CHAPTER 56 – ANTONIO
I wake up alone. For a second, I almost panic, but then the smell of coffee reaches me.
After finishing my morning routines, I tiptoe downstairs and find Caspian standing at the stove.
He watches the frying pan with a confused frown.
“Good morning,” I say, feeling a bit shy.
I don’t want to admit that Mom was right, but this was the first time her bambino had an adult sleepover.
It feels like a big deal.
“The pancakes don’t pancake,” Caspian says solemnly.
He turns and pulls me into a kiss that tastes like coffee and him. “Good morning, sweetheart.”
My gaze drifts back to the pan. There’s an abstract blob of batter in the middle. I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Do you think I may have… mismeasured?” Caspian asks.
“I think so, yes.” I steer him toward the table. “Sit. I’ll make them.”
He sits, watching me like I’m performing magic.
“They are so perfectly circular,” he says in admiration when I put the finished pancakes on a plate.
“Pancakes tend to be.” I laugh, absurdly pleased with the silly compliment. “Do you want eggs?”
“Scrambled, please. But I can make them.”
“Madonna, Caspian,” I say, giving him a kiss. “Let me make you breakfast.”
“Do you ever let people help you?” I ask carefully when I place the eggs in front of him.
“What do you mean?” he asks, taken aback. “Of course I do.”
“How?”
He falls silent.
Tenderly, I brush his cheek, for once waiting patiently.
This question has been on my mind for a while. I know I’m dramatic, but I still notice things.
I’ve seen patterns, and I have a sinking feeling the ghosts from his childhood are worse than he lets on.
He rubs his neck.
“I’m used to handling things by myself.”
“Well, in case you haven’t noticed,” I say softly, “you’re not by yourself anymore.”
“Oh, I have noticed.”
He pulls me into his lap and kisses me.
“By the way, I’ve never had eggs that are this well scrambled.”
He’s ridiculous, and I love him. I love his determination to make me feel like I excel in everything I do. I want him to treat himself with that same kindness, but I’m starting to realize we’re a long way from that.
I kiss his cheek, then return to my seat to finish breakfast.
The stack of course books on the table draws my eye. We’ve talked about our respective majors, but I realize I haven’t asked him about his reasons.
“What made you choose restorative justice?”
He thinks for a moment.
“I think our criminal justice system is deeply flawed. Unjust, a lot of the time.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I say, feeling a little breathless. He sounds like he’s going to build a better, softer world with his bare hands.
“Do you specialize in something? Or is that later?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Youth justice, maybe. Adolescents get punished for brains that aren’t finished developing yet.” He shrugs. “Or addiction. Most addicts need treatment, not prison.” He pauses.
“Restorative justice can’t fix everything, but the core idea matters.”
I watch him while he talks.
“I was so mad when I found out you studied something this important,” I admit.
“Mad?”
“I was trying so hard not to like you, and everything you did had the opposite effect.”
“That sounds exhausting,” he says.
“It was,” I say. “Deeply unfair of you to be so perfect.”
He laughs like I was joking. I wasn’t.
He reaches for my hand, switching the focus.
“What about you? Any particular area of history you want to specialize in?”
“Marginalized groups,” I say instantly. Then I groan. “Also European colonization, the fall of the Roman Empire, Viking studies. Lately, the Soviet Union.”
“You like to take it easy, then,” he says dryly.
“It would be amazing to research a topic and always include the marginalized aspect,” I say dreamily. “But that’s not going to happen. I’ll be lucky if I get a teaching job.”
“Why wouldn’t that happen?”
“Um, money, Caspian,” I reply carefully. “I have a scholarship, but it barely covers anything. I’ll be paying off student loans forever. And there aren’t exactly a lot of positions for historians who want to research instead of just teach.”
Caspian opens his mouth.
“No,” I say—gentle but firm.
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“You were going to offer me money.”
“Yes. Because I—”
I walk back around the table and sit on his lap again, wrapping my arms around his neck. His ears are already pink.
“I don’t want your money,” I say softly.
“I know, but—”
“I want you.”
His mouth opens, but I kiss away whatever he was about to say.