All the Lies We Tell (Quarry Road #1)(23)
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.
Sloppy, not caring if he dripped sauces or splashed, Ilya layered his plate with slices of deli turkey, pasta salad, olives, and some horrifying concoction of Jell-O and fruit. He piled on enough food for three men twice his size. He balanced a thick sugar cookie laden with icing on top of everything else and swiped another from the plate. He shoved the second cookie in his mouth, chewing loudly.
People were starting to pay attention, and in that way Theresa had learned from painful experience would lead to whispers and the shaking of heads. Gossip grew quickly from seeds into vast, tangling jungles of strangling vines and carnivorous flowers. You could spend years trying to hack your way out of that poisoned garden.
Quietly, she went to the table herself and loaded up her plate in a similar fashion. She grabbed a couple of napkins and then hooked her arm through Ilya’s, careful but not successful in keeping him from spilling a little. He resisted at first, but she looked him in the face.