Chapter 3: Three's A Crowd
The scent of seared prime rib and expensive cigar smoke clung to Vanja’s hair as she navigated the hushed, dimly lit hallway towards the restrooms. Jazz piano notes drifted softly from the main dining room of the exclusive Dallas steakhouse, a stark contrast to the frantic drumming of her own pulse. Monica’s proud toast – "To Dr. Vran, future rockstar anthropologist!" – still echoed, momentarily drowned by the clinking of champagne flutes. Her first published paper, a significant foothold on the sheer cliff face of her PhD, deserved this celebration. She touched the delicate gold chain at her throat, a nervous habit, forcing a deep breath. She wouldn't let Monica see the cracks.
Pushing open the heavy, paneled door to the ladies' room felt like entering a cool, perfumed sanctuary after the testosterone-laden atmosphere of the main room. Vanja leaned against the marble sink, staring at her reflection. Her naturally blonde hair was sleek, past half of her back now, not the fiery flag it had been in Madrid or Belgrade. Her hazel eyes looked huge, the carefully applied makeup failing to mask the tiredness beneath. Focus, she told herself. This is your night. Your achievement.
She splashed cold water on her wrists, the shock helping. Fluffing her hair, she turned to leave, pulling the heavy door open just as two figures materialized from the gloom of the hallway. Vanja froze.
Luka, a head taller than the elegant blonde beside him, filled the corridor in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that emphasized the width of his shoulders. Anamaria, delicate in a pale pink sheath dress, clung to his arm, her smile bright, fixed. Vanja’s stomach plummeted. Recognition flared instantly in Luka’s eyes – a jolt of surprise, then something deeper, hotter, that snuffed out the easy charm he’d been directing at Anamaria. His gaze swept over Vanja, not the assessing glance of a stranger, but the intimate inventory of someone who knew the landscape beneath the clothes. It lasted a fraction of a second. Anamaria’s smile faltered, her eyes darting between Luka’s suddenly intense expression and Vanja standing frozen in the bathroom doorway.
"Vanja?" Luka’s voice was low, rougher than the polished tone he’d likely been using moments before.
"Luka. Anamaria," Vanja managed, her voice miraculously level. She nodded, a sharp, stiff movement. "Congratulations on the draft pick. Excuse me." She stepped forward, aiming to slide past them, the scent of Anamaria’s expensive floral perfume thick in the narrow space.
Luka shifted, almost imperceptibly, blocking her path just enough to force her to stop. Anamaria’s hand tightened on his arm. "You're back in Dallas?" he asked, stating the obvious, his eyes locked on Vanja’s face, ignoring Anamaria’s questioning tug.
"Briefly. Research." Vanja kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, over his shoulder. "Enjoy your dinner." She moved again. This time, her shoulder brushed his arm. It was like touching a live wire. A current, unwanted and terrifyingly familiar, shot through her.
She made it three strides down the hallway towards the sanctuary of the dining room's buzz when his voice, low and dangerous, stopped her cold. "Vanja."
She didn’t turn. Her spine rigid, she kept walking. Heavy footsteps followed, quick and determined on the plush carpet. A large hand closed around her upper arm, not rough, but unyielding, spinning her around. He backed her swiftly, firmly, against the shadowed wall between two imposing mounted stag heads. The antlers seemed to loom over them. His body caged her in, the heat radiating off him, the scent of his cologne – woodsy, expensive, utterly masculine – overwhelming the faint perfume trail. His other hand planted flat against the wood paneling beside her head.
"You unfollowed me." The accusation was a low growl, vibrating with a rawness that startled her. His blue eyes, inches from hers, were fierce, wounded, utterly confused. The charm was gone, stripped back to something primal and agitated. "After Madrid. After... everything." His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered.
Vanja’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Fear, anger, and that treacherous physical pull warred within her. She shoved against his solid chest. "Don't fucking touch me, Luka." Her voice was a furious whisper, sharp enough to slice through the jazz drifting from the dining room. "What did you expect? You have a girlfriend." She flicked her eyes pointedly down the hallway where Anamaria stood, a pale, uncertain figure near the restroom door, watching them, her brow furrowed. "She is right there. Ten meters away. Leave. Me. Alone."
The reality check seemed to hit him. He flinched, his gaze snapping towards Anamaria, then back to Vanja. Confusion warred with frustration on his face. His hand on her arm loosened slightly, but didn’t drop. "It's not... It's complicated," he muttered, the words thick, defensive.
