As I storm from one side of the room to the other, Wynter asks Shay, “Is she about to have a meltdown over a dress?”
“Their relationship’s weird.” His attention’s already back on his dumb essay, for a dumb class, for a dumb major, for this dumb college. “He’s the only person I’ve ever known to rile her up, and until ten or so days ago, she hadn’tseenhim in years.”
“Huh.”
“I can hear you, you know?” I growl.
Neither gets the chance to answer because the little ticks turn blue. I half-expect Maxim to have the audacity to text me, but the text box doesn’t pop up. No little waving dots as he writes a message.
No call either.
Then, when I’m about to explode, his number comes through.
“Katyo—”
“You can’t be serious about this dress!”
He pauses. “Say hello, Victoria.”
I refuse to shiver. But oh, boy. That rumble. If I weren’t mad at him, I may have even melted.
“Hello, Victoria,” I snipe.
He chortles in my ear, and I hear a faint squeak, as if he took a seat. “What’s wrong with the dress? I bought it with you in mind.”
“Firstly, I should hope you bought it with me in mind. Who else would you be thinking of? Secondly, there’s nothing wrong with the dress for a widow! Am I a widow? In fact, I’m not a wife so?—”
“Set the date.”
“Bah! You want me to dive into the New York gala scene wearingthis?!”
“Did you read the card?”
“Huh?”
He says something in Russian, but I can tell he’s tilted the phone aside. He laughs then declares, “He wants to die, doesn’t he? Unluckily for him, I’m not the angel of death.”
“Maxim, concentrate.”
“Apologies,kotik. Now, where were we? Your deplorable reading comprehension skills?”
“There isnocard in the box—” I waft a hand at both Shay and Wynter as heyells:
“DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF AROUND HERE?”
As he tears somebody a new asshole, I put him on mute. “Look for a card! Is there a note?! Someone’s about to get stabbed if?—”
“Fucking psycho,” Shay comments while Wynter eeps but rummages through the bottom of the box and the folds of fabric. “Here.” He shows me a card tucked between the bow and ribbons.
Oops.
Quickly turning it off mute, I clear my throat. “I found the card.”
Into the furious tirade of Russian, I half-expect him not to hear me. Then, he rants, “What?!”
“It was hidden behind some ribbons.” I fidget. “You don’t have to shoot the messenger.”
“It’s not his first mistake today and it wouldn’t be unlike him to sabotage this. Have you read the card now?”
