8. Cass
CASS
The nurse is talking to me.
I’m pretty sure she’s been talking for a while, actually.
“... keep it dry for the first twenty-four hours. After that, you can gently clean around it with mild soap.” She’s a short, stout woman with half-moon eyeglasses and a voice like a GPS app.
“You’re gonna hate me for this, but no makeup for a while.
You’re a natural beauty, though, so I’m sure you won’t mind too much… ”
I smile and nod, or I think I do, or I try to. My head hurts when I move it, so maybe I just thought about nodding without actually moving a muscle.
All I can see is Matvei’s face when I said I’d never seen him in my life.
In the literal blink of an eye, everything changed. Before his eyelids closed, those irises were as pure and blue as ever. When they opened again, they were black with fury.
“... you’ll want to pat it dry, not rub. Rubbing can pull on the sutures...”
Never seen him in my life. It was such a shameless lie that you kinda gotta applaud me for the sheer audacity.
I could’ve gone with “ He’s an old colleague” or “He’s actually my stalker, please do not stop” or even “ Oh, Matvei, yes, hi, thanks for stopping by; no, nothing’s the matter, why do you ask? ”
No. I looked him dead in his beautiful, murderous face and pretended he was a stranger.
That stung him, I could tell, if only because it was such a surprise. Usually, people you’ve almost kissed don’t look right through you like that.
“… Mrs. Snyder? Are you following me?”
I blink and reorient to the present. “Yes,” I say in a monotone voice. “Dry. No rubbing. No makeup. I’m very beautiful. Got it all. My mind is a steel trap.” I tap my temple just to prove my point.
The nurse watches me a second longer, unsure if I’m joking or if I’m simply a nutcase.
Then she goes back to her clipboard. “The stitches will dissolve on their own, so you shouldn’t need to come back unless you see signs of infection.
That means redness, swelling, pus, fever over a hundred and one. ..”
She must decide that her ongoing monologue is no longer worth the wasted breath, because she trails off and sighs wearily. Then she sets a pamphlet on the little table next to the bed.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” she concludes. “Someone will be by to discharge you soon.”
She steps through the curtains encircling my bed, tugs them closed again, and then I’m all alone.
Alone.
Finally.
I close my eyes and try to let the quiet settle over me, but it’s not peaceful like I was hoping for. Hospitals aren’t quiet places, not by any means, and even if they were, there’s enough cacophony ringing out inside my own head and body to keep me wired.
My cheekbone throbs; my thoughts race. I can feel my heartbeat thudding in my temples and fingertips.
I dig the heel of my hand against my good eye and try to breathe.
I did the right thing. That’s what I keep telling myself.
Raymond would’ve smelled Matvei on me from a mile away, and then he would’ve dug until he found something, and then he would’ve hurt Matvei, or tried to, and even if Matvei won that fight—which he would—there’d be consequences. Bodies. Questions.
I did the right thing.
So why does it feel like I just reached into my own chest and ripped something out?
I open my eye and look down at my ring finger. The emerald-cut diamond winks up at me under the fluorescents, smug and cold.
Good wives don’t get hit as often. Ha. That theory’s been thoroughly disproven.
I let my hand flop back to my lap.
I lie there for a while, halfway into a self-induced coma. I’m doing my best not to think of anything at all, neither Raymond nor Matvei, neither Giana nor the obligations that are waiting for me outside this hospital. Just the blank nothingness of the everlasting void, please and thank you.
It takes me a while to realize that the dull, repetitive buzzing I’m hearing isn’t in my own head. It’s coming from my purse where it rests on the side table. Groaning, I roll over to grab the purse and extract my phone.
Missed Calls (2): Dani Shmani Fee Fi Fo Banan-y
Texts (1): Raymond Snyder
Shit. My cousin Dani is an unrepentant FaceTimer.
No matter the situation, she wants eye-to-eye contact while we chat, all the time, forever and always.
It doesn’t matter if I’m indisposed or if she’s in the middle of a clothes-free Tinder rendezvous—she demands it.
And if she catches so much as a glimpse of my bruised, bloodied face right now, she’ll raise holy hell.
On the other hand, that might be a good thing. She’s a feisty little one. She’d take care of my Raymond problem for free.
But there’s so much she doesn’t know. If I wouldn’t let Matvei—a man who clearly knows his way around a murder—get involved, then I’m sure as shit not letting my ray of sunshine, kindergarten teacher cousin Dani get involved, as spicy as she may be.
So I text her instead.
