CHAPTER 21 – ANTONIO
I often stop at the library before work. The building is old and charming, and the presence of books grounds me better than anything. The way they’re organized soothes me.
I’m checking out the new releases when I get an unpleasant feeling of being watched. This early in the day, the library is often almost eerily quiet. I glance around me, but don’t see anyone.
Still, the uneasiness grows, and I decide to head out.
Too late.
“Have you missed me?”
My body reacts before my brain, blurring my vision.
Ryan Rutherford leans against the end of the shelf, smirking at me with casual cruelty.
“You’re—you’re not a student,” I manage to say, feeling panic spread through my bloodstream like poison.
His gaze drags over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Still smart, I see.” He chuckles. “You’re right, I’m not a student.”
He tilts his head, taking his time. “I spotted you in the street and followed you in.” He studies the surroundings. “Hiding behind book stacks is very on-brand for you, Antonio.”
I grip the edge of the shelf. My hands start to shake. I hate the way he says my name.
Ryan steps into my space, too close, just like he used to—looming and crowding and suffocating me.
His arm brushes mine. His hand lands on my shoulder. He squeezes.
Not hard enough to hurt. But enough to let me know he could.
The touching makes bile rise in my throat, but he’s not done. His thumb presses into the hollow between muscle and bone, and he looks at the spot almost curiously.
I try not to react, but I can’t help it—I recoil in disgust.
“Leave me alone.” My voice comes out humiliatingly small.
I try to step around him, but his arm snaps out, blocking me. Same trick. Same entitled way of entertaining himself at my expense. Even the shame washing over me is the same.
Weak weak weak.
He leans closer. I can smell him.
My stomach churns.
“Relax. You always get so worked up. What’s so awful about this? Saying hi to an old friend.”
My mouth is so dry that the words almost get stuck in my throat.
“We’re not friends.”
He laughs and squeezes my shoulder again. “Not really your call, is it?”
Then he strolls off, whistling without a care in the world.
Like he didn’t rip open every scar.
My legs give out as soon as he’s gone.
I slide to the floor, back against the shelf.
I force myself to breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
My body doesn’t listen. It never does. The memories claw up. The migraine-bright lights in the locker hall. How Ryan always seemed to know my schedule.
I stumble to the men’s room and lock myself inside a cubicle.
I retch, but nothing comes out.
Just tears, and eventually snot running down my face.
*****
“Hey, freak.”
Ryan and his little gang formed a half-circle around me.
I tried to get to my locker.
He blocked me.
I stepped left, he followed.
His minions laughed.
“What a loser.”
I stood frozen, escaping to some corner in my mind where it didn’t hurt so much.
The first shove pushed me against the locker.
Great Expectations — Nonno’s gift, my favorite novel — slid across the floor.
Someone kicked it down the hall, laughing.
The second shove slammed my head back.
I closed my eyes. It was easier that way.
Someone jeered.
“He’s crying already!”
When it ended, a girl handed me my book without meeting my gaze.
I didn’t return to class.
I went to the park, sat by the pond, and watched ducks glide over the surface.
The water looked peaceful.
There was a sign warning about its dangerous depth, but to me, the sign almost read like an invitation.
It wasn’t the first time I thought about how easy it would be to step in.
It was the first time I almost did.
*****
At work, every sound feels amplified. The forks clink against plates too loudly. The cheerful laughter almost drills through my skull. Every time the bell jingles I want to disappear. I don’t want anyone to see me. Not when I feel this raw. This exposed .
Maria asks if I’m okay, and I snap at her. Dad gives me a worried look, and I glare at him. Mom forces me to eat a sandwich. I manage one bite.
Then Caspian walks in, radiating a ridiculous amount of charisma.
Hands in pockets, his smile nervous but hopeful, it’s like getting a full body slam without any shields.
“Hey,” he says, his hazel eyes studying my face carefully.
I scowl at him. Why is he looking at me like a damage inspector?
“Hi,” I snap . Snapping is good. Snapping makes him wary.
“Hi,” he repeats.
“You said that already,” I point out, crossing my arms. “I’m not going to say hi twice.”
“That’s fair,” he says softly.
No, it wasn’t.
He rubs his neck.
“I wanted to tell you that I’m not—not a glutton. Or a ward of the state. I can, uh, function. In society, I mean. Without a guardian.”
He looks mortified. He should. What even was that?
I thought Caspian’s words would never trip over themselves like mine.
“Good to know,” I say, voice sharp enough to cut through his bro polo.
Hurt flashes on his face, but he quickly covers it.
“I’m Caspian,” he says as if I didn’t know. As if his stupid name hasn’t been carved into my memory against my will.
He looks at me hopefully. I ignore the unspoken question.
“Are you going to order something?” I ask, flinching at my rudeness.
He opens his mouth, and then his restaurant-behavior-disorder strikes again, making him order two lasagnas and a cappuccino.
He scratches his jaw, and my gaze flicks into the faint stubble.
A sudden image of him shaving in front of the bathroom mirror smacks me in the head, and I blink.
“No cappuccino after 12 p.m.”
I hold on to that. I might not know a lot about sophisticated stubble, but I do know coffee.
“No cappuccino after 12 p.m.” He repeats it so earnestly my heart skips a beat. He’s ridiculous.
“I’ll bring you an espresso,” I decide . “And obviously just one lasagna.”
His grateful smile would be more fitting if I had donated him a kidney.
Just like last time, he eats quietly and thanks me every time I pass his table.
He seems oblivious to the admiring looks he gets from other customers. One woman fans herself with the menu, whispering with her friend.
I glare at them, then immediately question my sanity.
When I bring him the check, he barely looks at it.
Instead, he asks for my name.
Heat crawls up my neck. The idea of him knowing my name is dangerously intimate.
He looks at me almost pleadingly. The gold flecks in his eyes are unfair. My heart drums against my chest as I force myself to reply as rudely as possible.
“You need my name to pay? It’s Antonio.”
He exhales and nods like we sealed a deal.
A part of me wants to apologize for being so rude to him, but I can’t.
Not when the memory of Ryan’s hand lingers like a stain on my shoulder.
Caspian looks at me.
“Thank you—Antonio,” he says quietly.
I take a step back. He shouldn’t say my name. He shouldn’t hold my name in his mouth. All those letters on his tongue—it’s too much.
People need to stop saying my name.
He pays and gets up to leave.
I glance at the tip. It’s even more outrageous than the first time.
“Stop tipping me like this!” I hiss .
He looks at the cash, seemingly lost. His hand finds his neck again.
What if he doesn’t understand tipping percentages?
I relent the tiniest bit.
Caspian Stone might think he can function in society, but clearly he can’t.
The man is a clueless menace in expensive cotton.
“Just don’t do it again.”
Then, before he has a chance to speak, I turn and make my escape.
Not long after that the bell jingles, and he’s gone.
The same applies to my peace of mind.
Screw you, Caspian.
Why do you have to be friends with Ryan?