Page 52 of Cashmere Cruelty
It’s only then that I remember two things. First: Matvey, last night, saying he “never got the privilege” of family dinner at all.
And, secondly, Yuri’s words:Our parents are dead.
Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck?—
“I did.”
My head shoots up. Matvey’s watching me carefully, as if trying to gauge my motives. It feels a wee bit excessive, but then again, I did just put both feet in my mouth. Maybe he’s just curious how that works.
“It wasn’t all three of us together,” he mentions off-handedly, switching our empty plates for full ones. “And it certainly wasn’t as fancy as this. But I have… good memories of that. Me, my mom, and the dinner table.”
Well, fuck me sideways with an Olive Garden breadstick. Is Matvey Groza…sharing?
“That must’ve been nice,” I say sincerely. “Is that why you want to keep the routine alive for…?”
For our baby. The words stick in my throat. It still feels so weird—having a baby with someone I barely know. Having something to callours.If I think about it any harder, I’m gonna give myself an aneurysm.
Instead, I focus on the mouthwatering contents of my plate. Right now, that involves quail legs with tamarind glaze and fig chutney. There are about three things I’m itching to Google in that name alone, but I don’t think Mr. Family Dinner here would take kindly to that. I can almost hear it:No phones at the dinner table, Ms. Flowers.
Is it bad that the idea of him scolding me kinda hot?
No! Bad April. Bad, bad hormones.
Matvey hums in the affirmative. I have to track back two separate freakouts to even remember what my question was.
Then I can hear the silence stretching again between us.
Quick, ask something. Anything.“What about your dad?”
It’s like the air freezes around us. Like in those ghost movies, where the windows start icing over and people’s breaths begin to puff.
Shit. I fucked up, didn’t I?
“My father was a traitor.”
I look up from my plate. Matvey’s face is a mask of tension, cold radiating from his arctic eyes. Every muscle has gone rigid, starting from the thin line of his mouth. If I think of last night—that sly grin painted over carmine lips—it feels like a fever dream. To think that face could smile at all.
I should take the hint. I should bring up the weather. Politics. The local sportsball team. Anything, really, to change the subject.
But I don’t.
Bad April.
“What do you mean?” I ask instead, feeling a strange pull towards that topic.Wantingto know.
“Precisely what I said,” Matvey replies curtly. “He betrayed us.”
“But I thought you said blood?—”
“I did,” he cuts me off. “And I meant it. You can’t trust anybody in this life, April. Only blood. So let me ask you this: what’s the worst crime you could possibly commit?”
I don’t want to play along with this. I want to go back to talking about nothing—about dinners and creating good memories.
But then I think of Eleanor’s ever-present bottle. Of Dominic’s new home, without a seat for me at the table.
“Betraying your blood,” I croak.
“Exactly.” Matvey pushes away his plate. He’s barely touched it, but I can relate. I also seem to have lost my appetite. “No one’s worse than a blood traitor. No one. Only death can wash out that stain.”