“That doesn’t mean you can ask her that.”
“Do you not know the answer?” Timo wonders with the tilt of his head.
I can’t let this progress any further. I simply say, “I was eighteen. But in all honesty, I wish I waited for the right person.”
“Nikolai?” Luka adds.
Nik is about to smack his head, but he sways out of his reach with a humored laugh. And with the extension of Nik’s arm, I notice his tattoo again: long black lines, inked on the inside of his bicep, creating trees at the end. I’ve never asked what it meant to him. There are questions that always sit on the tip of my tongue, but I struggle to let them out. Not knowing the perfect time. Not knowing the perfect way to ask.
I’m not good with words.
At least I’ve known that for a while.
Timo catches me scrutinizing Nikolai’s arm with confusion. He waves his fork at one of the shorter lines. “That’s me.”
My heart skips, and Nikolai meets my gaze with a nod, like he’s right. He motions to the other series of lines that form trees, starting with the shortest. “Katya, Timo, Luka, Peter, Sergei, and…my parents.”
His family.
The symbolism is sweeter than he realizes.
Katya asks softly, “What do you think they’re doing today?”
“Eating pie,” Luka states plainly.
“They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” Timo interjects, deconstructing any fantasy that Luka and Nikolai fog her in.
“You don’t know that,” Katya retorts with a frown.
“Ask Nikolai. It’s an American tradition. Dad hates that shit, doesn’t he?”
Nikolai has his eyes on me, more rigid. He sets down his fork. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Does she not know?” Timo squeezes my shoulder. “He didn’t tell you, Thora James?”
Chills snake up my spine. What am I missing? “Tell me what…?”
Nikolai runs a hand through his hair. “She knows, Timo. Let it go.”
“Then why are you being so weird about it?” Timo asks, his features darkening. “You’re keeping something from us then…?” They stare at each other for a long moment, both good at reading body language. Both superior at compelling one’s attention. Both exceptionally talented. And yet, it’s clear who’ll leave with the upper-hand.
Timo shakes his head first, more confused than before. Same. I sit in a mystery with the rest of them.
“Talk about something else.” Nikolai looks to Luka, to save him from this. His younger brother opens his mouth, but Timo springs to his feet, silencing Luka.
He gains a height advantage that he probably rarely has over Nikolai. “I hate when you do this,” Timo proclaims. “I’m not a little kid anymore. I can handle whatever you’re keeping from me. We all can.” He gestures to Luka and Katya. “It’s not fair to us.”
“It makes no difference,” Nikolai says to him. “Just sit down, Timo.”
Timo shouts something in Russian, pained, and he points to his chest. His determined tone reminds me of when he had a long screaming match with Nikolai. Months ago, in The Masquerade’s lobby. It didn’t end well.
Katya leans into me. “I hate when they fight.”
I hug her, an arm around her waist. She rests her head on my shoulder. I realize, right now, that I’m not an interloper anymore. I have a place in the Kotova circle, albeit not the loudest place, but there is only so much room for Timo’s and Nikolai’s. I think Katya knows that more than anyone.
I hear Nikolai reply to Timo in calmer, sterner Russian.
In the brief silence between them, Timo stares at the ceiling. Then his glassy gaze returns to his brother. “Don’t lie,” he says. “You resent us. Every day. Peter and Sergei got off free, and you were forced to look after him and her—” he jabs a finger at Luka and Katya “—and me.”
Forced. I hone in on Timo’s choice of words while he continues on.
“How many times a day do you wish you were with them? Be honest.”
Nikolai’s eyes flicker to me.
Forced.
Oh my God.
Nikolai lied to them. He never told his siblings that he had a choice to be here, in Vegas, and before that, New York—that he could’ve been with the brothers around his age, all this time. If he wanted.
Sounding wounded, Timo adds, “I think it has to be five times a day. Maybe six. What do you think, Luka?”
“Shut up,” Luka mutters, staring right at me. He’s beginning to figure it out, I think. Maybe I wear the answers on my face. The realization.
Katya whispers, “What’s going on?”
I open my mouth, but my lips press together quickly. This isn’t my truth to share.
Nikolai rubs his eyes wearily and then looks up to me. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
I give him one of my patented encouraging smiles. You can do this.
And he nods like, I know, I have to tell them.
He stares up at Timo, who has yet to sit down. “You want honesty?” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “My life would be drastically different if I lived with Sergei and Peter, if I never had to take care of you.” He shrugs tensely. “Is this what you want to hear: you drove me crazy, you fucking worried me sick every day of your life, and I kept chasing after you, expecting you to slow down, just once, to make it easy on me. And you never did.”
Timo is crying. “No, I didn’t want to hear that, you asshole.”
“It’s fucking true.” Nikolai’s eyes are past reddened, restraining his own emotion.
I hear Katya sniff beside me, and my emotions begin to rise. Luka watches like someone is unveiling blinds to his world—intently, keenly, cautiously.
“Every day I wonder what my life would’ve been like had I stayed with them,” Nikolai says. “And I know I wouldn’t be the same person. I don’t even know who’d I’d be, but it’s not someone I ever want to meet. Not for a moment or a second. I love this life, with you three.” He pauses. “So every day, Timo, I am thankful for you, for Katya, for Luka—for giving me more than I had.”
Timo is motionless, tears streaming down his cheeks, while Luka stares faraway at the wall.
My chest swells. This is the most accurate portrayal of Nikolai that’s ever been spoken. Most of his twenties has been devoted to them, and I can’t imagine who he was before. It must feel like another lifetime.
“I had a choice six years ago,” Nikolai explains the crux. “You didn’t.”
“What?” Luka chokes.
“Peter, Sergei and me—we were older than you. We could do what we wanted. I chose to be here, with the three of you. I don’t regret that decision.”
Katya lifts her head off my shoulder, her jaw unhinged. “But…why wouldn’t you tell us that?”
“I didn’t want you to think poorly of Peter and Sergei for their choices.”
Timo drops to the mat and cries into his hands. I hug Katya as she tears up more from her brother’s sadness.
Nik reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Timo—”
Timo looks up, his face splotched red and slick with tears. “You bastard…you made me hate you growing up!” His voice trembles with grief. “I thought you didn’t want to be here. You could’ve at least acted like you gave a shit.”