Chapter 35 — Katerina

“You terrify me, Alex.” I saw his face twitch for a split second as my words sliced into him. "These past few days, all I have been thinking about is how much you let me down, how much I can't trust you. But then, I realized that nothing in life is certain. Nobody is capable of never disappointing you. Who am I to demand perfection when I am not its equal? That would be highly hypocritical of me. And yet…

"Yet, we don't know each other. I want to be married to a man I love and can have complete faith in. Because that's real love. Real love is vulnerability. It's knowingly giving someone power over you, knowing that you would let that person do anything to you—good or bad, caring for you or hurting you, tearing you down or building you up. But real love is also trust. It's trusting that person enough to know that they would choose only to do the good things to you and refrain from doing the bad. And…we may know the major events in each other's lives, we may be tied together by a not-so-binding legal document, but I know so little about you, and therefore I can place so little trust in you.

"I'm not saying any of this to hurt you, Alexander. On the contrary, I do want to be with you. But I want to be with you for real like you said. I want to know you well enough that the next time you tell me something like you did over the phone, something so shocking and life changing, I will be able to trust you enough that I don't break my promise and run away. I want to know you well enough that I will be able to run to you and weather the storm with you. I want us to know each other, and trust each other, and that's just two-thirds of it—because I am already in love with you."

The easy words, the convenient replies, still begged to spring to my lips. I shoved them down—because sinning was easy. It was godliness that was difficult. "I'm not saying no, Alexander," I told him. "I'm saying, not right now."

I breathed deeply and exhaled so vehemently that the force of it knocked the wind from my body. He put the ring inside his coat pocket and gripped my hand. "I agree with you. I wouldn't say I'm happy about it…but ultimately, I think you're right."

Outside, I could see our family—George, Abigail, Georgia, all in various states of emotion. Abigail, looking solemn and pensive. Georgia, looking excited and peppy. And finally, my brother, looking for all in the world like he couldn't give a damn. Yet all of them had come all this way to find me, to reunite us.

"Should I call the others in? I feel cruel, making them wait outside in the cold."

Alex turned around, a look of surprise on his face. "I had forgotten they were there. Very well. I believe we have said all that was needed to be said in private."

Feeling oddly shy, I waved a hand for them to come in. They filed in one by one, and I noticed George shaking out an umbrella, the raindrops on Abigail's coat. It had begun thundering outside and I hadn't even noticed. Alexander and I scooted closer to the wall to make room in the booth.

"So, what happened to the ring?" Georgia asked bluntly while the other occupants of the table studiously surveyed their menus.

"I melted it down and threw it into a furnace," Alexander deadpanned.

Under the table, his ankle brushed against my calf. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Leaning forwards across the table and closer to him, I examined his expression. The cold sarcasm was at odds with his eyes, which were light and carefree, crinkled in mirth.

"Then how on earth did it end up in your pocket?" My brother queried, pulling out the object in question.

"And how on earth did you turn into a pickpocket?" I said, holding out my hand. "Enough of that. Give it here."

I tucked the ring into my cardigan pocket, not wanting to give anyone the wrong impression.

"Are you all ready to order?" the waiter asked, saving us from further interrogation.

We ordered though Georgia declined to eat real food in favour of a caramel macchiato. I supposed it was for the sake of her modelling career, though when the food came sometime later after the conversation had picked up and lulled and picked up again, I saw her steal my brother's fries. I stabbed at my pasta, feeling Alexander's gaze on me though he said nothing.

Abigail broke the silence that had previously been filled with the clinking of silverware against china plates and pulled something from her purse. "Look what I found."

Her voice was flat, her blue eyes dull. I moved closer to her, concern brimming in my chest before I caught sight of what it was that she was holding. My heart dropped to my stomach, and I registered with my eyes, not my mind, the image before me. The magazine cover that Alexander and I had shot a few weeks back, upon Kiersten Harper's insistence, with the two of us gazing into each other's eyes and appearing very much in love. Me in a white, lacy dress, gold cross-shaped studs at my ears and him in a fine black suit with a matte gold tie.

I met Alexander's gaze, and I knew two things: first of all, we looked good together. Second of all…I wanted desperately, against all my better judgment, for the picture to become a reality. And seeing his rare, blinding smile…I knew he did too.

+

"Knock, knock.” My brother’s voice rang out through the room, making me start. I closed my laptop and got up to face him.

"You know, instead of opening my door and saying the words, maybe you could try actually knocking," I suggested with a grin as he sat down.

George kicked off his shoes and rolled his eyes, sitting down uninvited on my previously occupied desk chair. I sat on my bed cross-legged instead, not fighting him on the loss of my seat—not wanting to fracture our very fragile peace. Nor did I push him to say what he had come to say, although I saw him open and close his mouth numerous times, à la goldfish.

Finally, he spoke, and I silently heaved a sigh of relief. "So, are you still getting married? I mean, the ring and everything—" His throat bobbed as he swallowed before continuing gruffly, "I just want to know if I should rent a tux or not."

He scratched the back of his neck with a paint-smeared hand, and my heart ached fiercely at the sight of the blue and yellow flecks on his fingers. My brother was painting again? The sight of him with paint on his hands, as it had been back in the old days when we were all one happy family, without loss or death or grief, made tears spring to my eyes that I hastily swiped away.

"We're still getting married," I replied tentatively, not wanting anyone to pry into my business, last remaining blood relative or not—but I didn't want to shove him out of my life and lock the door, either.

"That's it?" His dark brows furrowed, anger darkening his green eyes. "That's all I get?"

"I know next to nothing about you, George. I don't even know how you ended up in that apartment, or why you stopped painting." I sucked in a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "I'm a private person. There are some details in my relationship that I don't feel comfortable sharing with you. I wish you would respect that."

"Oh, so you feel more comfortable sharing things with people you've known only for a few months than your brother. Have I got that right?" His voice was cool, but far from calm—far from cordial.

"I never said that. But yes, frankly, I feel more comfortable with Abigail and Georgia because they have been there for me in such a difficult time in my life. Though, if you are going to be so upset over such a small incident, I think you should leave."

My words challenged him. They contrasted with my true feelings—the ones that begged him not to go. But I knew if he stayed, I would wind up saying myriad things that I might regret. Things I could never forgive myself for—things he might never forgive me for.

"Fine," he said quietly. "Bonne nuit, ma sœur."