Cosette is dressed to the nines, as usual, in a light blue, floor-length gown that looks like she’s more suited for a ball or charity event than just a casual brunch. It seems like she’s always trying to impress the Sokolovs with her fashion sense every time we meet with them, but I know they could care less. No one notices if she’s wearing Dior or Prada; last year’s clothing line or this, but no one can seem to get Cosette to understand that.
I decided on a forest green ruffle wrap dress. I’m sure my stepmother thinks I’m way too underdressed, but I could care less. And if she knew that I only paid thirty dollars for it on clearance, she would probably die of a heart attack right on the spot. On second thought, maybe I should tell her…
“Come along, Savina,” Cosette says, yanking on my arm and effectively pulling me from my inner turmoil. “We don’t want to be late.”
The three of us walk outside into the humid morning air and get into the awaiting car. The ride to the restaurant is excruciatingly silent. I want to bring up the apartment situation, but I know now is not exactly ideal timing. Papà is busy on his phone, and the scrunched up look on his face lets me know that he’s dealing with a serious situationat the moment.
So, I simply sit back and bide my time. I don’t want to seem too eager, because that might raise some red flags. Cosette is already opposed to the idea, and I don’t want to give her any more ammunition to pit my father against me on this whole plan.
By the time we arrive in Greenwich Village, it’s drizzling outside. You would swear the heavens had opened up, though, considering Cosette’s reaction to the light rain.
“Get the umbrella. Quickly, Donato,” Cosette tells my father with urgency in her tone as if she might melt if a single raindrop touches her skin.
Papà mutters under his breath about it barely raining, but he does what she says anyway, pulling a large, black umbrella from the trunk. He covers our heads as we emerge from the back of the car and step onto the sidewalk. The picturesque restaurant before us is washed in a cold, gray light; the fresh rain slicking the pavement outside. My father ushers us inside hurriedly, fumbling with the umbrella. Frustrated, he throws it in the corner of the entrance and tells his driver, “Handle that blasted thing.”
The driver nods, and now it’s his turn to wrestle with the faulty umbrella. Leaving him to it, we walk further into the restaurant to a large, round table that has a little note in the center saying it’s reserved.
Papà takes a seat at the head of the table, checking his watch as he sinks back in his chair. “They’re two minutes late,” he remarks with a frown.
When it comes to eating, my father takes it very seriously. If his extra weight wasn’t a clear indication of his love for food, you would be able to tell due to his urgency when he enters a restaurant. He absolutely loathes waiting for everyone to arrive before he can order. And he hates when people are late to mealtimes, because his politeness can only be stretched so far.
“Well, Savina, while we’re waiting,” he starts, grumbling under his breath, “I spoke to Pavel and his father this morning. If you want to move out, you can. Pavel agreed to amend the living arrangementclause in the marriage contract.” He pauses and then says, “Even though it’s only for a few months before the wedding, I suppose a little prenuptial liberty would be good for you.”
I am overjoyed…and, quite honestly, shocked. I never thought my father would go for the idea, considering his idea of raising a daughter is keeping her under lock and key until her wedding day. I’m sure the apartment he’s chosen is more like an ivory tower under constant guard, but I could care less. I’m finally going to feelfree.
“I personally think it’s a bad idea,” my stepmother pipes up, instantly bursting my bubble, and I glare at her. Of course she does. She wants me to stay home so she can keep total control over me.
I ignore her, turning to my father instead. “Thank you, Papà.” I keep it nice and simple. I don’t want to act too thrilled, because it might backfire on me and raise concern between the two of them. They can’t know how I secretly long for my freedom or how elated I actually am, because my stepmother will be sure to rip any semblance of happiness out of my hands the first chance she gets.
“You’re welcome,” my father says with a nod before checking his watch again. “I told Sokolov eleven on the dot,” he mumbles angrily.
I sit back in my chair, thankful that the tense and contentious decision is out of the way, but I can feel my stepmother scowling at me. She’s mad that we ignored her and her opinions on the matter, and I have a feeling she’s not finished with this topic. Cosette loves being center of attention and always throws a fit when she’s not. And the fact that we both so willingly dismissed her will bear consequences. I can be sure of that.
I watch in disgust as she leans over to my father and puts her hand over his, drawing his gaze to her. “I thought we discussed last night that it’s not a good idea for Savina to be out there on her own.”
“I won’t be on my own. I’ll be with Darby,” I protest.
“Two young girls in the city,” she retorts with a click of her tongue. “It’s simply not safe, Donato.”
I refuse to stay at home and be her proverbialpunching bag. “We’ll be careful, Papà,” I tell him confidently.I’m not going to let my stepmother ruin this for me.
“Young girls on their own can lead to trouble,” Cosette continues.
“We’re not babies,” I say with an eyeroll.
“I know that,” she sneers.
Keeping my eyes steady on my father, I tell him, “I’m sure you chose an amazing and completely safe place for us to live in.” And then I add, “You have great taste.” I’m laying it on thick, but I could care less. I need this to happen. For me. For Darby. For my own sanity.
Papà smiles at that remark. “There’s a doorman, who is ex-military,” he says with a nod. “The building is very secure and in a good part of the neighborhood. Not much crime.”
I beam at him, and he smiles back.It’s working, I think to myself.
“I still think we should discuss this later,” Cosette pipes up.
Tired of her trying to sabotage me, I stand abruptly. “I’m going to the restroom,” I announce. I’ve been biting my tongue, and I’m tired of trying to control my emotions when it comes to my wicked stepmother. I need to get away from her for a few minutes before my head explodes.
“Alright, but try to hurry in case they get here soon,” my father says, checking his watch for the millionth time and mumbling about people not being on time and how he’s not waiting much longer before he orders something to eat.
