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She shakes her head. “Except a father. Try giving me that, Dmitri. You can’t.”
My chest is taut to the point of bursting, but there’s nowhere else for me to put any of the things inside of it. I have to bear them. I have to hold them.
It’s only me against all this anguish. I can’t afford to bend and break.
I place a hand on Irina’s shoulder. “Aleksandr will meet with you to discuss funeral arrangements. Do whatever seems fitting. I will take care of all the expenses.”
She nods, a tear slipping down her cheek at last. That lone tear wounds me more than if she’d shed a flood of them.
I bow once and step out of their home. The night is bleak and chilly as I make my way to Egorov Industries, though I leave the windows down, as if the cold air in my face can cleanse me of the blood on my hands.
On the way there, I call Rogan. “I need you to draft something for me. And I need it ASAP.”
I’m not sure how to fix everything with Wren.
But this might be a start.
55
WREN
The subdued knocking at my door is a one-way ticket from my depressive state of catatonia back to reality.
I sit up, bleary-eyed, just as Bee walks in with a tray overflowing with crackers and cheese. Color-coordinated toothpicks spear through grapes like kebabs.
“Felt sorry for me, so you decided to come fatten me up?” I observe in a dry mumble.
She sets the tray down on my bedside table and promptly climbs right in the bed with me. “This is more of an I’m-sorry-my-best-friend-is-an-ass cheese plate than a pity cheese plate.”
I force a smile. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
Bee sighs and pats my knee through the covers. “He gets really weird about Elena. I stopped taking it personally a long time ago.”
“I might have not taken it personally if he hadn’t made it personal.”
Bee grabs a grape and pops it into her mouth. “Fair point,” she agrees between crunches.
Frowning, I slump down against the pillows. “He must have really loved her, huh?”
“Yeah. He did.”
Her eyes flash to me and then away again. The discomfort is obvious, but fuck it—we’re all living various uncomfortable lies in this house, so Bee and I might as well both get used to it. Dmitri is the only one who doesn’t seem to be affected.
But then again, maybe he is. He just has a very different way of expressing it.
A significantly angrier, crueler, more verbally violent way.
“You don’t need to stay and babysit me, you know,” I add. “I’ll be fine.”
She glances to the side. I follow her gaze and cringe at the mess I’ve created. In the hours since Dmitri spat in my face and stormed out, I’ve pulled down books from their shelves, cut into the feather cushions with sewing scissors, and taken those same scissors to the surface of the vanity. Just little signs of my tantrums everywhere you look. I’m embarrassed as Bee’s eyes pass over all of it.
“I, uh, I felt the need to rearrange. Or redecorate, or whatever you want to call it.”
Bee smirks. “You did a fantastic job.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
She puts her hand on my leg. “Don’t you dare. You have every right to let out some steam.”