Vanja barked a short, humorless laugh. "Oh, it’s crystal clear from where I'm standing. You want your safe, familiar girl back home," she jerked her chin towards Anamaria, "and the convenient distraction when she's not around? That’s not complicated, Luka. That’s cowardice." Her voice was ice now, fueled by months of muted hurt and the humiliation of this very moment. "You don't get to pin me against walls and demand answers while she waits for you to take her back to your table. Let. Go."
He held her gaze, a muscle ticking in his jaw. The raw hunger she’d seen in Madrid flared again, mixed with anger and something that looked strangely like panic. He leaned in fractionally, his breath warm against her temple. "You don't understand," he started, his voice dropping to a rough whisper.
"I understand perfectly," Vanja cut him off, shoving harder against his chest. This time, he stumbled back a step, releasing her arm. She felt the imprint of his fingers like a brand. "Enjoy your steak." She spat the words, turning on her heel, refusing to look back.
A low, guttural curse in Slovenian followed her – "Jebem ti mater!" – laced with frustration and something else she couldn't name. He didn't follow.
Vanja walked back into the roar of the dining room, her legs trembling slightly beneath the sleek fabric of her dress. The clinking cutlery, the laughter, the jazz piano – it all felt jarringly loud, surreal. Monica looked up, her smile fading instantly as she saw Vanja’s face."Vanja? What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Vanja slid into the plush booth, her champagne flute still half-full. She picked it up, her hand not entirely steady, and drained it. The bubbles burned. "Ran into the ghost of mistakes past," she said, her voice surprisingly steady, though her cheeks felt hot. "Luka Dončić. With his girlfriend."
Monica’s eyes widened. "Oh shit. Here? Right now? Did he… say anything?"
Vanja glanced towards the hallway entrance. Luka was walking back to his table, his expression carefully composed now, the storm she’d seen moments ago locked away. Anamaria followed, a step behind, her hand slipping back onto his arm, her face turned up to his with a question Vanja couldn't hear. He nodded, plastering on a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Vanja looked away, the image of Anamaria’s hopeful, oblivious expression twisting the knife.
"He had a lot to say," Vanja replied flatly, swirling the dregs of champagne in her glass. "None of it worth repeating. Apparently, he noticed I unfollowed him after Madrid. Had the audacity to be offended." She met Monica’s concerned gaze. "He’s young, Mon. Twenty. Swimming in money, fame, pressure. His childhood sweetheart? She’s a life raft. Safe harbor. I was just…" She paused, the memory of the Belgrade nightclub, the pink bedroom at dawn, flashing vividly. "I was just the girl who slept with him the first night she saw him. Easy. Convenient. Nothing will ever change that perception now. Especially not with her hovering like a blonde security blanket." She signaled the waiter for another drink. "Let's order dessert. Something disgustingly chocolatey. I need to erase this taste."
Monica squeezed her hand. "Okay. Double chocolate lava cake it is. Screw him."
Vanja tried to smile. She watched Luka out of the corner of her eye. He was leaning towards Anamaria, talking, but his gaze kept flickering, restless, scanning the room. Once, it landed on Vanja. She held it for a beat, her expression cool, unreadable, before deliberately turning back to Monica, laughing at something her friend said, the sound brittle in her own ears. He was confused, alright. A golden boy adrift, grabbing onto familiar shores while the tide pulled him towards deeper, uncharted waters he wasn't ready to navigate. Vanja understood confusion. But she also understood self-preservation. The taste of champagne was still bitter on her tongue. Nothing, absolutely nothing, excused being pinned in a dark hallway while his girlfriend waited ten meters away. That wasn't confusion. That was disrespect. And she was done being convenient.
The double chocolate lava cake tasted like ash. Vanja pushed the plate away, the gooey center congealing under the restaurant’s warm lights. Monica chattered about departmental gossip, trying to fill the silence Vanja left hanging thick between them. Every laugh felt forced, brittle. Across the room, Luka’s easy grin was back in place for Anamaria, but Vanja saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze kept flicking towards the exit, anywhere but directly at her table. Safe harbor. Coward. The words echoed, sharp and unforgiving, as she paid the bill. "Early flight tomorrow," she lied, the excuse scraping her throat. Berlin couldn’t come fast enough.
Back in her small Berlin apartment weeks later, surrounded by scattered anthropology texts and the comforting scent of old paper and strong coffee, the steakhouse felt like a fever dream. Texas heat replaced by crisp German autumn air filtering through her open window. Vanja hunched over her laptop, translating a dense passage on Balkan burial rituals, her brow furrowed in concentration. Focus was her armor now. Her phone, face down on the desk, vibrated violently – once, twice, three times in rapid succession. She ignored it. Probably Monica sending another cat meme. The fourth buzz was longer. A call? She flipped the phone over reluctantly.
