Page 90 of Cashmere Ruin
April, sitting on the railing, her feet swinging over nothing.
29
APRIL
Is this how it feels to be treated like glass?
Ever since I came back from my dad’s, it’s like everyone I know made the unanimous decision to put me under surveillance: Grisha, Yuri, Petra, the damn hotel concierge. I’d suspect Matvey is behind it, except that June’s doing it, too. And Corey, and Rob… Even Mr. Buttons isn’t leaving me alone for a second. It’s like they think they can’t blow their noses without someone else picking up watch duty. Like they think I’ll…
Break. Shatter. Be gone in the blink of an eye.
It’s ridiculous. I’m a grown ass woman, not some puppy on a flier. I’m not going to rush out into traffic the minute someone leaves the door open, or follow some stranger home, or… whatever else they think I’ll do. This isn’t how these things happen. Surely it can’t be that easy?
Disappearing from the world?
“I’m so sorry, April.”
Petra’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts. “What?”
“I said I have to go. Something came up with…” She shakes her head. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you sure?” Her expression looks so torn, I can’t imagine it’snothing.“If you want to talk…”
“It’s okay!” she answers, a little too quickly to be believable. “Seriously, it’s fine. Just work drama. Don’t stress yourself over it.”
Don’t stress yourself. Relax. Don’t worry.If I had a quarter for every time I’ve heard these words in the past week, I’d be on my way to buying an island. “If you say so.”
Petra plasters on a smile. It’s cracking in a thousand different places, but I pretend I don’t see it. Lately, it seems to be the polite thing to do—pretend the cracks aren’t real. In others or in myself.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asks.
I return the same kind of smile: glass shot through with hairline fractures. “Sure.”
Then I’m alone.
It’s strange—ever since May was born, I never felt alone, not really. On my worst days at the motel, when Mrs. Tanner decided to drive me extra crazy and the phone wouldn’t stop ringing for a second, all I had to do was walk back into my room. Back to her crib. I’d grab her little hand with two fingers, and sometimes, she’d squeeze back, giving me the strength to get through one more shift, one more day.
Now, I don’t dare reach in.
It reminds me of the day I turned five. We went to Coney Island for my birthday, me and Maia, and I wandered off on my own to pet a dog I’d seen. I didn’t ask the owner for permission like I’d been taught—I was too excited. The dog was small and fluffy, the kind that seemed incapable of harming anyone. But when I touched it, it snapped at me instantly.
I remember the sting of the bite, the irrational sense of betrayal. I remember thinking,Why would it do that?
Afterwards, I never tried to pet a dog again.
Maia tried to help me get over it. To explain what I’d done wrong, how to avoid having it happen again. One day, she invited a friend with a Maltese over for tea. I’d known that dog all my life, but I still cowered in my room, unable to touch it. When Maia insisted, I reluctantly put out my hand, but at the last possible second, I snatched it away again.
That’s what it feels like now to pick up my daughter.
I hover at the edge of the crib like a ghost. May’s staring at me, her big eyes all teary. She hasn’t been crying outright, but it’s like she’s always at the brink of it.
I watch her reach for me. I don’t reach back.
It’s better if I don’t reach back.
You’re going to fuck it up. You’re going to hurt her.You’re going toruinher.
Like you ruined everything else around you.