CHAPTER 32 – CASPIAN
I follow Mother to the dining room. When I walk past the family portraits, I do what I always do: avert my gaze. My teenage smile, frozen on canvas, hides too much pain.
Father doesn’t look up.
“Son.”
“Father.”
Penelope and Daniel are already seated.
We eat Brazilian seafood stew in silence, the clink of cutlery loud in the absence of conversation.
I can feel Penelope watching me. She looks dissatisfied.
“You drift through life, Caspian,” she says suddenly. “I’ve been thinking about your new major. You can’t really believe studying something as insignificant as restorative justice leads anywhere that matters.”
“I do believe that. It matters to me.”
“Or maybe you don’t care,” she continues, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Maybe you’d rather waste your life dillydallying—”
“Enough,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
She goes rigid.
Father clears his throat. “I golfed with Ryan yesterday,” he says.
Antonio’s terrified face flashes in my mind. I stare at the food on my plate. I can’t take another bite.
“Now there is a young man with direction,” Father continues.
He pauses deliberately.
“He told me you had overreacted to a misunderstanding. He seemed concerned about you.”
I sip my water. My mouth stays dry.
“Ryan is such an upstanding citizen,” Mother hums.
Father nods. “He has every quality worth admiring.”
My fork bends slightly in my grip.
His gaze lands on me.
“He’s driven. Popular. Respected.”
“Respected?” I repeat, swallowing with difficulty. “He is a bully.”
Father’s expression darkens.
“Your shortcomings make you resent him.”
“Yes,” Mother agrees. “You should spend more time with him, Caspian. He could help you improve.”
I can almost hear Antonio’s scared whisper echoing in the beats of my heart.
I set my napkin down.
“I’m done.”
Mother blinks. “Dinner isn’t over.”
“It is for me.” I push back my chair.
Father scoffs. “Sit down.”
I feel eerily calm.
Something clean and irreversible clicks into place.
“I don’t care what you think of me,” I say, meeting both their gazes. “But I won’t sit here while you praise a man who terrorized someone I care about.”
Father sneers.
“Did he say something mean to one of your little friends?”
I don’t flinch.
“I’m done listening to you.”
“Caspian, you’re overreacting,” Mother snaps.
“No. I’m finally reacting.”
Penelope doesn’t say anything.
I walk out.
This time, I stop in front of my portrait.
I look at the boy frozen there with the careful smile, rigid posture, his eyes already tired.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I know it hurts, but you’ll get through it.”
I close the door quietly behind me.