by Megan Hart
CHAPTER TWO
Ilya didn’t have to erase the blonde’s number from his phone, because he hadn’t even typed it in when she gave it to him. He’d meant for her to be as easily forgotten as all the women had been in the past few years. This one, though, had left her scarf on the dining-room table. He hadn’t even remembered her wearing a scarf.
Now he lifted it to his face, breathing in the scent of her perfume, to see if that would help him remember her name. Amber. Her name was Amber. Well, he could put the scarf in his “Lost and Found” box, and if they ever hooked up again, she could sift through the discarded lingerie, sunglasses, and lipsticks. One day he was going to get rid of all that junk, those mementos of his wild nights out, but for now he tossed the scarf on top of everything else and slid the cardboard file box back into its spot on the shelf in the front closet above the winter coats.
Stripping out of his boxers on the way to the shower and kicking them in the general direction of the pile of dirty laundry near the basket, he thought about running out onto the front lawn totally naked for a few minutes just to get Dina Guttridge’s motor running. If she had a hissy fit about him doing a few downward dogs in his boxers, she sure as hell wouldn’t like him doing it in the nude—but ultimately, it wasn’t worth the hassle. Sooner or later, he figured she was going to quit spying on him and get over the fact that once a few years ago they’d had a couple of glasses of wine while her husband was away. Not much had happened. A little making out, a little finger banging. As far as Ilya was concerned, it was only cheating if someone came. It had been a mistake, though, and not because she was a married woman living next door to his ex-wife, with whom he still owned a business and worked with every day. Nope, he should never have fooled around with Dina, because she was flat-out crazy for the D, and she couldn’t seem to get it through her head that Ilya was not interested in being anyone’s side piece—at least not more than once.
He wasn’t interested in being anyone’s front or back piece, either. Him and relationships? No, thanks. He’d done that already, all serious and committed and monogamous, and look what had happened. The sour sting of that experience still lingered. Probably always would. And why? Because he’d done his best to love Allie and be good to her, and in the end all he’d done was make a mess of things. That was all he was good for: screwing up.
He couldn’t blame her for it. Their relationship had been doomed from the start. Tumultuous and emotional and stupid. It had ended as abruptly as it had begun; he’d come home one day to an empty house and a note telling him she’d moved back across the street into the house her parents had left behind when they moved to Arizona. There’d been no counseling, no “working it out.” Ten years and it was over, yet they were still a part of each other’s lives and would likely always be. They were family.
They’d once filled an empty space within each other, one that nobody else could ever understand.
Maybe that was why he’d been an asshole and tried to come on to her this morning, he thought as he stood in the shower under water still too chilly for comfort. Because, despite last night and Amber, all Ilya had was a still-empty space. He pushed those thoughts away because, damn, it was too early for self-contemplation. Hissing at the sting, Ilya twisted the faucet handle sideways, to get beneath the water so he could scrub his armpits, still rank from the night’s acrobatics and not helped by his morning exercise. The showerhead had come off a few years ago, and he hadn’t replaced it, which meant the water shot out of a single pipe sticking out of the wall with enough force to abrade him in every tender place if he didn’t stand at just the right angle. He winced at the scratches along his back and sides. Next time, he told himself, he’d make sure to pick up a woman who didn’t have talons.
He heard the muffled sound of the landline ringing again but didn’t bother to get out of the shower to answer it. The only calls that came through on that number were solicitors or scams. Or his ex-wife, he thought, calling to chastise him about naked front-lawn yoga. He took his time scrubbing and rinsing, then stepped out of the water and rubbed his hair dry with a towel that smelled faintly of mildew—shit, he needed to do laundry. Again. What the hell was up with that?
Ilya tossed the damp towel toward the basket and went, still naked, down the hall into his bedroom, where he dug through another pile of clothes to give them a sniff test to determine whether they were clean enough to wear a second time. He was going to be in his scuba gear most of the day, anyway, or a pair of trunks and a T-shirt, so what difference did it make that he picked out a pair of grass-stained cargo pants and a tank top with a hole in the side? He wasn’t entering a fashion show.
