Page 181 of The Encore’s Crown

Maybe this is possible.

Maybe letting someone close doesn’t have to mean I'm handing them a weapon.

Chapter 62

Misiu

Kiri

I’ve checked the time fourteen times. We don’t have to leave for another hour.

Natalia sits cross-legged on the edge of my bed in a robe, leaning toward the mirror propped against the wall as she drags mascara through her lashes. She’s been talking for the last five minutes about whether flowers are too formal for someone’s mother when you’re meeting her for the first time, and I’ve heard maybe half of it.

I pace from the bedroom to the kitchen, then back again. Straighten the collar of my shirt.

Check the time.

Adjust the cuffs.

Check the time again.

Natalia catches my reflection in the mirror. I look down. She smiles and returns to her mascara.

“Cute.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious. I’ve never seen you this nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You ironed your shirt.”

I look at myself in the mirror again, smoothing both hands down the front even though there isn’t a wrinkle left on it. She caps the mascara and turns her head to inspect one eye.

“Watching you iron in your boxers was unexpectedly hot, by the way.”

“I noticed. Hard not to when you bit my ass walking past.”

She smiles slowly, completely satisfied with herself. I snort and tug at the hem of the shirt again.

The iron is still sitting on the counter in the kitchen. I haven’t used one in years. Most of my clothes don’t need it, and if they do, someone else handles it before a show. But this morning, I dug it out of the back of a cabinet, filled it with water and stood over the ironing board in my boxers until every seam was flat enough to pass inspection. Natalia had leaned against the doorway with coffee in her hand, watching me like I was performing some kind of striptease for domestic appliances.

She thinks its for Ma.

Part of it is.

I want Ma to see I made an effort. I want her to feel like today matters. Like she matters.

The rest belongs to him.

The military precision he forced into us before we were old enough to understand why a crooked bedspread could make a grown man furious. Beds tight enough to bounce a coin. Shoes lined beneath them. Food eaten quickly and without noise. Shirts pressed. Rooms spotless. No excuses. Anything out of place gave him something to find. Something to criticize.

Something to scream about with his face inches from yours until spit hit your skin and you stopped knowing whether he was going to slap you or make you stand there and take it.

I know better than to give him ammunition.

Not today.