“No. Talk to me. Please.”
He doesn’t answer.
Forget crying kids; I’m close to crying myself.
“Demyan,” I say, my voice wobbling, “I don’t get why you’re doing this. Where’s your head? This isn’t you.”
“You really don’t want me to answer any of this shit.”
I stand, too. “Yes, I do. Anything’s better than silence.”
He glares at me, and I glare back.
Neither one of us moves.
I want to plead, to beg, to demand, but whatever Demyan’s got to say needs to come out on its own. He’s got to enter into this conversation. Because running away and shutting down always get us nowhere.
So I wait.
No matter how much it tears me apart.
“Fine,” he says with a growl. “You want my answer?”
I don’t nod, don’t speak. Just wait.
“You fucked my best friend behind my back, and now you’re knocked up with his kid. Excuse me if that’s a lot to process.”
What the actual fuck? I stare at my brother, my eyes pricking hot with tears. Behind…?
Does he think I stole Ilya?
Or he stole me?
The accusation is cold and nasty and unbecoming. He should know me. Demyan doesn’t need to know my sexual history to know me. He spent his life making sure my compass was always set correctly.
Worse than that, the words hurt on a deeper level.
Like I don’t care about Ilya. Like I got over Max with a simple click of my fingers.
Like I’m a monster.
I swallow.
He’s back on his high horse, only it isn’t as big as he thinks.
“Demyan, I fell in love with your best friend.”
“Bullshit.” His gaze sweeps over me. “Maybe you think you’re in love, but you’re not. You’re still hurting, and he… He took advantage.”
“You weren’t there. How the hell would you know?”
“Because,” he snarls, “I know you. I know him.”
“How can you even say that, then? Name one time Ilya’s taken advantage of me or anyone else.”
A muscle works in his jaw. “You don’t know him like I do.”
His words hurt. My stomach clenches like I’m going to throw up, but I stand my ground.
