Page 101 of Cashmere Ruin

The blow comes out of nowhere. What’s worse, the old man still isn’t showing a trace of ill intent towards me. Just a hint of a smile on his lips—and the truth. As sweet or bitter as it may be.

Once, I would’ve gotten angry. I would’ve raged and been outraged at the implication.

Now, I read between the lines.

“You think that’s April’s concern? That I won’t stay?”

“I think no one’s ever done that for her,” he replies diplomatically. “And that, when you’re used to everybody leaving, you stop considering the alternative. It’s too painful to start hoping.”

A stab of guilt, straight through my chest. “And if I paid for her tuition in full right now—would that show her? That I won’t leave?”

He laughs. “My boy, what makes you think she wants you to do that? Anything worth having must be earned. And April’s a fighter. So let her fight—and let herwin.”

I don’t understand shit about clothes. I don’t get fashion, or fabrics, or the fine details of design. But fighting for your place in the world?Earningit? That’s the one thing I get.

The one thing I’ll always respect, no matter what.

“I understand.”

“You know something, son? I’ve no doubt you do.”

Then April rushes back in. “Okay, I think I got everything. Remember, there’s formula in the cupboard?—”

“I think Elias can figure it out,” I cut in.

She seems surprised by that. As if expecting I’d fight her more over this. “Right. Sorry. Thanks for doing this. I’m just?—”

“Late,” Elias chides. “You’re late. Didn’t you say submissions close at noon? You’d better hurry, or you’ll have to go back tomorrow.”

One glance at her phone and April’s face grows horrified. “Oh my God. We have to go!”

Before following her out, I throw one last look at our daughter in Elias’s arms.

A stranger. An interloper.

Try as I might, I can’t bring myself to feel like that anymore.

We get there right before the gates close.

I walk in after April, who’s now taking the stairs three at a time. Then, once we’re finally at the front desk, I watch her deflate like a balloon. “I need, uh… to, uh, turn in…”

“Her piece for the contest,” I fill in. “Here’s the paperwork.”

The woman at the desk blinks. If she finds the scene strange, however, she wisely keeps it to herself. “Sure, Ms.…?”

“Flowers,” April wheezes.

“Flowers-Le Blanc?” the clerk asks.

“No, just—wait, what?”

“Oh!” says the clerk. “Sorry, my mistake. I thought you might be related to?—”

“No mistake,” a girl’s voice giggles from behind us. “She is, though it’s hard to tell.”

At the sound, April freezes.

“Now, now,” another voice drawls, deeper and thicker with poison. “Don’t be rude to your sister, Anne. Sorry—half-sister.”

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