CHAPTER 4 – ANTONIO
My parents own a small trattoria in Cove Bay.
Trattoria di Scotti. Maria and I have been helping them since we learned to prep vegetables.
She’s six years older than me, so by the time she was waiting tables, I was still washing mountains of dishes and running endless errands.
During the school year we usually work a couple of shifts a week, but in the summer we almost live at the trattoria.
On Tuesdays we close early and have a long dinner at home. Even Maria pauses her social life for that. I rarely have anything that needs pausing, but that’s alright. I have my books.
“Wash your hands and sit down,” Mom says the second she sees me. “You are starving.”
I do as I’m told, then greet Sophia, my sister’s best friend, who often joins us for dinner.
Mom’s already heaping lasagna onto my plate with fierce determination. She fixes me with a stern look.
“You study too much. You need carbs for your brain. Ricotta for your soul.”
“I don’t study too much,” I argue.
Maria snorts.
“I saw the tome on your nightstand and fell asleep on the spot.”
“It’s my new book about the Industrial Revolution. It was a significant era,” I tell her huffily.
She rolls her eyes. “The book had a significant number of pages, I’ll give you that.”
Sophia giggles.
“You always say you love history,” Maria continues, her eyes sparkling. She loves to tease me.
“I know you have a thing for Marcus Aurelius, but what else is so interesting about the past?”
I blush, the heat creeping up my neck when the noble Roman Emperor is mentioned.
“I don’t have a thing for Marcus Aurelius. I admire his stoicism.”
“And I admire your passion,” Sophia tells me, shooting Maria a look.
“Thank you, Sophia,” I say, glaring at my sister.
“If you really must know, history feels safe to me. Safer than the real world, at least. The misery is catalogued and contained in books and articles.” I pause and sip water to settle the tightness in my throat.
“Nothing in my history books can jump out and attack me.”
“That’s grim,” Maria says, but her tone has softened. She knows what I mean.
“No one has a brighter mind than my son,” Mom says, reaching for my hand. She pats it gently. “Nonno was the same when he talked about soccer. So eloquent.”
“His post-game analyses were an inspiration,” Dad agrees.
We’re all silent for a while, remembering Nonno, until Maria nudges Sophia.
“Tell them your news.”
Sophia’s cheeks turn pink.
“Dr. Stone will be my attending .” Her eyes shine. “She’s in her early thirties, can you believe it? I don’t know anyone else who has accomplished that much
at her age. She’s a legend.”
“That’s incredible, Sophia,” I say, and I mean it.
I’m happy for her. That doesn’t stop the name Stone from dropping straight into the bottom of my stomach.
Stone means Caspian Stone.
Caspian Stone means Ryan Rutherford.
And Ryan Rutherford made high school hell.
For Sophia’s sake, I hope Dr. Stone is nothing like her spoiled brother.
I hope she’s warm and professional and entirely un-Stone-like.
Mom flips open the notebook she calls Prospect Book. She keeps updated lists of eligible bachelors. The fact that she thought Kevin was eligible is a good indicator of her matchmaking style. At this point the book is basically a Greek tragedy.
“Speaking of remarkable people, Arthur Pennington is looking for a partner.”
“Wasn’t that for salsa class?” Dad asks.
“Well, yes, but maybe he wants to salsa in the bedroom too,” Mom says, wiggling her brows at me.
“Why would you say that?” I stare at Mom, almost gagging. “I’m not going out with some wanton salsa enthusiast.”
Maria collapses into violent laughter. It stops the moment Mom turns toward her.
“Thomas DeWitt is single,” she continues smoothly. “Very respectable. The pickle dynasty heir. Slightly older than you, but his hip replacement surgery was a success.” Mom pauses, then delivers her final pitch. “He ferments his own cucumbers.”
Maria looks physically ill. Sophia tries, and fails, to hide her giggle.
Later, I sip my coffee and think about Caspian Stone. Which is next level ridiculous. Caspian is not a thought you can casually have. He’s a thought that knocks over your coffee and spills it everywhere.
What if—
No. Absolutely not.
(What if Caspian was in Mom’s book?)
The idea is preposterous. It is as impossible as a teacup trying to catch a waterfall.
A date with him would be a disaster. My mother’s book is for nice men with sensible sweaters and harmless questions.
Caspian is the question no one dares to ask.
I imagine our date against my will, resenting the small shiver running down my spine.
He would be sitting across from me in one of those stupid polos, all broad shoulders and terrifying calm.
He would watch me like I was someone interesting instead of a history nerd who alphabetizes his books when stressed. He would—
No. He would not.
He’s Ryan’s friend.
Welcoming the intrusion, I let it snap against my traitorous mind with the sharp sting of a rubber band. I set my cup down harder than necessary. Sophia’s upcoming residency has ruined my dinner and my peace of mind.
I square my shoulders. Marcus Aurelius was an emperor who dealt with war, plague, riots, and fourteen children. He basically invented mindpower. I’m going to follow in his footsteps and wield the power of my mind like a sword.
In less dramatic words: I refuse to think about Caspian.
He will never be a prospect.
He will always be a problem.