Page 22 of Break Me Apart
She is too thin in the face, and her hair is tied back badly. There are shadows under her eyes that are dark enough that I almost confuse them with bruises. She has one of Niko’s jumpers on over leggings and socks, and there is a smear of something pale on the front of the sleeve that might be formula or porridge or both.
“Arseny,” she says, voice rough with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the area,” I lie.
She looks past me down the corridor as if checking whether I have brought a marching band. “You were in the area. On purpose?”
“Depends on how welcoming you plan to be.” That gets the tiniest twitch at one corner of her mouth. It’s barely there, but I’ll take it.
“I’m not dressed properly.”
“You’re wearing clothes. That meets the legal minimum.”
Cassie closes her eyes for a second, and I can’t tell if she is tired enough to laugh or tired enough to cry.
“Come in,” she says at last, stepping back.
The flat is warm and there are signs of life everywhere without any real order. A bottle on the coffee table. Tiny socks hanging off the arm of the sofa. A blanket half on the floor. A mug in the kitchen sink.
Nothing catastrophic.
Vladimir is asleep in his cot in the front room by the window, bundled up and breathing through his mouth. Istep closer automatically, checking him the way everyone checks sleeping babies. “He was up half the night,” Cassie says.
“I can tell,” I reply, giving her a second look over. She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she goes to the kitchen, fills the kettle, then stands there with one hand on the counter as it heats, staring into space.
I watch her for a moment before I shrug off my jacket and sit at the small table.
“Are you going to make tea,” I say, “or is this one of those modern homes where guests hydrate themselves?”
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she says, glancing over her shoulder.
“No, but here I am. Lucky you.”
She brings over two mugs and sits opposite me, curling both hands around hers even though the tea is too hot to drink. Up close, she looks even worse. Her skin has that washed-out, overused look people get when they have stopped sleeping properly for too long.
“Niko told you to come?” she asks.
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
I want to say, “because my brother is fraying at the edges, and you look like you might already be five steps ahead of him. Because every time he says your name lately, he sounds like he is bracing for impact. Because I don’t trust either of you to admit how bad this has got.” Instead, I take a sip of tea. “Because Niko’s worried.”
Cassie lowers her eyes to the mug. “He worries too much.”
“Niko worries exactly the right amount when he thinks something is wrong. The problem is he usually tries to do it silently, which makes him unbearable.”
That nearly gets another smile. Nearly.
“He said I’m struggling?” she asks after a minute.
“He said enough to make me get in that car outside, which means either things are bad or I have finally gone soft in the head.”
“I’m just tired,” she whispers, her fingers tightening around the mug.
I look at her, and she looks back for maybe two seconds before her gaze slips away.
“Cassie,” I say gently, “I didn’t drive two hours for ‘just tired.’” She presses her lips together, then lets out a breath through her nose that sounds halfway to a laugh and halfway to breaking. For a second, I think she is going to brush me off. Tell me she’s fine, the baby has been difficult, she only needs sleep, whatever version sounds the least serious.
