All the Lies We Tell (Quarry Road #1)(15)

Theresa’s hands came to rest firmly on his shoulders. “It’s hard, I know.”

She couldn’t possibly know. He shook his head without looking at her. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“It’s going to be okay, Ilya.”

Nothing much had been okay for a long time. He could say it was because of the divorce, but that wasn’t true. He missed being married to Allie when he tried hard to make himself wish he’d been a better husband, but truth was he didn’t miss being with her for all the reasons he’d been such a shitty spouse.

“No.” The word blurted out of him before he could stop it, and the pound of his fist on the table startled them both. “Everything’s going to shit. Nothing sticks. I’ve been trying to make it all work, and it’s not working. Couldn’t keep a marriage, can’t keep my business running . . .”

“Marriages end,” she said. “Seems to me you’re civil enough to keep working together, which says something, anyway.”

“Sure, sure, we work together until Go Deep goes so deep it goes under.” He tossed his hands in the air, thinking of the piles of bills, the dwindling number of students, the dip in the economy that had made the dive trips too much of a luxury to be a sure thing.

“What’s the matter with Go Deep?”

Ilya shook his head. “Never mind. I don’t want to talk about that, either.”

Theresa squeezed his shoulders, then stepped away from him. “You should have some water and something to eat. You drank too much.”

“So what if I did? That doesn’t make anything less . . . true . . .” He thumped the table again but had run out of steam. “What do you know about it? What the hell problems do you have in your life?”

He peered at her, knowing he was poking hard but not seeing anything but blandness on her face. Not seeing much of anything. The world still blurred. He blinked, hard.

“Not a single problem,” Theresa said as she shifted into focus. “My life is just perfect. I couldn’t ask for a better life. Everything’s peachy keen.”

“Must be nice.”

Theresa moved around the kitchen as easily as if she’d been there last week to empty the dishwasher instead of half a lifetime ago. She filled a glass of water from the tap and put it in front of him. “Drink this.”

He half turned away, feeling the chair threatening to slip out from under him. Or no, that was just his body threatening to fall off it. He caught himself. Clearly, he wasn’t drunk enough. “I’ll have another beer.”

“Drink that first,” Theresa said firmly, and to his own surprise, Ilya did. “When is your mother going to get here?”

“Who knows? She said she’s driving up from South Carolina. It could take her days. It could take her a month. She could be here tomorrow, for all I know. Maybe she’s hitching a ride with a long-haul trucker. Maybe she’s coming on a broom.” Ilya shrugged. His mother’s arrival was like a colonoscopy. He knew it had to happen, but he hoped he could be mostly unconscious when it did.

Theresa laughed and glanced at him over her shoulder from her place in front of the fridge, where she’d started putting away the groceries she’d brought in. “She hasn’t changed, huh?”

No. His mother hadn’t changed. That was the problem with Galina; she never did. She called him up every few months and casually asked him for money, or she didn’t ask for money but kept him on the phone for an hour, spinning stories about her fantastic life, or she ranted about the alleged indignities she was suffering at the hands of whoever it was she’d decided was out to get her. Sometimes she threatened to come back to Pennsylvania, but this was the first time he believed she would.

He scowled. “She hasn’t changed. Most people don’t.”

Theresa had once slept in the room next to his, back when their parents had decided they were in love and couldn’t live without each other. That hadn’t lasted long. Love never did. She tilted her head, looking him over. Or maybe he was leaning in his chair again; he couldn’t be sure.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Theresa put her hands on her hips. “I think it’s possible.”

Ilya rubbed at his eyes against the burn from lack of sleep. His stomach churned. He brought his thumb to his mouth, chewing for a second before remembering the bitter taste of the liquid Babulya had put on his nails to keep him from biting them. He curled his fingers into his palm, making a fist and cutting into his skin with the nails that had grown long enough to leave marks.

He found his voice. “Thanks for coming. It was a surprise.”

“I’m glad to be here.” She paused. “Let me make you something to eat, at least.”

He didn’t want to eat. “Nah. I should just go to bed.”

“I’m starving, and you’ll be sorry if you go to bed without something in your stomach. I’ll make grilled cheese.” She was already looking in the cupboard for a frying pan. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You want tomato on yours?”

“I don’t have any tomatoes.”

She laughed and twisted that mass of thick curling hair on top of her head in a messy bun. When she tucked a few stray tendrils behind one ear, he wondered what it would be like to touch it. Silky, he thought. Her hair would smell good.