Page 90 of Cashmere Cruelty

I’ve started getting wet justwaitingfor it.

I’m not kidding. Suddenly, I’m Pavlov’s goddamn dog: as soon as my stomach starts rumbling for dinner, somethingelsestarts?—

“Ew!” June yelps, cutting me off in disgust. “TMI, April! I didnotwanna know that!”

I try to roll over on the bed and smother my face into a pillow. Nugget makes that little action much more difficult than it has to be. Also, the couch is no longer an option—if I sit anywhere in that den of sin, I’ll just get wetter. Really, it’s like Niagara up in here. “What kind of best friend are you?”

“The kind that did not wanna know that!”

“I don’t mind,” another voice pipes up. A distinctly masculine voice. “In fact, keep going. I’m taking notes.”

“Jay,” I whine, covering my face with the blankets, “why am I on speaker again?!”

“Because I’m making food,” June calls from a distance.

“Because she’s making food,” Corey confirms. “And also, I’m untouched by hetero drama. It’s like watching a nature documentary. But your baby daddy’s giving me ideas, so?—”

“Goddammit, Corey!” I squeak. “Don’t write those down! He’ll know!”

“How?” Corey asks, deadpan. “Are there cameras?”

“Probably,” June interjects. “HD. With sound.”

“I hate you both,” I grumble.

“No, you don’t,” they respond at the same time.

“No, I don’t.” I sigh, long and deep. “What am I supposed to do, guys?”

“Honestly, if I were you, I’d just keep doinghim.”

“Corey!” June and I yell in unison.

“Sheesh,” Corey says. “Didn’t realize I was hanging out at the nunnery.”

“I can’t just—” I groan in frustration, squeezing my pillow hard. “I can’t keep— We’re co-parents!”

“So?” the Evans siblings pipe up at once.

“So,” I answer impatiently, “this can’t keep happening! You guys see the problem, right?”

“Nope.”

“Really don’t.”

“Ugh.” I flop on my other side. If I squeeze this pillow any tighter, it’s gonna call the cops on me. “He’s Bratva, guys. He’s engaged. He’s gonna get fake-married at some point, and I can’t just— I can’t be a side-side piece!”

“Now, that depends on how big hispiece?—”

“Corey.”

“Alright, alright. Prudes.”

From the other end of the line, I hear the telltale sounds of cooking. I picture June moving around our little kitchenette, breaking eggs into the pan and throwing away the shells in the wrong bin. It doesn’t matter how often I tell her they’re not supposed to go with the plastic—she won’t hear it.

I wish I was there. I wish I could smell the eggs and the bacon and the buttery, delicious pancakes I’ve already traded years off my life for. I wish I could leave this nightmare behind and just go home.

But things have already gotten too complicated for that.

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