Chapter 17
Ethan
The laughter faded eventually, settling into something more comfortable.
Mikhail leaned against the bar, elbows braced, nursing his beer with a thoughtful look on his face. Ben sat beside me, relaxed but observant, like he always had been. The pub noise wrapped around us, voices rising and falling, glasses sliding across wood, music low enough to ignore.
For a while, it felt easy.
“So,” I said finally, turning toward Mikhail. “When did you come back?”
He didn’t answer right away.
He stared into his glass, rolling it slightly between his palms. The grin he’d worn most of the evening slipped, replaced by something inward. Something distant.
“I was back a few years ago,” he said. “Didn’t stay long.”
“And now?” I asked.
He took a slow sip, then set the glass down carefully.
“Been back about a week.”
I waited. Ben did too. The silence stretched.
“What brought you home?” I probed.
Mikhail lifted his head.
For just a second, I didn’t recognize him.
The warmth was gone. The easy humor. His blue eyes sharpened, dark and focused in a way that made my spine prickle. It wasn’t anger; it was something colder. More controlled.
Ben shifted slightly beside me. I felt it without looking.
Mikhail leaned in and lowered his voice.
“If I told you,” He said calmly, “I’d have to kill you.”
Then he threw his head back and laughed. Loud. Booming. The sound cracked the tension clean in half.
“I’m kidding,” he said, wiping his beard. “Relax.”
Ben snorted, shaking his head. “You’re an asshole.”
“Always have been,” Mikhail replied cheerfully.
Even though we laughed, at the bad humor. I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I’d glimpsed something I wasn’t meant to.
Ben cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said, turning toward me. “I, uh… I’m sorry about Matt and Jenny.”
The words sobered me.
“They were good people.”
I nodded. “Yeah. They were.”
Mikhail stood and pulled me into another hug. “I’m sorry too,” he said, quieter now. Then he pulled back and smirked. “Though I always liked Matt more than you.”
The night moved on after that. Another round, then another, though Mikhail stopped after the first one. Conversation drifted to old teachers, dumb mistakes, half-remembered stories. I felt the edges of the world soften.
When I stood, the floor tilted just enough to make the decision for me.
“You’re not driving,” Mikhail said immediately.
“I’m fine,” I started.
“You’re not,” he cut in. “And you’re not arguing.”
He took my keys.
“I’ll drive.”
Outside, the air was cool and damp. The town felt asleep, streetlights glowing soft and yellow. I leaned against the truck while he unlocked it, watching him move with a confidence that hadn’t been there when we were kids.
The ride was quiet.
When we pulled into my parents’ driveway, Mikhail cut the engine and sat for a moment.
“You good?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He clapped my shoulder once and got out. I watched him walk down the driveway, his figure tall and dark against the quiet night.
As he disappeared into the shadows, a thought came to me. He’d never really answered my question.
I stood there a long moment before going inside, the echo of laughter fading, responsibility waiting on the other side of the door.
And I knew, whatever I’d tried to escape that evening would still be there in the morning.