Page 143 of The Pucking Arrangement

Ris’s voice is so small it makes my ribs feel too tight, like they’re crushing my lungs.

Dmitri’s jaw locks. “Ris. We talked about this. Erin will give you lessons on Mondays and Fridays. Until she leaves for her trip, and we find you a new teacher.”

“But that’s not the same.” Her face screws up, and oh no, those are real tears. “That’s not the same as having her here all the time.”

I can’t breathe. Can’t think past the ache in my chest. Can’t look away from her wobbling lip or Dmitri’s ironclad expression.

“I’ll come visit,” I promise, crouching down again. “Not just Mondays and Fridays. Whenever you want me to.”

“Every day?” she asks hopefully.

“Maybe not every day, but?—”

“Why not?” Her chin juts out, stubborn and fierce in a way that is so Dmitri it hurts. “Papa’s sad when you’re not here. I heard him andBabushkatalking.”

My head snaps up, my pulse hammering.

Dmitri’s face flickers—panic, regret, something too raw to name—before it goes blank again.

“Amneris,” he says sharply. “That’s enough.”

“But it’s true!” she protests. “You said you’ll miss her when she’s?—”

“Amneris,” he cuts her off, voice like steel. “HelpBabushkawith breakfast. Now.”

Her little fists clench. Her whole body vibrates with fury. “Grown-ups are stupid!” she yells, then storms off, a tiny hurricane of betrayal and righteous six-year-old rage.

And then it’s just us.

Me and the human embodiment of emotional constipation.

Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. I focus on a spot just past his shoulder because looking directly at him feels impossible right now.

“She’s upset,” he says finally, like that explains everything. Like it smooths over the fact that he’s been talking about me with the mother of his dead wife.

“Yeah, I got that impression.” I try for lightness, but it falls flat, my voice too raw around the edges.

He shifts, adjusting his grip on my suitcases. “We should go. Traffic will be bad soon.”

“Dmitri—”

“I’ll get these in the car.” He’s already turning away, shoulders set, spine rigid. “Five minutes.”

And then he’s gone.

I stand there frozen, in the guest room that hasn’t felt like a guest room in weeks.

One last look.

The way the early sunlight spills across the window seat. The copy ofHumiliated and Insultedstill sitting on the nightstand. A tragic masterpiece telling of love and devotion, of loss and choices that can’t be undone. Of people who wound each other, not because they don’t love enough, but because they don’t know how to hold on.

I force myself to look away. To move.

The drawer I’d claimed as mine is empty now. Just like the bed. Just like the space I’d carved for myself here.

Just like me.

Downstairs, the goodbyes are quick and brutal.

---