25. April

25

APRIL

"You don't understand!" I freak out over the phone. "I slept with him. "

On the other end of the line, June snorts. Because of course she does. My best friend, everyone. My ride-or-die, my soul sister, ruthlessly making fun of me in my time of need. "I mean, that's nothing new, though, is it? Clearly, you've done that before, or else?—"

"I know how it works, June!" I stop her before my face can go up in literal flames. "You don't have to give me the talk about the birds and the bees. I think I've got that covered."

"If you saaay sooo," June sing-songs.

"Ugh, I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"Yeah, I don't." I flop on the couch with a sigh. Then I scramble back up, because that's the ottoman where—where we?—

"Did you see a bug?" June asks.

"Worse. I saw the death of my dignity."

"Look, what's the big deal?" June asks over the buzz of background conversation. I shouldn't be bothering her while she's on a shift—but then again, she's the one who said, and I quote, If I have to pay attention to one more teenager counting pennies for a milkshake, I'm gonna put my head in the blender. Please, distract me. "You guys hit it off once. It'd be stranger if you never fudged again. I don't get what the big deal is."

In any other circumstances, June's feeble attempts at censorship would make me laugh. Especially since those coin-counting teenagers probably know three times the amount of swear words we do.

"The ‘big deal,'" I yell, making air quotes as I go for emphasis, "is that he specifically told me he wanted none of that!"

"Well, he wanted some last night, that's for sure."

" Jay. "

"It's true, though!"

I sigh. "Co-parents—that's all we were supposed to be. What now?"

"You can still co-parent and share a bed. You know, most people do it. It's called ‘being a couple.'"

"But we're not a couple!" I almost scream. "That's why this was such a bad idea! It'll be confusing!"

"For who, Nugget?" June asks skeptically.

"At the very least!" I retort. "When it's old enough to understand."

"I think it'll eventually figure out it didn't come by stork mail, A."

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Truly comedic genius you're doling out here."

"Besides, I hope you'll keep it down so he doesn't hear you getting all wanton with it, y'know?"

I smash my head against the wall. Kidding. I wish I had the courage. As things stand, all I do is lean against it, flailing my arms uselessly like a crippled jellyfish. "You are so not helping, Jay."

"One order of pancakes with extra bacon on the side, coming right up," June says cheerfully to someone luckier than me. I wish I had pancakes right now. And bacon.

"When did my life go so off-track?" I sigh, heading back for the couch. The other side of the couch. The one we didn't taint with unspeakable acts we'd sworn never to commit again. God, that makes me sound like a nun, doesn't it?

"It was on a track before?" June asks, puzzled.

I ignore her. "Oh, I know: when a certain Bratva Pikachu picked my store to buy a wedding suit instead of ordering online, like every other person born in the twenty-first century."

"I thought it was pakhan ," June muses.

I scream into a pillow. The pillow doesn't scream back. It's already more than I deserve, really. "Fuck my life. Like, fuck my life."

"Language," June chides. "There are minors here."

"Did you put me on speaker ?"

"Of course you're not on speaker!" June replies, somewhat offended. "… Now."

I gauge the distance between myself and the balcony. I could make it. I really could.

"Look, it's not the end of the world," June sighs. "So you did the horizontal tango. The spicy salsa."

"Please stop."

"The porny polka."

"June."

"Alright, alright," June acquiesces. "No more bad dance metaphors. Go on."

"You wanna know what the real tragedy is?"

"You know that's why I'm here, babe. Spit it out."

I try to roll over. I fail. Sometimes, I forget the physical limitations of growing a human being inside your body. "It was the best sex I ever had," I confess, defeated.

"Wow. Better than Carter Niles?"

" Way better than Carter Niles," I confirm.

"Damn. Now, I'm thinking I should find myself a Bratva Pokémon."

I groan into the back of the couch, dignity forgotten. "It was out of this world, Jay. Both times. Did I tell you about the tie?"

"Only over a million breakfasts."

"Well, this time, there was no tie. No nothing . And it still blew my brains out my ears."

"That's graphic. Are you sure he didn't just shoot you?"

"Believe me," I whisper dreamily, letting my mind indulge in the memory of those big hands on me. "I wish he had."

That's the crux of the matter: it was good. Not just good, but spectacular. If it'd been like all the other times—a tumble in the dark with a random guy from the club, or a blind fumble under the bleachers—it would have been fine. Just me, a good shower, and maybe a round of vibrator to pick up where anyone other than Carter Niles left off. And even then, it's not like Carter ever put his mouth where his money was.

But this ?

How am I supposed to forget this ?

Just the thought's enough to get my body all worked up again. My treacherous, hormonal body and its streak of bad, bad choices.

Granted, I didn't take many dips in the dating pool. Mostly I was just too overworked to do it. The shop, my projects, fixing a leak in the house every other week so that our sticky-fingered landlord wouldn't withhold our deposit—I've been a busy gal. That's not to say I've grown cobwebs . Just that I haven't had much… experience. So maybe that's what's blinding me here.

But man, those hands .

I slap myself on both cheeks. "No," I scold my body sternly. "Bad girl. We don't chase after pant hems in this house. Even if they're covering a truly spectacular?—"

Someone clears their throat behind me.

I jump. I fall right off the couch and onto the rug—back-first, luckily. Or, well, luckily for Nugget. I can already tell I'm gonna be needing a cane.

Above me, Petra smiles innocently. "Caught you in the middle of something?"

Fantasizing about your future husband, actually. Funny you should ask.

"Not at all." I smile back. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Which she's clearly already done, if the fact that she let herself in is any indication. Did Matvey give her a key? I swear, if he gave his psycho fake girlfriend a key…

Petra perches gracefully on the back of the couch. Way less gracefully, I pull myself up. I look and feel like some sad, floppy sea creature.