His phone buzzed from on top of the dresser, then went silent, which meant he’d missed a call. A moment later, the landline rang again, sounding louder this time, since there was still a handset hanging in the hallway outside his bedroom. Pulling up his briefs with one hand and hopping on one foot, Ilya headed for the doorway. His shoulder connected with the door frame hard enough to bounce him backward, and he let out a curse of pain as he managed to unhook the phone from its cradle, but then dropped it and kicked it out of reach when he bent to lift it.
Behind him, on the dresser, his phone buzzed again.
“This better be important!” he barked into the landline when he at last was able to snag it.
“Mr. Stern?”
“Mr. Stern’s my dad,” Ilya said, ever the smart-ass, and unable to stop himself. His father had died when Ilya was two. He didn’t even remember him. “Who’s this?”
“Ummm . . . I’m trying to reach Ilya Stern?” Whoever it was pronounced the name as “Eye-lah” and not “Ill-ya,” which set him directly into telephone-solicitor territory.
“Wrong number.” Ilya slammed the phone back on its cradle, hard enough to shake it on the ancient screws barely securing it into the plaster.
His cell hummed with another call, this time adding a few beeps to indicate a voicemail. Damn, he was popular this morning. Throwing on his pants and tugging his shirt over his head, he thumbed in the code to listen to his messages. There were three. Two from a number he didn’t recognize, with nothing but the empty hiss of air for a message.
The third was from his brother, Nikolai. He hadn’t heard from Niko in a couple of months—nothing unusual about that. Niko had been living overseas for the past few years. Niko hadn’t been stupid enough to get married too young. He’d been smart enough to get the hell out of Covey County and see the world instead.
Without listening to more than the first few words of Niko’s message, Ilya thumbed his brother’s number instead. “Yo. What’s up?”
Silence.
“Niko?”
“Ilya . . . you didn’t listen to the message, huh?”
“No.” Ilya paused his search for a pair of shoes. He straightened. “What’s going on?”
“The nursing home’s been trying to get hold of you for like an hour, man. They finally got me on my cell, but that was a lucky shot. I just happened to be taking a break from work and checked my messages.”
Ilya sat on the rickety chair in the corner, knees suddenly weak. “You sound bad. What is it?”
“It’s Babulya,” Niko said with an edge in his voice. “She’s . . . they say she doesn’t have long to live. You need to get over there right away.”
CHAPTER THREE
Alicia had seen Ilya cry only once before, and that had been the first night they’d ever had sex. She didn’t like thinking of that night at all, but especially not now, not here in Babulya’s sparsely decorated room in the nursing home, as they’d all gathered around her bed. The old woman had been as much a grandma to Alicia and her older sister, Jennilynn, as she’d been to her own two grandsons. The only one Alicia could remember, as a matter of fact, since her own grandparents had all passed away when she was a toddler. And now Babulya was dying, too.
Nikolai was here, travel-worn and exhausted. It had taken him a day and a half to get home from whatever far-o
ff adventure he’d been having, and Alicia hadn’t even had time to say more than a quick “Hey.” Not that she had much more to say to him than that.
Her former brother-in-law had taken charge quickly enough, stepping in where Ilya had faltered, and Alicia supposed she ought to be grateful that someone had, if only because it meant she didn’t have to. Babulya had fallen silent an hour or so ago, but before that she’d been only vaguely alert and scolding all of them for tracking dirt into her kitchen. She’d promised Nikolai some chocolate-chip cookies if he was a good boy and ran to get the mail for her, and though Ilya’s younger brother had stopped being a boy, good or otherwise, a long time ago, he’d nodded and patted Babulya’s hand with a promise to do just that. The old woman had also given Alicia a wavery-voiced bit of advice on how to take stains out of a white tablecloth. Then she’d launched into a muttered jumble of Russian that none of them could understand.
