“We aren’t all getting drunk and punching someone in the eye,” Alicia snapped with a wide-flung gesture at Ilya. “Yeah, I know what happened at the funeral parlor. Everyone knows. Everyone was talking about it.”
“Just one more thing for them to talk about,” Nikolai retorted. “Along with everything else about us, like they always do. Those fatherless Stern boys, the one with the crazy mother.”
She was across the room with the front of his shirt in her fists before she could stop herself. She shook him. Tears slid in burning tracks down her cheeks.
“You think it’s about you? It’s not about you! Or him! It should be about her, about Jenni—”
He didn’t try to wriggle out of her grip, but he put his hands on her wrists to hold her still. His lip curled. “Or about you, maybe? Is that why you’re mad? That you’re still not the one anyone talks about? Now that she’s gone, what, you think you can step in and take over as the popular one?”
Alicia jerked her hand from his grip. The slap rocked him. The imprint of her hand on his cheek was first white, then pink and slowly red as he put his own hand up to cover it. His eyes narrowed. Nikolai grabbed her wrist again.
“Go ahead.” She tipped her face up. Taunting. “Punch me in the face the way you did your brother at my sister’s funeral, making asses of yourselves. Go ahead. You want to hit me, Nikolai? I’m right here. Go ahead! Do it!”
She tried to scream, but her breath came out in wispy, whistling gasps. She flailed and tried to smack him again, because why, why did Nikolai Stern always have to be such an asshole to her? He caught her wrist, holding both again. He didn’t hit her.
He kissed her.
It was what she wanted, all along. It was what she’d been thinking about since the night of the party back in October, all these long months when they’d both pretended it never happened. It was all she ever thought about when she looked at him. The smell and taste of him, the pressure of his mouth on hers. The slide of his fingers in her hair.
Nikolai kissed her with an open mouth. Sliding tongues. Still holding her wrists, although she was no longer trying to hit him, he stepped back toward the bed until they both fell onto it, bouncing on the saggy, old mattress.
Alicia had thought about this, too. Of the sleekness of his skin. The weight of him on top of her. They moved together like they’d always known how. How easily she gave this up to him, this thing she’d imagined she would save for a night of candlelight and blowing curtains and someone who loved her.
But who else could it have ever been other than Nikolai? There was pain she’d been told to expect and fear, the sting that was hardly anything at all compared to the pleasure. Who other than him? Because it was love.
It might not be forever, but right then, it was love.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Niko and Allie?
Two shadowy silhouettes behind the sheer curtains of Allie’s kitchen door, embracing. Theresa stepped back and away from the window, well aware that if she could see in, the pair of them could see out. And she didn’t want them to see her watching them like she was some kind of voyeur, which she definitely was not, even though she’d taken another chance and peeked again to make sure she hadn’t imagined what she’d seen. The curtain had blurred the details, but not enough that she could pretend they were doing anything else.
Without knocking, Theresa carefully took a backward step down off the porch and turned toward the house across the street. She’d momentarily allowed herself the luxury of the somewhat melancholy indulgence of memory. If she drew in a breath, closed her eyes, she could probably manage to convince herself she was fifteen again, just running next door to watch late-night TV and eat snacks with Allie and Jenni. The time she’d spent living with the Sterns was no more than a blink in the long, hard stare of her life. Why, then, did that period of time affect her so much to this day?
That was a question deeper than she wanted to go, at least today. With a backward glance at Allie’s house, Theresa mentally tucked away the secret she’d stumbled across and headed across the street, where once inside she navigated the crowd of mourners in search of Ilya, who’d been looking for Niko.
“I didn’t find him.” She eyed him. His hand hadn’t been empty of a bottle for the past few hours. “Have you eaten something?”
“Not hungry.” He lifted the bottle to his lips and made a face when it was empty. “Where is he? He should be here, dammit. He needs to deal with her.”
Theresa took the bottle from him and tossed it in the trash, then followed the lift of his chin across the room to where his mother sat in one of the dining-room chairs like it was a throne. “What’s she doing?”
“She’s talking to people.” Ilya’s mouth twisted. “Like she knows any damn thing about shit.”
“Her mother died, Ilya.” Theresa surprised herself with her defense of the other woman, who certainly had never done anything to earn Theresa’s loyalty.
Ilya fixed her with a hard look. He wasn’t as drunk as he was acting, she thought. Which made her wonder why, exactly, he was faking being hammered when he wasn’t. What was it he meant to say that he could later pretend he hadn’t meant?
“You’re the last person I thought would take her side,” he said.
Theresa looked again. Galina wasn’t crying. Theresa hadn’t seen a single tear out of her, as a matter of fact, but that didn’t mean anything. People grieved in different ways.
“I don’t hate your mother.” It wasn’t a lie, but that didn’t quite make it the truth, either. She sealed her lips, thinking there was more to say. There always was. But now wasn’t the time, and here wasn’t the place.
“Ilya. Hi.” A slight woman with pale-blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail nudged Theresa to the side. “I’m so sorry about what happened.”
“Dina.” Ilya gave her a small nod but no smile. “Where are Bill and the kids?”
Dina coughed into her fist. “They’re at home. I ran over to pay my respects, that’s all. Maybe we can go somewhere and talk?”
“Sorry, can’t. I promised Theresa I’d eat something.” He reached for Theresa’s sleeve, tugging her closer. “Thanks for coming, Dina.”
With that, he pushed Theresa toward the dining room. Bemused, she shot a glance over her shoulder at the other woman, who was scowling, her arms crossed over her chest. Ilya went straight to the dining-room table, which was overloaded with platters and casseroles and a heaping basket of dinner rolls. He grabbed a paper plate from the stack and started loading it up.