All the Lies We Tell (Quarry Road #1)(24)

“Come outside with me,” she said. “You’re kind of being a dick.”

She hadn’t known Ilya before their parents got together. She’d only met him as an arrogant teenage boy with an infectious sense of humor and a penchant for getting into trouble, as well as the talent to talk his way out of it. She’d heard stories about him over the years. Those small seeds of gossip had found a way to bear fruit even in the next town over. Still, it surprised her how readily he reacted to her murmured admonition.

“Sorry,” Ilya said with his mouth still full.

Theresa shook her head and left the dining room, dodging the well-meaning, reaching hands of the women who’d gathered there to mourn Babulya, and avoiding Dina, who was still trying to catch Ilya’s eye. The weather was still so unseasonably warm they didn’t need their coats, but the day had been overcast, with a promise of more rain. There’d been no snow this year, a fact she was grateful for. Not having to deal with bad weather on top of everything else had made her life a lot easier over the past few months.

“Sit,” she ordered.

He did. He dug his plastic fork into the slithering pile of macaroni salad, managing to stab a few noodles and get them into his mouth before pausing to swallow. He gave her a startled look. “Babulya’s macaroni salad.”

“I made it this morning.”

He glanced up at her and took another bite before he answered. “I haven’t had this in years.”

“I haven’t made it in a while. I thought it would be appropriate for today.” She took a bite, savoring the flavors. Bits of green onion. Mustard. Small cubes of carrot. This macaroni salad was the perfect summer-picnic dish, as out of season as the warm weather, and yet somehow seemed perfectly right to also celebrate the life of a woman who’d been so loved.

“So, Dina,” she said after a moment or so of silence, interrupted only by the sound of them both chewing.

“She lives next door to Allie. She’s . . . nosy.”

Theresa laughed softly, catching a glimpse of blonde hair at the kitchen’s sliding door. “Ex-girlfriend?”

“She’s married. Four kids. None of them mine,” Ilya added sarcastically.

“I wasn’t accusing you of fathering half the neighborhood,” Theresa said after a pause. “Although the way she was looking at you, she might be looking for a daddy for number five.”

Ilya grimaced with a shudder. “Shit, I need another beer.”

“Do you? Need one? Or do you just want one?” Theresa asked.

He frowned and glanced at the house. “What difference does it make? Need or want?”

“It makes a big difference,” Theresa answered quietly and focused on her plate. “But only you can figure out what it is. If you need one, go in and get one.”

Ilya made as though to get up from the table, then settled back into the chair with a grumbling sigh. “Nah. I don’t want to go back inside, watch my mother holding court like some kind of queen. You know she wants to sit shiva this week?”

“I heard her inviting people, yes. Not that most of them knew what it is.” Theresa, baptized Catholic at her grandparents’ insistence but raised without much of any organized religion, had toyed with practicing a few different faiths over the years. She’d never gone so far as to officially convert to anything, but she did know what shiva, the traditional Jewish practice of seven nights’ grieving, was.

“It’s ridiculous.” Ilya rested his elbows on the table to let his hands make a cradle for his face for a few seconds. When he spoke, his voice was muffled. “Like what, she’s Jewish now?”

“I thought you were always Jewish.”

He peeked at her through his fingers. “Well . . . yeah. I mean, sure, but we never really did anything about it.”

“Doesn’t mean that your mom can’t find comfort in the traditions of her faith,” Theresa said mildly.

Ilya sat up and stared at her. “You’re different.”

She didn’t think so, but then again, he didn’t know her, did he? He’d hardly known her back then, this sudden younger sister forced on him by their screwed-up parents who’d thought they were in love until making it work got too hard. She didn’t answer him.

“I mean . . .” Ilya shrugged, staring at her. “Hi.”

Theresa’s brows rose. “Hi.”

“I’m a little f*cked up.”

“Too many beers,” she said lightly.

Ilya shook his head. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I know,” Theresa answered.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


Then


School was a special level of hell, Niko thought. They put you in these small rooms and made you sit there for hours to do work you could learn in so much less time if they only bothered to figure out a way to teach that made sense. It didn’t even have to be fun. His pencil tap-tapped on the notebook in front of him. Couldn’t they just make it less freaking torturous?

It didn’t help that all he could think about was Alicia Harrison.

All his friends had started panting after girls with their tongues hanging out like dogs since about the seventh grade, but he’d never seen much point in it. Why get all worked up over some flat-chested pimpleface who might or might not have to be pressured into opening her mouth when you kissed? Not to mention what you had to do in order to get her to touch your dick. Or to let you touch any of her parts. It hadn’t made any sense to him—why did he ever have to fall in love? Or worse, have some clinging girlfriend claim she was in love with him?