24. April

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—he apologized .

And then he stayed .

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 doing things. 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 widdle traitor " is more like it.

I sigh and go back to work. "Thanks for rushing over. I don't know what was wrong with her. She just kept screaming."

"Welcome to parenthood, dear."

"Silly me. I thought I'd been doing that for two months already."

"That was honeymoon parenthood," she declares. "This is real parenthood, where babies scream for no reason and always have dirty diapers. Get used to it, Mommy."

Mommy . I don't know why the word jars against my ears, but it does, like tiny nails on a chalkboard. "Mm."

June switches to peekaboo. Mr. Buttons flicks his tail with disinterest. I get back to work on the Daphne dress. If I want to have anything to submit for the contest that isn't a pile of haphazardly sewn fabrics, I have to speed up the process.

Easier said than done. Not only is the piece ridiculously elaborate— thanks, Past Me —but also, my focus is all over the place. I'm so scattered, I have to redo the same leaf four times. And that's only so far.

"I'm sorry. You were probably busy, too…"

"Where's that coming from?" June laughs. "Of course I'm busy. That doesn't mean I can't make time for my two favorite girls in the world."

"Meow . "

" And my favorite boy."

I shake my head at Mr. Buttons piping up. "Ruffian. He's been hiding under the couch all day. He loves playing babysitter until there's actual sitting to do."

"Really? I thought he'd be very good at sitting."

"Yeah, sitting around ." I poke myself with a pin. Crap . Can't get blood on this ivory lace. "Band-Aids, Band-Aids, where did I put the Band-Aids…"

I throw the kitchen into chaos looking for the first-aid kit. When I finally find what I'm looking for, I slap one on without even disinfecting the spot. Can't waste time; need to get this done, need to…

A hand comes down on my wrist. "Are you okay?"

My head snaps back to June. "I— Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

She doesn't answer my question. Instead, after a moment's pause, she asks another one. "How are things between you and Matvey?"

"How… what?"

June bites her lip, suddenly uneasy. "It's just—you don't seem happy. You used to be, but then… I guess I'm just asking if he's been treating you alright."

Can I answer for the past twelve hours alone? "It's… complicated."

She gives a tight nod. "I see."

"It's nothing bad, just?—"

"Come back to the apartment."

I blink. "Sorry?"

"Come back," June repeats, scooting over to me on the floor. She takes my hands and fixes the Band-Aid as she goes, so natural I almost miss it. "I can handle a screaming baby. Hell, I'll handle an army of them. But I can't see you like this, Apes. I can't."

Come back. It's so tempting. Just for a second, I let myself think about it: walking back into my old apartment, getting my old life back. Without any of the luxury or the silences. I could talk Matvey into joint custody, let him put guards at the door for protection, whatever satisfies his need for control. I could?—

And when Carmine comes for your best friend? Will it have been worth it?

I could never. I can't put June's life in danger. And it doesn't matter how bad of a mother I am—I can't put my baby in danger, either. Not again.

So I hug my best friend and shake my head. "Thanks. But it's nothing that serious. I'm just tired from work."

"Liar," June mumbles into my neck. "Fine. Have it your way. But I'll keep the door open."

"Please don't. The third-floor creep might take it as an invitation to dinner."

We laugh at that. God, it's good to be back like this: me, June, our cat. Tiny little Nugget, however riotous her mood may get. "Just promise you'll call if things get bad, okay?"

I nod. "I promise."

It's another lie, but it's the kindest one I've got.