Page 76 of Cashmere Ruin

This time, it’s real.

24

APRIL

I’m sorry.

I still can’t believe it.

He apologized.Matvey Groza actually apologized. The man who’s been tearing into me for weeks about my sins, my inadequacies, my mistakes—heapologized.

And then hestayed.

He slept in my bed, like old times. Held me until I stopped shaking and finally fell asleep. As I drifted off, I could feel his strong hands stroking through my hair, so familiar I wanted to start crying all over again.

Because I don’t know when I’ll lose it.

In the morning, he looks at me like he’s on the fence. Like he’s contemplating canceling all his plans just to keep watch over me for a few more hours.

“I can stay,” he offers.

But I simply shake my head. “I have to work. You might as well go to work, too.”

He doesn’t fight it. He looks like he wants to, but he doesn’t. For once, I’m treated to a sight I never thought I’d get: Matvey Groza, looking utterly unsure of what to do next.

In the end, he just nods. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Yeah. See you at dinner.”

All morning long, I feel like a ghost. Like someone’s taken an ice cream scooper to my insides and cleaned out the joint. I can sense this empty space inside of me, just growing and growing with every passing hour. It’s not a new feeling, but it’s never lasted through the night before.

What’s worse, it keeps me from doingthings. That’s always been my trump card: immersing myself in work. But today, I keep messing up. I miss a stitch on Mrs. Kurt’s skirt hem, use the wrong color for Ms. Fairfax’s sleeve, even cut Mr. Boyd’s pant legs half an inch too short.

And then there’s May.

That sweet, calm kid I’ve grown to know and love is nowhere to be found today. From the second Matvey shuts the door behind his back, she’s a sobbing mess, shrieking like I’ve never seen her do before. I try to change her, but she’s clean. I try to feed her, but she won’t latch. I try to play with her, to sing to her, to rock and hold her in a desperate attempt to lull her back to sleep.

But nothing works.

“What’s wrong, May?” I try to keep my voice gentle. “What do you want? What can Mommy do for you?”

Shockingly, she doesn’t answer.

It takes the entire morning just to settle her. When I finally put her down, I’m exhausted. Is this what it’s like for everyone else? For people with colicky babies, fussy babies, difficult babies?

Maybe she isn’t the problem,a voice in the back of my head whispers, sounding a lot like Anne.Maybe it’s you.

… Yeah. Maybe.

In the end, I call in the cavalry.

“Who’s a cute widdle girl?” June coos, making the kinds of faces that would give any kid nightmares. Except my kid, apparently. “Who’s the cutest widdle girl in the whole wide world?”

May squeals with delight. It’s like no one has ever made her play before—certainly not her exhausted mother with a store full of Gucci bags under her eyes. “She isn’t being cute today. She’s being a menace.”

“Who’s a cute widdle menace?” June amends, eliciting another squeal from my baby.

“Cute widdletraitor” is more like it.

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