“I think Catherine the Great would have appointed me heir to the throne if I made that for her,” I say.

Yelena snorts, licking chocolate from her thumb. “She would at least give you a dacha in Zavidovo.”

“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds nice.”

As we explore the little booths full of jewelry and dried herbs, hand-made soap and fresh honey, Yelena explains to me the system of Russian summer houses, originally given by the tsar to his nobles, then seized during the Russian Revolution, and now resurfacing in the form of modern mansions built in the countryside by wealthy oligarchs.

“We have those here, too,” I tell her. “We call them ‘cabins’ even when they’re massive. And even when it’s nothing like camping.”

“I don’t understand camping,” Yelena says. “Sleeping in bugs and dirt.”

“Under the stars,” I say. “In the fresh air.”

“With bears.”

“I don’t know why I’m defending it,” I laugh. “I’ve never been camping in my life.”

Yelena and I are smiling at each other, enlivened by all the people around us, the chaos of sights and sounds. Even with all that as a backdrop, I only want to look at her face. The more people surrounding us, the more she stands out as the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Every head turns to look at her—none more than mine.

I like arguing with her about camping. I like talking to her about anything. I ask her favorite books and music, her favorite movies. She tells me that she learned to speak English by watching American movies with her mother.

“She loved movies, any movie. She was obsessed with Yul Brynner. He was Russian too, you know. Born in Vladivostok. She used to say they were practically neighbors.” She pauses, seeing that I don’t understand the joke. “Vladivostok is a port city close to Japan. It’s the opposite corner of Russia from Moscow,” she explains. “Nine thousand kilometers apart.”

I’m wondering how to hide the fact that I might not even be able to point out Moscow on a map—not unless it was labeled.

Luckily, Yelena doesn’t quiz me. She continues, “We watched all Brynner’s movies. I could probably quote The King and I from heart. She used to tell me how he came to New York, how he modeled nude to make money, and then started acting . . .”

A muscle jumps in her jaw as she adds, “My mother was a model, too . . .”

“I could have guessed that,” I say. “I didn’t think you got your looks from your father.”

Yelena gives a short laugh, but her face isn’t happy.

“Maybe she had a similar dream,” she says. “She never said it exactly, but the way she talked about Brynner . . . maybe she dreamed of running away and coming here, too . . .”

She trails off.

“You came here,” I say to Yelena. “Not to New York, but Chicago’s pretty damn close.”

Yelena nods slowly. “Yes,” she says. “She might have liked that.”

The whole afternoon has gone by while we’ve been walking around the fair. We’ve come to the end of it, and we’re a long way away from the truck.

“Do you want to take a cab back to the car?” I ask Yelena.

“No . . .” she says, looking ahead of us along the lakeshore. “What’s that up there?”

She’s pointing to the Centennial Wheel at the end of Navy Pier.

“Do you want to ride it?” I ask her.

With a slight look of nervousness, she says, “Yes.”

“Are your feet sore yet?” I look down at her sandals.

“No,” she says, shaking her head.

We walk down the length of Navy Pier, through the park and the shops, stopping only to buy our tickets. I can see Yelena looking more and more apprehensive the closer we get, as the massive wheel towers overhead. It’s not until we’re climbing into the car that she admits, “I’m a bit afraid of heights.”

“Why do you want to ride it, then?” I ask her.

“Because it looks beautiful!” she says fiercely.

As our car begins to rise up in the air, her face turns paler than ever. But she peers out the window at the view across the lake, encircled along the western rim by high rises.

The car rocks a little as the wheel stops and starts, letting more people climb on below us. Yelena jumps, grabbing my thigh. Her fingernails dig into my flesh even through my jeans, but I don’t mind. I put my hand on top of hers and massage gently until she relaxes.

To distract her, I say, “You know the first Ferris Wheel in the world was built here in Chicago.”

“It was?” she says.

“Yeah, for the World Exposition in . . . I’m gonna say . . . 1893? They were trying to show up the Eiffel Tower.”

Yelena raises an eyebrow. “The Eiffel Tower is hard to beat.”

“Yeah.” I grin. “But it doesn’t move.”

We’re almost at the very peak of the wheel now. The motion stops once more, and we look out over the water. The sun is sinking down. The whole sky is turning orange, the clouds gray as smoke and the sun like a burning brand above the water. The waves lapping the shore are deep indigo, tipped with peaks of white. It looks so unearthly that we’re both silent, just staring through the glass.

“Look,” Yelena says, pointing. “A star.”

The star is faint, just glimmering into being in the darkest strip of sky.

I turn to look at Yelena. The sunset glow is burning on her skin, painting it gold. Her eyes look lighter than usual—pale as lavender and gleaming beneath her dark lashes. Her lips are parted.

I lean over and kiss her. Right as our lips meet, the wheel swings into motion and we plunge down, down the other side of the circle. The motion is slow, but my heart rises up in my throat, and I grab her face between both of my hands, to keep our mouths pressed tight together.

Yelena does the same, her long, slim fingers twined in my hair. She kisses me deeply, her lips tasting of powdered sugar and a hint of chocolate.

The kiss goes on and on. I pull her onto my lap so she’s straddling me. The motion makes our little car rock back and forth, but Yelena doesn’t seem to mind. My arms are wrapped tightly around her, and hers around me, which makes it seem like nothing could harm us, even if we tumbled down a hundred feet.

I’ve never been so consumed by a kiss. The whole world has disappeared around us. There’s nothing but this car full of sunset light and our two bodies wrapped together.

Then the car jolts to a stop, and the attendant pulls the door open.

Yelena and I break apart, surprised. The ride is over. We missed the whole thing, lost in that kiss.

As we climb out of the Ferris Wheel, I say, “Sorry about that—I didn’t mean to distract you the whole time.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Yelena was blushing.

“I don’t mind,” she says. “Actually . . . it was perfect.”

Maybe I should wait to ask her this later, via text, so I don’t put her on the spot. But I can’t help myself.

I say, “Will you go out with me again? For free this time?”

I say it lightly, like I’m joking. But my heart is hammering against my ribs.

Yelena is quiet. I can tell she’s running through something in her mind. I hope she’s wondering how her father will react to that, and not trying to decide if she likes me or not.