But I can’t help looking in the mirror, searching my body for any outward sign of the inward change. I wonder if my belly is a little bigger or if it’s just bloat. If my math is right, I’m about eight weeks along, but I don’t even know when I’m supposed to start showing.
I should probably go to the doctor to confirm the pregnancy and whatever else I have to do. But I can’t bring myself to do it. One, because Evgeny will know something’s up, and two, because I can’t face that reality yet.
I still have no idea what to do about any of this.
At least my nausea hasn’t made me throw up again. It’s a blessing that my morning sickness, which hits smack in themiddle of the afternoon, is mild enough that I can usually pretend nothing is wrong.
Evgeny hasn’t caught on. Dmitri hasn’t either, and neither has Vasya.
I’m pretty sure Alona knows something’s up, especially since I’m eating less and certain things I’ve always loved make me sick just to think about. The woman has practically been force-feeding me porridge and giving me tea from an unlabeled box that tastes vaguely sweet.
Should I be drinking it without knowing what’s in it? Probably not. But I also have no idea what to stay away from. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be on some kind of vitamins, but I can’t get them or take them without raising suspicion from someone in the house.
What an absolute mess.
“Eva? You ready to go?” Dmitri’s voice carries from the other side of my door.
“Coming,” I call back, pulling a T-shirt over the loose linen shorts from the odd assortment Dmitri bought me. I only wish it was something a little thicker to hide anything someone might notice, but it’s too hot. Summer might have faded, but the Santa Anas are out in full force.
Today is shopping day. The last time I bought a fancy dress was for my high school prom, and that one came from the thrift stores where all the rich people donated their old clothes.
Dmitri takes me to an actual boutique, hands me Evgeny’s black card, and tells me to go crazy. It’s the kind of place where theygive you champagne to sip while the sales associate brings in dress after dress for you to try on.
At first I’m overwhelmed. No one has ever paid this much attention to me or treated me like I’m royalty. But after a while I find the fun, trying on gowns I’ve only ever seen on magazine covers or on the perfect bodies of models parading down a runway. The sales associate is cheerful and a total cheerleader. I don’t know whether she means it or does it to get a sale, but it feels genuine enough. Soon we’re both joking about the dresses that look less than perfect on me, including an enormous ball gown that makes me look like a pink cupcake.
Even Dmitri joins in after a while, tossing out sarcastic comments that have the sales associate and me giggling.
The laughter and jokes stop when I find the dress. Crimson in a way that sets off my eyes and skin and makes them glow, with swaths of fabric draped over my shoulders that become a deep V dropping nearly to the wide strip of cloth around my waist. The full skirt blooms into elegant drapes and folds, making me seem taller. Regal, even.
“That’s it,” the sales associate says, her reflection in the mirror beaming at me.
“It is,” I say, my voice thin, my gaze pinned to my reflection. My hand trails over my collarbone, the fabric soft under my fingers. I almost don’t recognize the woman in the mirror.
“She’ll take it,” Dmitri says, and he rises from his chair. Then he winks at my reflection. “That’s going to knock his socks off.”
I flush because I pictured that exact reaction the moment I put the gown on.
“She needs shoes,” Dmitri tells the sales associate, and she hurries from the room to find a matching pair.
I’m still staring at my reflection when someone else enters the fitting room. Vasya. The air in the room drops several degrees, and Dmitri glares at the newcomer.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Vasya returns the glare. “Evgeny wants you.”
Dmitri takes his phone out to check for missed calls or messages. From the look on his face, there are none. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Would I be here for any other reason?” Vasya’s hands are stuffed deep into his pockets, his shoulders bent like a teenager’s.
At that moment, he reminds me a lot of Jordan, that same “don’t care” attitude, the same sullen look, the same snarky answers in the same sardonic tone.
“He told me to tell you. You know how he is.” Vasya shrugs as though that answers the question.
And I suppose it does. We all know Evgeny and his seemingly odd requests, Dmitri and Vasya even better than I do.
Dmitri glares at Vasya for a heartbeat, indecision flickering, then growls loud enough to startle the sales associate, who’s just come back into the room with several boxes.
“Fine. But I’ll be checking up on you. Take care of her.” Dmitri nods toward me.