Now Alicia held Ilya’s hand as he sat by Babulya’s bedside, his head pressed to the blankets. She didn’t want to be the one offering him this comfort, but who else was there to do it? She rubbed his back slowly between his shoulder blades as he hitched in silent but sobbing breaths. Alicia caught Nikolai’s gaze from across the bed. His gaze followed the circle she made with her hand on his brother’s back. When he looked back at her with a small, enigmatic smile, she didn’t return it.
Screw him, she thought. Nobody in their families had been super thrilled when she and Ilya had decided to get married, but Nikolai had been the only one to actively speak out against it. The two of them had always had their tiffs as kids. One-upping each other. Pranks and teasing and occasional mean-spirited taunts. But he’d been ballsy enough to accuse her of trying to step into Jennilynn’s shoes and, worse, of being insufficient for the task. Alicia and Nikolai hadn’t spoken more than a few icy words since then; she had never told anyone, not even Ilya, what his brother had said or how deep those wounds had cut. She’d never forgotten, though. Not the accusation, and not how right he’d been that she and Ilya should never have gotten married. She’d never forgotten anything about Nikolai.
She leaned to speak into Ilya’s ear, wrinkling her nose at the faint waft of sweat and fried food. They’d all been taking round-the-clock shifts for the past two days, but Ilya was the only one who’d refused to leave, even sleeping on the uncomfortable chair next to his grandmother’s bed. None of them were happy about Babulya’s decline, of course. They’d all adored her. Still, there was no denying that Ilya had been closer to her than any of them. Her first grandchild. She’d raised him while his mother had worked to support them after his father was killed, when Galina was pregnant with Nikolai.
Alicia wanted to admire his current dedication, but it faintly annoyed her, this sudden show of devotion, when he’d gone to see Babulya no more than a handful of times over the past few months. He’d made excuses instead of visits. That was Ilya, she thought with a frown. He ignored the problems until he had no choice but to face them.
She said in a low voice, “You want to go grab a drink? Get some air? We’re all here with her. You need a little break.”
Ilya shook his head without opening his eyes. She sighed. He was so stubborn. Her fingernails scratched through the soft, faded fabric of his T-shirt, one he’d had for as long as she could remember. They’d argued over it once, when she’d tried to toss it, and he’d snagged it out of the donation pile. It had been one of their few true fights. She looked up to see Nikolai still staring. She stared back, like a challenge. He’d run off to live on the other side of the world, leaving them all behind. He didn’t get to judge her.
“C’mon, man, let’s go grab a couple of sodas and something to eat. You’re fading.” Nikolai stood.
His hand landed on his brother’s shoulder, pinching the fabric of Ilya’s shirt and coming perilously close to pushing hers away. Frowning, she refused to move it. Nikolai’s fingers brushed hers, and that was when she finally let go.
“Ilya,” Nikolai said, quieter. “C’mon. Talk a little walk with me. Grab a drink. You’re going to make yourself sick if you don’t take a break.”
“I don’t want to leave her.”
Alicia let her eyes close for a moment at the sound of anguish in Ilya’s voice. She believed it, and it still irritated her. She had to get away from Babulya’s slow, rattling burble. Away from Ilya’s rising stink and palpable anxiety. She had to get away from being her ex-husband’s comfort simply because he had nobody else. All at once, it was everything Alicia could do not to scream. To run.
She needed to get out of there desperately, enough that she’d even deal with Nikolai.
“I’ll go with you,” she said, not looking to see if it surprised him. “We can bring back something for him.”
She stood on shaky legs, swallowing hard against an uprush of both nausea and emotion. In the hallway, she didn’t wait for Nikolai to follow her as she headed for the doors at the end. The home was built all on one floor, the residential wings like spokes leading to a central hub, with recreation and dining rooms beyond in another wing. She remembered a vending-machine area somewhere close to the lobby. She had not, however, remembered her purse or any money, something she only figured out when she got to the machine.
Alicia sagged against the soda machine with both hands flat on it. Shoulders hunched. Defeated.