"What brings you here?" I ask, using my best customer service voice. The one that means I can't tell you to fuck off but I'm blinking it in Morse code.

"Just dropping by to check on your precious cargo," Petra replies amiably. "Which… Is it me or is it getting bigger by the day?"

You-huge-bitch. "Guess it's you!" I chuckle, brimming with rage.

"Hmm, pretty sure it's you!" she sing-songs back, chuckling just as warmly. God, is this what it's like to catfight? Please, somebody give us swords. "That's gonna be rough, isn't it?" Petra adds, mock-wincing. "I hear pregnancy weight never really goes away."

Ha-ha-fuck-you. "I'll manage," I say with a strained smile. It takes more than some snow globe gnome calling me fat to shake my pride. Besides, her fiancé didn't seem to mind the extra pound or two.

I'm shaken out of my high school regression to catty-as-fuck when Petra rises, her cropped cream blazer fluttering with the motion.

"Wait. Is that a tear?"

Petra halts. "What?"

"In your blazer."

Forgetting all self-preservation, I walk around the couch and grab the fabric. I can see Petra flinch like a feral cat, can hear what's most likely the sound of a pocket knife being unsheathed—and like, I know I asked for swords, but I didn't actually mean it—when her eyes find the same spot mine did.

"Oh," she says. "Guess I must've caught a nail or something."

That's clearly a bullet hole . "Take it off."

Petra's face goes scandalized. "Pardon me?"

I sigh. "Take it off so I can mend it. Come on, I don't have all day."

My words only seem to confuse her more. "Why would you?—"

"It's a Vuitton!" I cut short. "No Vuitton deserves that. Off now, please."

Shocked, Petra complies.

I take the patient to the table. It's a really nice blazer—Korean neckline, butterfly sleeves. It must've cost as much as my entire deposit, if not more. What do people say: three months' worth of salary for an engagement ring, six for a designer blazer?

Regardless, I can't bring myself to leave it like this.

All throughout the process, I'm painfully aware of Petra staring at my every move, like she's trying to catch me sewing a micro-bomb into her sleeve—which, I mean, should I?

"So," I say for the sake of conversation and not dying of laser eyes, "how'd you end up working with Matvey?"

I can tell Petra's stunned. Honestly, I'm a little stunned myself. Why make the effort?

"We met on a job," she answers evasively. "It was love at first sight."

Yeah, and I've got an island to sell you. "So you were already in the business, then?"

For some reason, that seems to irk her. "I was born into it," she answers proudly, a lioness shaking her mane. "I was Bratva before I could walk. My first word was pistolet. "

"That doesn't mean hug , I gather."

"It means gun. "

That tracks. "So, what'd you do to get kicked out?"

Petra stares at me like I'm the stupidest person on the planet. All things considered, I might be. But I can either work or keep a social filter, and right now, this blazer needs me. So I elaborate. "C'mon. You're a mafia princess. Why would you scheme for a crown if you already had it?"

Something flits over her expression. Outrage, maybe. Admiration, perhaps. "I'm a girl," she answers at last. "Girls don't get the throne. They get a ring on their finger and a smelly ogre to pick up socks for."

"That's a romantic outlook."

"If you ever met my father, you'd know that's a rosy option."

" Fathers ," I snort back. "I know something about that, alright."

For a moment, Petra doesn't say anything. I don't expect her to speak again at all.

Except she does. "I have the highest body count in the Solovyov Bratva," she huffs like she's complaining her dad won't let her go out wearing a miniskirt. I shudder. Maybe I shouldn't have let my filters go wild after all. "But all my father sees is a little girl to marry off. So I struck a deal with Matvey. He gets our numbers; I get a position."

"Pikmin?" I venture.

"What?" She blinks in confusion until she realizes what word I'm butchering. "No, not pakhan. It's still a man's world, after all. But he'll make me vor. That's the next best thing." Then, quieter: "No woman has ever been vor before. I intend to be the first."

I must be going insane. Because this is Petra —harpy-grip, threatens-my-baby-in-Russian Petra—and yet… and yet, I feel for her. If anyone knows what it's like to be overlooked because of the circumstances of your birth, that's me.

And besides—Jesus H. and all his friends, it's the twenty-first century. Would it kill men to stop thinking with their dicks?

Says the gal currently making life-altering decisions based on her uterus , a voice whispers in my mind. And/or clitoris.

Goddammit. I hate when the voices are right.

"I hope you get that," I say sincerely, dusting off the mended blazer. "Vore or whatever."

" Vor ."

"Right. That."

Petra inspects the blazer. Her expression's guarded, but I can tell she's impressed.

Of course she is. You'd never know it was torn to begin with. That's the mark of a good tailor—making things look new even when they aren't. Giving a second chance to what's been broken.

"You're weird," she decides finally, slipping the blazer back on.

"Right back at you," I say. "Next time, use the doorbell, will you? I'm not gonna leave you in the hallway." She eyes me skeptically, so I add, "Pinky swear."

She does not, thankfully, take my pinky.

On the way out, though, Petra's gaze lingers on something. "That yours?" she asks.

I follow her line of sight. It's a midnight blue maternity dress—slightly sheer, with silver embroidery. "Yeah," I answer. "Why?"

"It's… nice," she says with a grimace, like it's taking her a lot of effort to spit out a word that's not a scathing insult. "You should wear it. It'll look good with your coloring."

I'm speechless. There's no other way to describe it—I have forever lost the ability to form words.

Because there's no way that Petra just paid me a compliment, is there?

"And also it'll hide your fat," she adds, making a quick getaway.

I blink. The door closes.

Still a bitch, then.