Vadim
I'm staring at my phone so intensely I don't notice that Marek has not only stopped talking, but that he's now standing over my shoulder, glancing down at the message I've reread a thousand times over.
"So that's why you haven't heard a word I've been saying."
I flip the screen over and glare up at him. "It has nothing to do with that. It's actually because you're incredibly boring, and I'm too polite to say anything."
He lets out a dry chuckle, crosses to the wet bar, pours two generous drinks, and tips his head toward the couches.
I join him reluctantly, not wanting to get into any of this. Latching onto the best distraction I can come up with on such short notice, I open my mouth, but Marek beats me to it before I utter a single word.
"Lukasz is doing better. He's back at school, so don't even bother going there."
I slump back further into the couch and take a swig of vodka. "For the record, I do genuinely care about my nephew."
"I know that. I also know that you genuinely care about Preston. So cut the bullshit, and just tell me what's wrong."
Pressure builds low in my chest.
The rare instances where Marek and I open up to each other almost exclusively center on one of two topics—either our moms or his kids. It's the only time we're ever truly vulnerable with each other.
Even when he was having trouble with his marriage, he never came to me to confide in or seek advice.
The Piotrowskis, famously, don't do emotions.
But fuck it. What have I got to lose?
He's already got his suspicions, already said he'd be cool with it, and I don't feel like running to the bro-ligarchy with yet another romantic problem, so why not just…tell him.
"Preston is mad at me for bailing on our date last night."
I hold my breath, but my brother is a master when it comes to hiding his emotions. His poker face is the stuff of legends.
"He said in his text that he’s not feeling well."
A low rumble percolates in my throat.
"You shouldn't read other people's messages," I snap, then I take a beat and simmer down. "But it's quite likely he’s telling the truth. He seems to get headaches quite frequently. But I think he's pissed, too. He called and texted a few times last night, and I didn't get back to him."
"Why not?"
"Because I was too highly strung after the Farkas thing. I came back here and worked until two in the morning."
Marek hesitates. "You could have sent a quick text," he says in a way that's more matter-of-fact than it is accusatory.
"I messed up," I concede.
"So fix it."
"How?"
"Text him back, and say you hope he gets well soon. Or, better yet, pick up some soup from that deli on the corner of California and Liberty and take it over to him. You know the place?"
I nod. "Actually, yeah, I've been there before."
That's the same place I picked up stuff for Preston the last time he was sick.
"Make it clear to him you're happy to leave whatever you bring him and go, that you're not forcing him into spending any time with you."
"And then what do I do?"
"You leave. Unless he asks you to stay, but you're not banking on that. You're doing a nice thing for him to counter the shitty thing you did last night."
It sounds so simple when he puts it like that. I guess it can't hurt.
I've been on my phone, monitoring the private feed from the cameras I've set up outside Preston and Ellie's building. Ellie headed out for a jog five minutes ago. I wait for my food order to be called out then head over to their apartment.
I let myself in with one of the spare cards I ensured Marek procured for me and my team and hit the button in the elevator for the eighth floor.
I take in my reflection in the mirror.
My longer, messier hair. The navy-blue shirt I'm wearing under my jacket. And something written plainly across my face I don't see very often and don't entirely care for either. Something that looks a lot like nerves.
Preston and I are still very much in the early days. I hope my behavior last night hasn't set us back too much, or worse, extinguished the spark we have entirely.
I ring the doorbell and wait.
A few moments later, Preston's voice comes through the door. "Who is it?"
I frown and stare at the peephole he's probably peering out of.
Fine. I deserve that.
"It's me, Vadim," I reply, careful not to show any signs of irritation on my face since I'm probably being watched.
"Oh." He sounds genuinely surprised. The lock disengages, and the door swings open. "Hey."
I take him in.
His eyes are squeezed half shut against the light, his hair is even more of a mess than usual, and his face is pinched tight. I'm guessing it might be another headache, a bad one by the looks of it.
I glance down at the takeaway bag.
"I just stopped by to bring you some chicken soup and a few bagels. Oh, and some crackers, your favorite lemon tea, and some heavy-duty Tylenol. Wasn't sure if you'd be up for cooking or if you needed anything. I'm just going to leave this and go."
He cocks his head. "Why would you do that?"
"Because you're angry at me about last night, which you have every right to be. I screwed up by not getting back to you. But I don't want you thinking I'm bringing you this stuff to worm my way into your apartment."
"So…just my pants then?"
"Excuse me?"
A grin hits his lips.
"Get in here, you big doofus."
"So, I'm not in trouble?"
"Oh, no. You are. What you did was seriously not cool. But you're owning it, and…that soup smells so fucking good."
He lets me in, and I set out the food on the kitchen island. He grabs a spoon and starts slurping away, not even bothering to sit down.
"Haven't eaten all day," he explains.
I count back from five to resist the impulse to scold him. Maybe that's why he keeps getting these headaches? He needs to look after himself better. Then again, it presents an opportunity for me to step in and take care of him, so maybe it really is better to not say anything.
He finishes the soup and scoffs down half a cream cheese bagel in the time it takes me to make him a cup of tea.
"Do you want me to add some cold water to it so it's not boiling hot?" I ask.
"Uh, yeah. Actually, if you don't mind, can you pour it into the Stanley cup by the sink?"
"You drink tea from a Stanly cup?"
"Yeah, it's saf—Better." He aims a crooked, mid-chew smile my way, which has no right being as adorable as it is.
"Are you sure you're okay, Pres?"
"I am." He nods, licking his fingers clean. "Just hungry and headachy."
"Can I get you anything else?"
"Actually, you can." He leans against the counter. "How about letting me take you up on that rain check, say, tomorrow night?"
I stride over to him, my entire body uncoiling from the tension it's been under all day when I thought I'd messed things up.
My hands slide along his hips, and I love how his body syncs against mine, like it's natural, like there’s no other choice but for him to be close to me. Like he belongs there.
Because he does.
Preston belongs with me.
I know it.
I feel it deep in my bones.
"That sounds amazing."
"You won't cancel this time?"
"I won't."
"You promise?"
"I promise. The world could be on fire, and I will still be here at eight o'clock, on the dot."
"Not even if something comes up at work again?"
"Not even that." I stroke his hair. "Tomorrow night, I am all yours, mój kochany."