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As much as I wondered where Demyen was, I needed the time and space apart. I needed the distance from all men, any men, and I think even Bambi and Gloria understood that. The usual guards were still around but watching from a broader distance. Groundskeepers and maintenance men only came around after I left the room.
For the first time in my life, I’m surrounded only by women. And somehow, theyknow. They know and they understand. I am never pressured, never criticized, never ridiculed. I am respected as Willow’s mother and encouraged as a new employee.
Willow is my little shadow, following me around while I try to get work done. It’s a challenge to do a thorough job when my curious little one is constantly asking questions or trying to make me watch her try a new trick—usually involving jumping on the bed I just made—but the fact that she’s even allowed to be near me is a gift I don’t take for granted. She’s allowed to play bymy side while I work, free to be herself without Martin glaring at her or scolding her for being a nuisance.
That’s the part that really tugs at my heartstrings in ways I’m terrified to allow: not once has Demyen ever called Willow a nuisance or acted like he doesn’t want her around. In fact, I’m strongly suspicious that he’s been avoiding me but sneaking in time with Willow, because every day for a week—the same week I haven’t caught a single glimpse of him—she’s found me in whatever room I’m cleaning, squealing excitedly over a new toy he gave her.
They’regoodtoys, too. The kind that never in a million years would I be able to afford “just because,” and Martin sure as hell would never bother to remotely consider.
The consideration goes beyond just toys and baubles. The new doll he gave Willow the first day after the dinner party was designed to look just like her, paired with matching sets of clothes for her so she could coordinate outfits.
On the second day, he gave her a set of fairytale books that she was then instructed to practice reading with me.
Now, it’s the end of the week and Willow is the proud owner of a butterfly growing kit to nurture her interest in biology, a small piano to explore music, a kids-level pottery wheel “for functional artistic expression,” and a sparkly pink tablet.
The tablet in particular gave me panic. The internet is a terrifying place for a parent to send their child, especially one as young as Willow, and at first, I felt the urge to march into Demyen’s office and demand to know what the actual hell he was thinking.
But when Willow handed it over so I could at least activate the parental controls, I froze.
They were already on.
Demyen had her tablet locked tighter than Fort Knox, even though she unwrapped it straight from the box right in front of me. Screen time limits are set at half-hour intervals, educational apps downloaded and activated (and paid for), and the lock screen is a collage of selfies Willow took with me… and Demyen.
I think that’s what made me finally cry. What made me sob myself to sleep, unleashing all the emotions I couldn’t begin to name if I even had the energy to try.
Whatever is going on between Demyen and me, it’s complicated and messy and I don’t know where it’s headed. I can’t wrap my head around how he feels about me or thinks of me, and I sure as shit can’t figure out my own thoughts or feelings about him.
It’s the selfie of Willow and Demyen making silly faces for the camera that has me wishing I could undo the past.
It’s the selfie of them giggling together, her face glowing with joy and his usual mask shattered apart by the unadulterated grin that actually flows into his eyes.
And it’s the selfie I know he didn’t plan to take, the one that caught him completely by surprise when Willow must have suddenly turned and kissed his cheek right as she hit the button.
That’sthe realest smile of all of them.
I’m used to being scared. I’m used to being terrified.
I’mnotused to being safe.
Or loved.
And I’m even more terrified that neither is Willow.
38
CLARA
One thing I’m very grateful for: I’m not expected to clean the entire place in one day.
It would be literally impossible—and something I completely expect Demyen to suddenly pop out of nowhere and demand I start doing immediately.
For all I know, that might have been his plan if it weren’t for Gloria’s strict cleaning schedule. She has the whole compound broken down into monthly, weekly, and daily schedules, with tasks delegated to the cleaning staff by name and the requirement that we only do what we are assigned.
No trading, no laziness, full accountability.
The image of Gloria shooing Demyen away from her carefully-guarded calendar like some naughty child makes me snort with laughter as I carry the bucket of cleaning supplies into the study. Willow glances at me curiously, but doesn’t ask what’s so funny because she’s trying to balance her new storybook in one arm while the other carries her newest doll.
It felt appropriate to encourage her to read while I clean the study. There’s plenty of comfortable chairs she can curl up in—and hopefully, also nap in—until I’m done.
