I shrug. “I needed to blow off some steam.”

“Since when do you go to bars to pick fights with strangers?”

I glare right back at her. “I don’t remember asking you for your opinion. I needed a ride. That’s it. Pretend you’re a taxi and take me the fuck home. I’ll tip well if you do it in silence.”

Her jaw tightens as she leans back into her seat. “You have got to get your shit together, Kolya. This is not good.” She says it in the same tone of voice I used to use on Adrian in the early days of his addiction. Once I’ve clocked in on that, it’s hard to unhear it. It’s hard not to despise her for it.

“Who are you to l-lecture me?” I slur.

“I’m your friend,” she says emphatically. “And I’m worried about you, Kolya. This is not like you. Blowing off important business meetings, ignoring your commitments, delegating so much that you’re barely in the loop. Drinking in excess and fighting nobodies. None of this is like you.”

“And you know what’s ‘like me,’ do you?”

She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “You know who you remind me of right now?”

Of course I do. Of course I fucking do. And I don’t want to hear it. Doesn’t she see that she’s treading on dangerous ground now?

My eyes narrow. She just stares back at me, completely unbothered by my reaction. Anger takes over again, white-hot and pure.

Apparently, I’m not done fighting tonight.

“There you go again,” I snarl. “Assuming I give a shit about what you think.”

She sighs and shakes her head. It’s not the lack of reaction that gets to me; it’s the disappointment in her eyes.

“That’s just it, Kolya,” she says, her voice softening. “You do care. You just don’t want to admit it. All I’m trying to do is stop you from making a huge mistake with your life. You love June. And instead of admitting that, to yourself and to her, you’re wasting your time trying to get back at your brother for just happening to meet her first.”

There’s truth in what she’s saying. I react the only way I know how: with rage.

“Stop fucking talking, Milana.”

“Stop ordering me around like I’m your subordinate and nothing else!” she cries out. “I’m your friend, and friends give each other advice. They tell each other the truth!”

“I don’t want advice from a fucking whore.”

I regret it the moment that word flies out of my mouth. I regret it even more when I see the way her eyes retract with hurt. The way disappointment seems to melt into her body and fuse with her skin. The way her soul shrivels.

She turns away from me and starts driving.

The whole time she drives, I beg myself to apologize. To take it back. To try and make it right again.

Say it. Say it, you miserable bastard.

But the alcohol has made my head heavy. And it’s weighing down my good intentions.