Luka’s name flashed on the screen. Missed call. Then, a notification: 1 New Voicemail. Her thumb hovered. Curiosity warred with self-preservation, cold and sharp. Don’t. But the need to know – what fresh chaos was this? – won. She tapped play, holding the phone slightly away from her ear.
His voice was a thick, slurry mess, the familiar Slovenian cadence distorted by too much alcohol. "Vanja... pfft... pick up, pick up. Why you not...?" A clumsy pause, the sound of a glass clinking heavily. "She's gone. Ana... flew back. Slovenia. Again." He stumbled over the words. "Fucking... fight. Again. Always... about you." His voice dropped, muffled, then surged. "You know what she say? 'You follow twenty people, she is one of them... she doesn't even follow you back. What is she, some celebrity?'" He mimicked Anamaria's voice, high-pitched and furious, poorly. "Screaming. Like always. Fuck."
Vanja closed her eyes. The image was sickeningly clear: Anamaria’s blonde head thrown back, voice shrill in some sterile Dallas penthouse, the ghost of Vanja haunting their dysfunctional relationship. Safe harbor was taking on water. Luka’s voice shifted, lower, a messy attempt at sincerity that scraped raw against Vanja’s nerves. "I just... I like her. You. I like you." The admission hung in the recorded air, clumsy and devastating. He seemed to hear its wrongness even through the haze. "Sounds fucked, I know, jebem ti... drunk... whatever." Another heavy sigh, the sound of fabric rustling, maybe him collapsing onto a couch. "She slammed the door. Gone. She'll... be back. Always back. No other... plan." His words slurred into bitterness. "Not like you. You got... your own shit. Life. Passion. That paper thing..." He fumbled, clearly referencing her work, her world. "Your words... 'own life... career...' shit. Hunt me." The line crackled with his ragged inhale. "Let's talk. Please, Vanja. Just talk."
Silence stretched on the recording, thick and heavy, punctuated only by his ragged breathing before the voicemail ended. Vanja sat perfectly still in her Berlin apartment, the academic text blurring before her eyes. The vulnerability he offered felt cheap, tainted by bourbon and the echo of Anamaria’s screams. It wasn't a plea; it was another demand on her energy, another attempt to pull her into his chaotic orbit now that his chosen anchor had temporarily slipped. Convenient. Always convenient when the safe option raged and left. The memory of being pinned against the steakhouse wall, his breath hot on her skin while Anamaria waited just meters away, flashed bright and humiliating.
Without hesitation, her thumb moved with cold precision. Block this caller. A single tap. The connection severed. She turned the phone face down again, the silence in her apartment suddenly profound. Outside, a Berlin tram rumbled past. She picked up her pen, forcing her focus back to the ancient rituals on the page. The only momentum now was forward, away from the tangled mess he represented. Her phone screen stayed dark.
The silence in Vanja’s Berlin apartment was a physical presence after blocking Luka’s number, thick and strangely hollow. She stared at the lifeless phone, the phantom sound of his drunken, pleading voice still echoing in her skull – Anamaria’s screams, his messy confession, the sheer chaotic need of it all. With a sharp exhale, she shoved the device deep into her bag, burying it under notebooks and pens. Focus was her weapon. She grabbed her annotated copy of Ritual and Belief in the Dinaric Alps, its dense pages a familiar, demanding anchor. Coffee. Strong and black. The ritual of grinding the beans, the gurgle of the machine, the bitter aroma cutting through the lingering psychic residue of Dallas – these were steps back to herself, back to solid ground.
Across the Atlantic, dawn bled through the expansive windows of Luka’s Dallas penthouse, illuminating a scene of expensive desolation. Empty highball glasses stood sentinel on the glass coffee table, sticky rings marking their territory. Luka sat hunched on the vast, too-white sofa, head pounding, mouth tasting like stale regret. The memory of last night crashed over him: Anamaria’s tear-streaked face, her voice rising to a hysterical pitch as she threw accusations about Vanja, his own drunken voice slurring into Vanja’s voicemail. "Jebem ti život," he mumbled, scrubbing his hands over his face. The vulnerability he’d spewed felt exposed and stupid in the harsh morning light. He’d practically begged.