“Here.” Beside her, Nikolai slipped a dollar bill into the slot. “What do you want?”
“Water . . . no. Cola. Full strength.” She needed the caffeine and the sugar. When the bottle fell into the slot at the bottom, she cracked the cap and took a long, grateful drag before offering it to him.
He shook his head. “No, thanks, I don’t drink soda anymore.”
“You used to guzzle it by the gallon. What happened?” Alicia took another long sip, feeling better.
“The color’s coming back to your cheeks. You want a snack?” Nikolai put another couple of bucks into the snack machine and punched some buttons, then pulled out a bag of fried cheese crackers and a package of cake rolls.
Her favorites. How many nights had they spent gorging on treats like this, wrapped up in sleeping bags outside under the summer sky? Or in front of the television, sneaking movies their parents would’ve refused to let them see? Babulya knew about those late-night horror fests and had always shaken her head at them, but she never gave the kids away.
Her vision blurred as the tears she’d fought for hours finally broke free and burned trails down her cheeks. She’d escaped the room and the burden of having to support Ilya with her own strength, but it had been hours since she felt like she’d been able to take a breath. She put a hand on the wall, shoulders sagging.
“Hey.”
One of Nikolai’s arms went around her in an awkward squeeze until he embraced her fully. She fought the hug, not wanting to completely break down. Not here, and especially not with him. When his hand stroked down the length of her hair, she shook her head and forced herself to step back.
She wiped her face. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Nikolai gave her a long, curious look, then bent to pick up the snacks from the ground. “Stuff like this is hard.”
Before she could find the words to answer him, his gaze went beyond her. His eyes widened. Nikolai blinked.
“Holy . . . Theresa?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Niko’s arms had been full of his former sister-in-law one moment and empty the next as Alicia stepped quickly out of his embrace. He barely had time to register that she’d been pressed against him before they both turned to face the tall, dark-haired woman who’d just come through the nursing home’s front doors. Niko hadn’t seen his former stepsister, Theresa, in . . . well, it had to be more than twenty years. Their parents had been together for about a year and a half, splitting as quickly and with as little fanfare as they’d gotten married. Theresa and her dad had moved out of the Sterns’ house and ended up in the next town over. Theresa had gone to a different high school
. They hadn’t kept in touch.
It felt gross now, thinking of that—how once they’d been part of a family, and then it had ended, and they’d never even bothered to stay in contact. Heat prickled at the nape of his neck. Embarrassment. Theresa, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be holding a grudge.
“Niko,” she said warmly and hugged him.
Surprised, he returned the embrace. She’d grown taller. The last time he recalled being this close to her, he’d been giving her a knuckle rub on her head, arguing over what to watch on TV. Now she almost met him eye to eye.
Theresa turned from him to hug Allie. “Hey, you. It’s been a long time. Thanks so much for letting me know about this. How is she?”
“Fading,” Allie answered quietly. “They think it won’t be long now. Thanks for coming.”
Theresa gave them both a serious nod. “Of course. She was wonderful to me, and I’ve never forgotten it. I’m here if you need anything. I’m going to her room, if that’s all right?”
Watching Theresa go, Niko waited until she’d disappeared through the doors to the corridor leading to his grandmother’s room. He thought Allie would’ve followed, but when he turned, she was still there. She looked uncomfortable, her gaze going to the damp spot on the front of his shirt before cutting away.
“Ilya will be wondering where we are,” she said.
“Wait.” He snagged the sleeve of her lightweight sweater, not meaning to grab her but suddenly, strangely desperate to get her to stay. “How’ve you been?”
“All right.” Slipping gently from his grip, she took another drink from the bottle of soda and then put the cap back on. She gestured at the bags of snacks he hadn’t realized he was still gripping in one hand. “I’ll take the cake rolls.”
He handed them to her. “Your folks?”
“They’re good. Loving Arizona.” She tore open the plastic and offered him one of the pastries.
“No, thanks. I try to stay away from sugar.”