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There’s something else troubling Shane now, Ilya knows. He can wait; with Shane’s weight on his front, his face so close to his own, and the sun setting, he can wait forever. “You think she’d like me? If she’d met me?”
The weight is still on his front, their faces are still close, the sun is still setting. There’s a new weight now; Mama’s cross, suddenly so heavy that he thinks he’s having trouble breathing, although that cannot be true. He doesn’t need to think about it, and he knows what he should say, knows the answer that would keep that hopeful glimmer present in Shane’s big, blinking eyes. But he also knows that Shane would see right through him. And they promised not to lie, not here.
So, Ilya does. “I don’t know,” he whispers, barely whispers, and the admission burns his throat. He doesn’t know what it is, after that; the pre-existing knot constricting his throat, the ray of light that catches the edge of his crucifix and causes it to glow, like an agreement, or, most likely, the way Shane’s eyes widen just a fraction, before he conceals the shock and schools his features into something more neutral.
or, Shane is curious, and Ilya tries to reconcile with his faith
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