His phone buzzed, a sound like a dentist’s drill in his skull. Anamaria’s name flashed. He stared at it, the weight of expectation settling like lead in his gut. This was the pattern. Fight, flee, return. He knew the script. Swallowing hard, he answered. "Ana?"
"Luka?" Her voice was small, thick with tears. "I… I’m at the airport. I didn’t get on the plane." A shaky pause. "I shouldn’t have left like that. Can… can you come get me?"
Relief warred with a deeper, colder resignation. "Yeah," he said, his voice rough. "Yeah, stay there. I’m coming." Hanging up, he slumped back. It was easier this way. Predictable. He knew the shape of her anger, her forgiveness. Vanja? Vanja was a wildfire – exhilarating, terrifying, and utterly beyond his control. She had that PhD world, that sharp mind that cut through his charm. She’d blocked him. The finality stung.
He found Anamaria looking fragile and lost near baggage claim, a single small suitcase beside her. She flew into his arms the moment she saw him, burying her face in his chest. "I’m sorry," she whispered against his shirt. "I just… I get so scared. This life, the girls always looking…"
"It’s okay," he murmured, patting her back, the gesture feeling automatic. He avoided looking directly into her eyes, focusing on the garish airport lighting reflecting off the polished floor. "Let’s go home." Home. The word felt like a well-worn shoe, comfortable but slightly too tight. As they drove back in silence, his mother’s voice played in his head, warm and approving: ‘Ana is a good girl, Luka. Steady. She understands our world. The right choice for someone like you.’ Safe. Correct. The NBA draft, the endorsements, the blinding future… Anamaria was part of that expected package. Vanja was a dangerous, dazzling detour he couldn’t afford.
Vanja spent the next week immersed in the quiet, dusty sanctuary of the Ethnological Museum archive. Berlin’s autumn chill seeped through the old stone walls, a welcome counterpoint to the remembered Texas heat. She traced the faded ink in 19th-century field journals, losing herself in descriptions of harvest rituals. Monica video-called, face pixelated on Vanja’s laptop screen. "So, total radio silence since Operation Blockade?" Monica asked, crunching an apple.
"Blissful silence," Vanja affirmed, not looking up from a sketch of a ritual mask. "Buried under enough ethnographic data to drown out any… distractions."
"Good. Seriously. That hallway stunt? Unforgivable." Monica paused. "Heard he had a monster game against the Lakers last night. Forty points."
Vanja’s pen stilled for a fraction of a second. "Good for him," she said, her voice deliberately flat, refocusing on the spidery handwriting. She wouldn't ask. She wouldn't care. Her own research proposal deadline loomed, a tangible goal far removed from the gilded cage of NBA courts and possessive high school sweethearts.
Luka drove to practice on autopilot, Anamaria’s presence back in the penthouse a low hum in the background. She’d unpacked, filled the fridge with Slovenian groceries his mom sent, draped her things casually over furniture – reclaiming territory. The team facility buzzed with the usual pre-practice energy – the squeak of sneakers, the thud of the ball, the easy trash talk. "Looking rough, Dončić," teased his point guard, Jalen, bouncing the ball hard beside him. "Late night celebrating Ana being back?" He winked.
Luka forced a grin, catching the ball. "Something like that." He launched a three-pointer. Swish. The familiar rhythm of the court was a relief, a space where actions were clear, consequences immediate. Score. Defend. Win. Off the court? Everything felt murky, fraught with expectations he couldn't define, let alone meet. He threw himself into drills, the physical exertion a welcome purge, trying to drown out the image of hazel eyes looking at him with icy disdain in a steakhouse hallway. He knew Vanja saw him as confused, young. Maybe she was right. But the alternative – the messy, terrifying unknown she represented – felt impossible. Anamaria was here. His mom was happy. The safe play. The only play.
Later, scrolling mindlessly before bed, a notification popped up – Anamaria had tagged him. He clicked. A photo of them at dinner that evening, her blonde head resting on his shoulder, her smile wide and content. His own smile looked practiced, a little tight around the eyes. Her caption: Home isn’t a place, it’s a person. Grateful for my anchor always. ❤️ #blessed #myeverything #dallasmavs
Luka stared at it. Anchor. Safe harbor. The correct choice. He hit 'Like'. The hollow click echoed in the quiet room. He knew Vanja probably wouldn’t see it, wouldn't care. But posting it felt like building another brick in the high, safe wall separating him from the dangerous allure of the girl with most beautiful face and amazing body and the PhD who’d called him a coward. He silenced his phone, the glow of the screen reflecting the weary acceptance in his eyes. This was the path.