait for you, I came myself," I whisper, licking my salty tears, and smile broadly.

  "Excuse me, but I don't know you," say the lips, which have not left a single millimeter of my body unkissed.

  "What are you saying, Mark?" I wipe my cheeks with the palm of my hand and keep smiling through tears. "It's me, Karo!"

  "I am not Mark," he says, with pursed lips and compassionate blue eyes. And I can't help myself, I grab his broad shoulders and shake him with all my might.

  "It's you, do you hear me? You! Don't tell me that, I can see it!"

  His strong masculine arms grab my wrists and gently remove my hands from his shoulders.

  "It's true, Karo, I'm not Mark. I'm Martin. Excuse me, but I don't know you."

  "N-n-no," I shake my head, my tears dry up, my eyes are now dry and for some reason hot, "it can't be... It's not true!"

  "It can be, Karo," he smiles sadly. "I'm sorry, but my brother died. And I am Martin. I'm sorry, I have to go, I'm late for the ceremony. Today is my wedding."

  He opens his arms guiltily and shakes his head, and I step back and lose my balance. I don't fall only thanks to Gromov, who catches me by the waist, and I look around helplessly.

  I cast a confused glance at the caravan along the fence. Why didn't I realize right away that it was a wedding procession?

  Two Months Ago

  Yesterday, I again left the blinds open, and it's been sweltering since morning. The sun beams straight onto my face. But with the blinds closed, I could easily oversleep till lunch, and after noon, the sun moves to the other side, bringing shade here. There's even no need to turn on the air conditioner.

  I leap out of bed and first thing, greet Mark.

  "Hello!"

  I gaze at him with enthusiasm and gratitude; he always boosts my mood. His smile, unfazed by whether it's sunny or cloudy outside, stretches across his face. His upper lip is curled, and the corners of his mouth lifted, making his smile broad and open. But each time, it seems like he smiles just for me.

  I run my hand over the smooth, cool surface and quickly press my lips against the smiling ones. Of course, this is just a color poster on the wall above my bed, not the real Mark. What did you think?

  If I had seen the real Mark, I probably would have fainted. But those concerned about me can rest easy: encountering Mark in r

eal life, for people like me, is nearly impossible. The odds are about the same as coming face-to-face with the President of the United States. Or with humanoids.

  Mark Gromov is a global celebrity. He's a famous race car driver, a world champion, and my first and only love. I fell head over heels for him at fifteen, watching a brief Formula 1 report, and since then, no one has been able to shift him an inch from my internal pedestal.

  Now I'm eighteen, but I harbor no hopes of ever meeting him in reality. Between us lies a wide, deep chasm marked by our differing social statuses. My parents are ordinary folks, earning their living through physical labor.

  And the fact that I'm their only and most beloved daughter does nothing to bridge the gap to Mark.

  Even if a miracle happens and I manage to attend a race, the chance of us meeting is one in a thousand. Or one in ten thousand, depending on where the races are held.

  Jostling through a crowd of enthusiastic fans, elbowing my way forward, just to catch a glimpse of him, or maybe even see him whiz by in his race car, is definitely not my thing. And outside the races, our chances of meeting are even slimmer. A few months ago, Mark's grandfather, the billionaire Boris Bronsky, passed away. He didn't leave his fortune to his daughter, Mark's mother, but to his grandsons, Mark and Martin, Mark's twin brother.

  Mark and Martin Gromov are twins, so strikingly alike that they are often dubbed the "Gromov clones" in the media. They refer to each other not as "my brother" but as "my clone." The brothers even seem to cultivate their resemblance on purpose.

  They both have identical tattoos stretching from elbow to neck. In an interview, Mark joked that it was a test drive for future wives.

  "We'll marry those who can tell us apart," Martin chimed in, supporting the joke.

  Now they're billionaire clones, and the chasm between us has widened and deepened, not in meters, but in kilometers.

  Yet, this doesn't stop me from loving Mark. I've watched every video and photo of him, every interview and photoshoot, even amateur footage.

  I know there are always lots of girls around him. Just an immense number. All tall, beautiful, with long legs and full lips. Here too, I don't lose my mind; I accept it as inevitable. I'm here, he's there; it simply cannot be otherwise.

  Of course, I'm jealous, but I often try not to think about it.

  But the Mark on my poster is only mine. I step out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, and hear voices coming from the yard. In two seconds, I drop the towel, dry off, and slip into a dress. The faux Mark smiles even wider and squints more.

  "Don't peek!" I threaten with a finger and dash to the yard.

  My parents left two days ago, and I'm still not used to the fact that I'm alone in charge of the gas station. And completely alone, since today is Sunday and the workers have the day off.

  "Is anyone here?" I hear an impatient voice.

  "Here, here," I reply, discontented, while hastily tying my hair into a bun.