Sorry, can’t talk rn. At dinner with R’s work people. Kill me.
The three dots pop up right away.
Dani Shmani Fee Fi Fo Banany
booooo
call me when ur free
i have tea
What kind of tea?
the BEST kind. pipin hot
i met a guy
he’s a FIREMAN, cass
a literal fireman
this is the stuff wet dreams are made of
Omg you lucky girl
right??
ok go back to ur boring dinner
brunch sunday? usual place?
I chew my lip. By Sunday, the bruising will be at its ugliest. Green and yellow around the edges, black in the middle. No amount of foundation is going to cover this.
Can we do next weekend instead? Swamped this week.
u always say that
fine
love u 3
Love you too.
Thank God. That could’ve gone way worse. I’m happy for Dani. After everything she went through last year with that shithead ex-fiancé of hers, she deserves a happy ending.
As for my supposed Prince Charming…
I open up Raymond’s text and laugh out loud. I shouldn’t; it’s really not that funny; but, well, leopards never change their spots, you know?
And abusive husbands, apparently, never change their utter lack of remorse.
RAYMOND SNYDER
Well?
I sigh, then type out a brief summary of the hospital visit. He couldn’t care less, though. All he wants to know is if they bought the tripped-and-fell story, if anyone is coming after him for being a world-class douche bag.
When I confirm that no one seemed to be asking too many questions, he sends back two words. That’s twice as many as his first text, so yay for making progress on his communication skills, but they still make me want to vom in my lap.
Good girl.
Ugh. I’d rather smash my face into a million bureau corners than hear him say that to me ever again.
I chuck my phone back into my purse and flop against the pillow.
The pamphlet the nurse left behind catches my eye, sitting there on the little wheeled table.
The laughing woman pictured on the front looks so deliriously happy that I almost suspect they drugged her for the photoshoot.
No one should be smiling that big, ever.
When the nurse set it down, I assumed it was aftercare instructions and paid it no mind. It doesn’t take a genius to remember not to rip out your stitches; it just takes, like, not being a literal dog.
But then I see the pamphlet titled picture in somber sans serif.
Are You in an Abusive Relationship?
I laugh so crazily that I feel like I kinda look like the woman on the cover after all. The thing is clearly meant to be serious. I mean, yeah, duh, of course; domestic abuse is no joking matter. I think the laughter is more of a reflection on me than anything else.
I’m laughing because I’m so deeply broken and so irretrievably stuck in this nightmare situation that laughter is the only coping mechanism I have left.
If I let myself start to cry, I’ll never, ever stop.
So I keep my devil-may-care, fuck-it-all mindset alive and well as I flip the pamphlet open and read it like it’s a BuzzFeed quiz.
Which Hogwarts House Are You?
Which Disney Princess Matches Your Vibe?
Is Your Husband Going to Kill You If He Keeps This Up?
It’s a checklist for domestic abuse. It is not great for me.
Does your partner control what you wear or who you see? Uh, check.
Does your partner belittle you in front of others? Check, with a gold star.
Are you afraid of your partner’s temper? Yeah, duh.
Do you feel like you’re walking on eggshells? Babe, I live on eggshells. The road to hell is paved with the stuff.
Has your partner ever pushed, pinched, slapped, or choked you? All of the above, and thank you for listing them in increasing order of frequency.
I keep going. Every single box gets a yes. Every little checkmark is another nail in Raymond’s imaginary coffin.
“Ten out of ten!” I whisper to the empty curtain when I’m done. “Congratulations, Cassandra, you’ve won a free divorce and/or funeral!”
I start folding. Crease, crease, flip, crease. My muscle memory from seventh grade study hall is alive and well. When I’m done, I’m holding a glossy paper airplane.
I point, aim, and launch. It sails in a pretty little arc, then crashes into the curtain and nose-dives straight down to the floor. That’s a good omen, right?
Spoiler: It’s not.
Nor is what happens next.
The curtain rustles. A heavy foot comes down on my paper airplane and crushes it flat against the linoleum.
“Oh, hi,” I mumble, assuming it’s the nurse coming to check on me. “Thanks again for the?—”
A masculine throat clear lets me know that this is definitely not a gray-haired old nurse with half-moon spectacles.
This is Matvei.
He fills the gap in the curtain, shoulders squared, one hand white-knuckling the fabric. His blue eyes are black again. His jaw is set so hard I can see the muscle ticking under his stubble.
“Tell me again you’ve never seen me before,” he growls. “I dare you.”