Hobbled by her tight skirt, Rosie hustled after her. “Alina, wait.”
As they closed on their table, Eddie glanced up, his face bloodless, his lips pinched tight. Her heart plummeted. His dad must’ve just dropped the bomb. If she’d been at his side holding his hand like the friend she should be, he might’ve found the strength to tell his parents the truth.
Alina’s sharp voice drew stares from the other tables. “Eduard Stanislav Volkov, what is this nonsense? You want to make tattoos now?”
Eddie’s brow rumpled as he glanced from his wobbly mother to Rosie and back. “What? Ro, did you—”
She raised both palms. “I swear, I didn’t—”
“Don’t change the subject.” Alina finger-stabbed her son’s chest. “You’ve been scheming, the two of you.” She whirled on her red-faced husband. “Don’t be so judgmental, you tell me. Just because she has tattoos everywhere doesn’t mean she’s not right for our Eddie. Now look what happens. She’s poisoned his mind against us.”
Eddie grasped his mother’s shoulders, urging her into a chair. “Ma, take it easy. What’s got you so upset?”
More finger stabbing. “She tells me you don’t want to take over for Dad and me. Now Dad will work himself into his grave and I’ll die old and alone…” Her words trailed off into a wail.
Eddie’s brows snapped together. “You told her?”
“I didn’t! I just said she should ask you what you want, and—”
“Holy shit, Rosie!” He turned his back and gnarled his fingers into his hair as if snatching himself bald would help make sense of this.
“Tell me what?” Alina insisted. “What didn’t she tell me?”
A new voice joined the chorus. “Hey now, let’s just all simmer down.” Arms spread wide, Uncle Pete stepped up, gathered Rosie and Eddie to his chest, and murmured through clenched jaws, “What in holy hell is this about?”
Eddie snarled, “Rosie told Ma about my bar.”
“I didn’t,” she hissed back.
“Then why is she freaking out?” He could crack a walnut between those eyebrows.
“Let’s take this outside.” Pete shepherded them toward the lobby, calling over his shoulder to Bruno, “Get Alina some tea, would you, darling?”
In the quiet hallway, Pete deposited them both in plush armchairs. “Now, you want me to stay and referee?”
Eddie shook his head before dropping it into his hands. “Could you check on my parents?”
“Of course.” He withdrew, leaving them with just a potted fake palm between them—hardly enough protection from Eddie’s simmering rage.
Finally, he raised his red-rimmed eyes to hers. “What did you say?” His voice rasped like a rusty saw.
“Now, just calm down. Your mom—”
He shot to his feet. “Calm down? Are you serious?”
She clutched the arms of her chair. “Your mom’s worried about you. Said you’ve been moping at work and you don’t seem to care about the shop.”
“That’s what Dad said. And Dedka. So what?”
“Damn it, Eddie, you waited too long. You should’ve told your parents.”
“I was going to tell them when the time was right. I’ve been building my plan, gathering all the details I need to convince them.” He sank into his chair again, his eyes dull. Defeated. “You stole that chance from me.”
She had to force the words past an ache in her throat. “I didn’t tell her about the bar, Eddie. I just told her she should talk to you before deciding your future. Your dad—”
“Enough.” He pushed to his feet with the heaviness of a much older man. “I have to go clean up the wreckage.” He trudged toward the ballroom, then turned in the doorway. “Don’t try to help, Rosie.”
A sob doubled her over. Clutching her knees, she rocked back and forth. Ruined. All of it—thanks to her big, fat, blurty mouth and Eddie’s stupid secret keeping. She’d been right from the start. They didn’t fit. They never would.
She didn’t know how much time passed before two pair of shiny loafers appeared before her. She glanced up to find Uncle Pete and Bruno holding her coat and purse.
“Did he tell them?”
“He’s working on it.” Pete knelt and patted her shoulder. “We got the DJ to turn up the music and drown out the yelling.”
Still wracked by sobs, she choked out, “I swear, I was only trying to help.”
“I’m sure you were, hon.” Pete’s dark eyes, so like his nephew’s, shone with sympathy. “Sometimes a person has to hit the wall before they change course.”
Bruno chuckled and smacked a fist into his palm. “Bam.”
“Poor Eddie. Now he has no one on his side.” She shook her head. “He’s trapped.”
“He’ll figure it out. Do you want us to take you home?”
“No.” She’d caused enough damage—Eddie was right about that. “My sister lives in Seattle. I’ll call her.”
“We’ll wait here until you’re sure.”
Amara was not pleased—of course she and David had plans on a Saturday night. But she told Rosie where to find a spare key. Ten minutes later, her Uber driver pulled up. She thanked Pete and Bruno, wrapped up in her coat, and stumbled out into the icy night.
Chapter Seventeen
It was past midnight when the front door of David and Amara’s apartment clicked open, throwing a beam of light from the hall right into Rosie’s bleary, swollen eyes. For hours she lay shivering on her sister’s leather couch, aching and wrung out. Sleep eluded her as, over and over, the memory of Eddie’s devastated expression triggered fresh waves of tears.
She tugged the throw blanket over her head and groaned. “Why is that so bright?”
Amara clucked her tongue. “Hung over again?”
“No.” This headache was the product of heartbreak, not booze.
She heard the thunk of Amara’s shoes hitting the floor, then the soft pad of her sister’s feet on the carpet. The couch cushions sagged.
“Hey.” Amara lifted the blanket and peered beneath. “You okay?”
Rosie shook her head. Except for their dad’s death, she’d never been further from okay. Echoes of that shock buzzed in her bones. The same feeling
