Page 73 of Cashmere Cruelty
I glance at the amount of bags once more. This whole scene does have a“grand gesture”feel to it. A“sorry I was a colossal dick”kind of vibe. Am I dreaming? Is Hugh Grant going to pop up around the corner?
“No,” Yuri answers promptly—and, if I’m not mistaken, a bit proudly, too. “Matvey doesn’t do apologies.”
“Doesn’t he, though?” I tilt my head towards Toy Mountain. “‘Cause with gifts like these, it’s either that or overcompensation.”
Not that Matvey has anything below the belt to compensate for, but I’m not gonna say that out loud.Certainly not to his irritating brother, who would use his dying breath to make a joke about it.
Predictably, Yuri grits his teeth. “Matvey does not apologize.”
“Fine.”
“… But he does occasionally admit when he’s wrong.”
I bite back a snort. “Does he now?”
Yuri doesn’t reply. I keep snickering under my breath. I’m still mad, but how can I stay serious? God, being a macho man must be exhausting. The posturing alone would make me throw out my back.
I shake my head and smile. Then I let my gaze swoop over the toys: beautiful, shiny, new. Every kid’s dream.
I never got to have something like this. Until a week ago, I thought Nugget wouldn’t, either. We’d be too busy trying to make ends meet.
But Matvey’s changed that. And, asshole or not, I can’t help but be grateful.
“Well then,” I call over to Yuri, scooping up a model train that no kid under eight should ever touch according to its box, “what are you standing there for?”
Yuri blinks like I’ve spoken in Klingon. “What?”
I gesture towards the toys. “These aren’t gonna put themselves away. You wouldn’t make a pregnant woman carry all this, would you?”
I can see his throat bobbing up and down, like he’s weighing his options. Option A: make up a cat on the stove and bail, but risk Matvey’s wrath afterwards. Option B: sacrifice.
“Fine,” he gives up eventually. “But I’m not touching those.”
I follow his gaze.
From the floor, three more Furbies stare back ominously.
“So,” I pipe up after a while, “you and Matvey. What’s the story there?”
Yuri cocks his head at me like an offended bird. “Why would there be a story?”
“There’s always a story.” We’ve nearly run out of places to stash these toys—which, considering how huge Matvey’s penthouse is, is saying something—so I stuff a couple more in the guest wardrobe and shut it before the precarious tower of boxes canfall on me. I almost don’t make it out alive. “I have four half-siblings and a story for each one.”
Though none with a happy ending, I don’t say out loud.
Yuri kicks a fish catching game under the guest bed. I can see the gears turning in his head, calculating just how much he’s willing—or able—to share. Finally, he mutters, “It’s not much of a story.”
“I’ve been cooped up in here for a week. I’ll take a boring story over the sound of the neighbor’s garbage disposal.”
Yuri snorts. “Suit yourself.” He tosses a few more boxes on top of the wardrobe—which he can actually reach, unlike me—and stares at the ceiling for a while, collecting his thoughts. Finally, he says, “We’re half-brothers, too.”
I don’t speak. For some reason, it just doesn’t feel like my turn to talk.
After a beat, Yuri continues. “I didn’t know I had a brother. For the longest time, it was just me and my mom. Then she got sick.”
I feel a pang of sympathy. I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy that’s making me slip into Mom Mode, but I can’t help it: Ifeelfor him. It’s not like Yuri’s a kid—at most, he’s a couple of years younger than me—but he still feels too young.
Too young to lose so much.