  However, once I have time for a coffee, the world becomes much more attractive and benevolent. And if I start to love it, there's nothing more to say.

  "Please fill up the tank," requests the visitor. I lift my head and feel my mouth open in a round 'O'.

  I seem rooted to the ground. My feet turn to lead and refuse to move. My arms hang limply by my sides like whips.

  It's time to faint, as I promised because right in front of me stands Mark Gromov, as if he stepped out of the poster. Only now, he's not smiling. And beside him stands his clone, Martin.

  Karina

  "Karo, for the love of God, close your mouth!" I beg myself mentally, but it seems my jaws have gotten stuck.

  I've imagined our meeting so many times! Down to the smallest detail, including gestures and blinks. And the number of scripts I've composed for these unexpected encounters, no less than a hundred, maybe more! For each one, I have a dialogue prepared.

  Witty remarks. Clever comments. Ironic twists.

  I was supposed to leave Mark without the slightest chance.

  I had to be intriguing enough to draw him in, yet sufficiently detached not to push him away.

  And instead, here I stand, like an idiot with my mouth gaping and my legs stiff in a white dress dotted with small flowers.

  Because there, just like his brother Martin, stands Mark in front of me, shirtless, with their T-shirts slung over their shoulders. Their tanned skin is dotted with sweat droplets, and mentally I caress it with the palm of my hand, wiping the moisture away... In short, everything is like in my boldest fantasies. Where we don't talk, but are preoccupied with each other.

  Mark looks back at his brother and then at me, asking with some concern:

  "Hey, little one, is there anyone else here, apart from you? Any adults?"

  I nod affirmatively and then immediately remember that today is Sunday. I hastily shake my head.

  "Yes, very informative," Martin rubs his chin thoughtfully and addresses me again: "Sweetheart, do you know who might help us? We've run out of gas, just a bit short. We need to fill up the tank. You know, the heat, the air conditioning on, and we've been going uphill all the time."

  It's logical, guys! In the mountains, it's either up or down.

  No, I haven't regained my speech. Thankfully. I'm practicing wit, honing it in self-exercises and keeping the dialogue exclusively in my head. Meanwhile, Martin leans toward his brother and asks, almost without moving his lips.

  "Hey, do you think she might be deaf? What do you think? Maybe we should write down the questions?"

  He asks in Russian, and I tune in.

  "No need to write, Martin," I reply in a hoarse voice, "I'm not deaf and I hear you perfectly."

  I also speak in Russian, leaving both Gromovs utterly dumbfounded. I turn so abruptly that my hair whips through the air in a zigzag, and I head for the gas station. Remembering I haven't taken the keys, I turn around abruptly again and head back to the house.

  The men watch my movements in silence. I climb the porch steps, turn around, and see on their faces the same expression, which could be interpreted in any way.

  "You guys bring the car over in the meantime," I gesture towards the fuel pumps and continue up the stairs.

  "And where are you going?" comes the question.

  "To get the keys," I reply, without turning back. "It's a day off, the workers are off. But I will refuel, just bring it closer so I can insert the nozzle into the tank."

  Back in the house, instead of picking up the keys, I'm glued to the window. I watch with bated breath as the most beautiful body in the world moves and flexes its muscles. Mark pushes the car, gripping the front door's frame, while Martin leans on the trunk.

  For a while, I wander around the house, unable to understand why I came here, seeing nothing but the smooth, evenly tanned skin, under which his well-defined muscles move.

  "Little one, did you get stuck?" an insistent voice calls from outside. That voice snaps me into action, and I take the keys from the safe in my parents' bedroom.

  I pull the hose with the filling nozzle, insert it into the fuel tank.

  "How do you know he's Martin?" I hear an almost threatening voice behind me. I turn.

  "Because you're Mark," I reply, looking straight into the deep blue eyes, which now appear dark, like the sea during a storm.

  The Gromov brothers continue standing before me, both with broad shoulders, tanned skin, and dark hair. Remarkably alike, yet not so much that I can't tell them apart.

  "And how do you know I'm Mark?" those blue eyes scrutinize me up close. They study me.

  "Because I love you..."

  But I'd rather die than say that out loud. For some reason, I step back and murmur:

  "I guessed."

  He seems not to believe me. But that's not my problem. Not in any case. And he can scan my back all he likes.

  I turn around, pretending to adjust the fuel nozzle in the tank, though it fits perfectly. But I can't say the same for myself.

  I really can distinguish between the brothers. But I can't explain to myself how. I'm not a telepath, I can't read thoughts.

  Whoever first called the Gromov brothers clones might as well have trademarked it as a brand. They are not just similar, they are as identical as possible. Despite the fact that one of the brothers is a professional athlete, and the other is a "white-collar worker." Office plankton.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7