She glanced at him over her shoulder as she went to the fridge to grab a drink. “I am. Your mother asked me to come. She said it’s okay if I stay here for the week, for shiva, but if it’s a problem . . .”
“Apparently it’s not my house,” he told her with a shrug. “So it’s not like I could kick you out, even if I wanted to.”
She eyed him over the top of her cola can, sipping, then let out a sigh. “Do you want to kick me out?”
“No,” he said after a second or so. “Of course not. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to, although why you’d want to, I have no idea.”
“I want to be here to celebrate Babulya’s life and help to mourn her death. Isn’t that what shiva is?”
Ilya made a face. “You sound like you know more about it than I do.”
“I dated a Jewish guy a couple years ago,” Theresa said with a shrug. “I picked up a few things.”
Time had passed—a lot of it—Ilya reminded himself. Theresa had lived a whole other life, just like he had. He imagined, briefly, Theresa kissing some faceless guy. Laughing, walking hand in hand. Weirded out, he shook away the thoughts.
“Besides,” she said lightly before he could reply, “my landlord decided he was going to finally replace the furnace and all the ductwork. So I need a place to crash, anyway.”
“A hotel would be better than this house,” Ilya said. “The shower’s a nightmare.”
“Oh, I know, believe me. I thought it was going to flay me alive.” She grinned.
“Grab me one?” Ilya gestured for her to get him a cola, and she did, which he opened and drank from before asking, “So, what’ve you been up to the past few decades?”
“That covers a lot of ground.” She took another long drink and shook the can to judge how much was left. Leaning against the counter, she crossed one arm over her belly to prop her opposite elbow on it.
“Well . . . you have a job?”
“Of course I have a job,” she said.
Ilya laughed. “What do you do?”
“I make connections,” Theresa answered. She drained the can, then tossed it into the recycling bin.
Ilya shook his head. “What do you connect?”
“Mostly real estate. I find properties that are in foreclosure or other financial difficulty and connect buyers that have the finances and desire and abilities to turn those opportunities into successful projects.”
“You lost me,” Ilya said.
Theresa laughed. “I spend a lot of time on the Internet looking up properties for sale or the places that have liens and back taxes, or are in an underserved location, or are somehow unique. Then I get in touch with people who like to invest in that sort of thing and try to connect them.”
Ilya chuffed somewhat amazed laughter. “And this works out for you?”
“Oh, yeah,” Theresa said airily, with a wave of her hand. “It’s been terrific. Best job ever.”
Something in her tone sounded a little off. Her smile, a little dim. Ilya tossed his cola can in the trash and went to the fridge to pull out a couple of beers. He handed her one. “How’d you get started with that?”
Theresa waved away the beer. “Not for me, thanks.”
He put it back in the fridge and cracked the top of his. “You don’t drink?”
“Nope.”
Ilya frowned. “Since when?”
“Since . . . forever,” she said. “For a long time, anyway.”
“You used to.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Maybe once. Here. That party you guys had.”
“That was a long time ago, Theresa. You’re telling me you haven’t had a beer since then?”
She shrugged. “Yep. It happens, you know.”
“But . . .” He shook his head. A life without booze? “Why?”
She brushed past him to grab a glass from the cupboard. Her perfume, something fresh, wafted over him. Her hair, long and thick and dark, tumbling over her shoulders and down her back, brushed his shoulder. He took a step back as she drew a glass of water from the tap and turned to face him, sipping.
“I don’t like it, that’s all. Where’s your mother and Niko?”
“She’s upstairs. I don’t know about him. People should start arriving soon, though. I think Galina told them around seven.” Ilya tipped the bottle to his mouth and drank, savoring the tang of hops and the underlying flavor of honey. His brother had picked this up. It was fancier than what Ilya usually drank. “You don’t drink at all? Not even a glass of wine with your girlfriends? Not ever? That’s weird.”
She looked him over. “It’s not weird. I need to get changed before everyone gets here. You didn’t go in to work today?”
“Nah.” He’d thought about it, but Alicia would take care of things better than he ever could.
“Are you planning to go tomorrow?” Brow furrowed, Theresa looked him over with that same wrinkled nose from earlier.
“Look, you can get off my case, okay? All of you can get off it.” He drained the beer and tossed the empty bottle into the garbage with a clatter of glass. He took the second—the one she didn’t want—from the fridge, and popped the top without looking at her.
“Sorry.” Her voice was cool. Theresa glanced at the teapot clock that had hung over the sink forever. “You’re right. It’s not really any of my business. I need to go get changed before people get here.”
“And you want to know what else is weird? You.”
She turned back to look at him with narrowed eyes. “Me?”
“Yeah. You showing up here after all this time, and you’re staying in the house? That’s weird.” Ilya tipped the bottle at her, enjoying the way the word clearly needled at her. Getting a rise out of her.
“Your mother offered,” Theresa said after a pause. “It was nice of her.”
“In this house with a shitty shower and drafty windows? And that bed’s hard as a rock. Don’t tell me it’s not.” He laughed harshly. “You’d be better off in a hotel.”
Theresa frowned. “Why are you always such a colossal dick, Ilya? Really. I haven’t seen you in a long time, we have nothing to be angry at each other for, and I haven’t done a damned thing to you. Ever. I mean, are you holding a grudge against me because I used your toothpaste a couple decades ago, or what?”
The truth was, he had no idea why he was so bent on being such an asshole to her. In reply, he set the bottle on the counter and crossed his arms. Theresa rolled her eyes.
“Fine. I’ll pack up my things and be out of here tonight, then. I’m sure I can get a room somewhere, even this late. I’ll leave after the shiva is over.” Theresa went to the table and rustled around in her bag for a moment, glaring. She stopped to look up at him. “Or maybe I should just go now? Since obviously I’m causing such a problem for you.”
Now Ilya felt exactly like the giant dick she’d accused him of being. It was a stupidly familiar feeling, only this time instead of keeping up with it, he sighed. “Ah, shit. Theresa . . .”
“What?” She stood and put her hands on her hips.
“Sorry.” He attempted what was meant to be a charming smile, the one that usually worked on the women he’d pissed off. He’d had a lot of practice using it.
Theresa didn’t seem charmed. “Does that usually work for you? The ‘Aw shucks’ look?”
There didn’t seem to be much point in denying it. Ilya grinned. “Yes. Usually.”