Page 52 of My Wild Horse King

Kristiana doesn’t even bother arguing with me.

Because better than anyone, she knows I’m right.

14

KATERINA

Ididn’t think I’d ever get away from everyone. They’re all so angry at me, and there are lots of things they don’t even know I’m not sharing. I wind up hiding in Gustav’s room until they go to sleep, and then sneaking out to the couch. The next morning, while they’re arguing with Gustav about whether he has what it takes to be a superhero, basically, I duck out.

Gustav has another full day of pitch meetings, and the fabulous six are planning to accompany him and sit outside again. I’m not sure why? But they’re doggedly determined that he’s the key to saving the world.

At first, I wondered whether someone would come after me. I looked over my shoulder a dozen times after exiting the elevator and waving goodbye to Norm. As I walked down Gustav’s street, I practically developed a crick in my neck from checking for them. Maybe part of me wanted them to come chasing after me, which is sad if it’s true. But once I’m two or three long, city blocks away, I breathe a prolonged sigh of relief. This is New York City. If they haven’t followed me by now, their chances of coming after me have gone way down, right?

But as I walk, I realize that I’m confused.

I know Alexei’s a good person. I’ve spent most of my life thinking I was in love with him. But now that I’ve accepted that he’s with Adriana. . .I’m not even that upset. I feel numb. Like someone who’s been zapped so many times, she’s past feeling.

Maybe the misery and despair will come later, but I doubt it.

I wonder whether that means I’ve been holding on to some kind of childish image of what our life would be like together, but I had really long since given up on him. I’m like one of those dumb people that are on daytime talk shows, only, at least I figured this boringly obvious stuff out myself.

Why did it take me so long? Am I an idiot?

My bag isn’t very heavy, but after I carry it for five minutes or so, my shoulder starts to complain anyway. I really need to find a hotel and check in. Only, the farther I get from Gustav’s nice apartment, the more disgusting the city around me becomes. I scan the billboards, wondering what exactly people in this time care about.

Mirdza was right that in my time, women needed to find a man to protect them. Without one, you were vulnerable. I had my father, sort of, and my brother, almost. But I never really had anyone who was in my corner. I never had someone who listened to what I wanted or needed. I had hoped Alexei would be that person, and a large part of that desire might have had to do with the fact that, as the tsarina, no one could tell me no. Except Alexei, I suppose. But it would have put me in a protected position unlike any other.

That doesn’t seem to be what women are looking for now.

As I scan the billboards, most of the women on them are wearing a lot of heavy makeup that reminds me of a raccoon that got into paint, and they’re all so thin, they make jockeys look hefty. Is that what brings women joy, now? Emaciated frames and a lot of face paint?

If it is, why?

If not, why is that what we’re stuck staring at?

As I try to work out how the world has changed and why, reviewing bits and pieces of movies I’ve seen in my mind, I decide to sit. There’s a big, empty bench at the edge of a large park. The sign says, “Central Park.”

I sit on the edge of a lacquered black bench.

Within a handful of moments—I’ve resolved nothing in my mind—a man approaches me. He’s wearing dark pants, a dark shirt, and thick glasses with a heavy black frame. “This is going to sound strange.” He holds up his hands. “But at least hear me out.”

I frown, preparing to walk away.

“We have a photoshoot today, and it’s for a seasonal product—a lovely silk scarf. We need someone with gorgeous hair and an effortless look. The client even said they want someone with beautiful strawberry blonde or auburn hair.” He smiles and bites his lip.

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I stand.

“Our model has the chicken pox. I wish I was kidding, but she can’t stop scratching. No amount of makeup is going to soothe all those splotches, and if we wanted to use CGI, we would’ve?—”

“Oh.” I shake my head. “You want to put me on one of those.” I point at a billboard of a woman who’s wearing what looks like underwear and sneakers and drinking water out of a blue bottle that glistens. I have no idea what they’re trying to sell, if anything.

“Not a billboard.” The man chuckles. “No, you’d be in an online ad and perhaps some marketing for the fall line in the store, maybe on the side of a bus.”

“That’s not what I do,” I say.

“You’re not a model?” He raises one eyebrow. “No way.”

I shake my head.

---