Chapter 29
In an instant, Zane sprang to his feet, leaving me momentarily paralyzed with surprise. V stood at the doorway, her face a mix of disbelief and simmering anger.
“Are you out of your mind? You brought her here?” V yelled, her gaze fixed on Zane.
Then, her eyes dropped, and in an embarrassed fluster, she turned her back to us.
“For goodness' sake, at least cover up,” she added.
Zane quickly spread his palms to shield himself, trying to mask his embarrassment.
“V, just go and close the door,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
“Just so you know, Dad will be here any minute. I just spoke to him,” she replied, leaving the door ajar as she stormed to her room, slamming the door behind her. I remained on the bed, breathless. Zane’s eyes shifted to me.
“I'm sorry, but you need to leave. My dad doesn't like having guests over,” he said, his voice a mix of seriousness and regret. I rose quietly, smoothing out the sheets as Zane hastily slipped on a t-shirt.
When we descended the stairs, the front door swung open, and we froze, locked in a silent exchange. Zane’s father stepped inside, his gaze darting between us, but his emotions were unreadable.
He was a medium-built man in his fifties, bald on top with wisps of gray hair on the sides, dressed in a faded forest green suit, a white shirt, and a brown tie, clutching a brown leather briefcase.
His dark, piercing eyes held a menacing quality, reminiscent of V’s—she had inherited those same eyes.
“We're just leaving,” Zane said firmly, grabbing my hand and moving toward the exit.
“Already? Aren't you going to introduce me to your little friend?” There was a condescending edge to his tone, and I felt a wave of discomfort wash over me, but Zane didn't halt his pace.
“I'm talking to you, son,” he added, emphasizing the last word. Zane stopped, and I followed suit.
“Luna has to go home,” he replied without turning around, keeping his face hidden from view. I glanced at his father, who wore a faint smirk.
“Luna,” he repeated, “interesting name. I'm Davide. Pleasure to meet you,” he said, extending his hand for a handshake.
I hesitated, feeling no desire to touch him—his smirk was unsettling.
Zane quickly turned to intercept my hand before it could meet his father's.
It was too late. His grip was cold, and I withdrew almost immediately.
I looked at Zane; his jaw was clenched, muscles taut as he struggled to maintain control. Their relationship appeared fraught, devoid of warmth. Why had he chosen to live with his father over his mother?
“Maybe you should stay for dinner,” Davide suggested, his tone casual.
“No!” Zane nearly shouted, his anger palpable. “I told you she has to go!” he added through gritted teeth. Davide raised a hand dismissively.
“Goodbye, then. Hope to see you again,” he said, allowing us to leave. Zane grasped my hand firmly, pulling me away quickly.
“Hey, slow down! You're hurting me,” I protested, trying to break free.
“I shouldn't have brought you here,” he said, frustration lacing his words. I sensed the tension between them, but Davide seemed indifferent to my presence—why was Zane so worked up? He continued to walk briskly, and I struggled to keep up, his grip tightening around my hand.
“Zane, stop!” I yelled, attempting to leverage my weight to slow him down. “What's wrong? Why are you so upset?” I pressed. He halted, turning to me, cupping my face in his hands before pressing his lips against my forehead.
“I'm sorry,” Zane murmured. I waited for him to elaborate, but there was only silence.
“Please, talk to me, Zane,” I pleaded, but he had erected an impenetrable wall that I couldn't breach.
“Let's get you home,” he said softly, taking my hand gently this time.
We drove in silence, not a single word exchanged. His jaw remained tense, anger simmering just beneath the surface. I struggled to decipher his emotions but found myself at a loss. When we finally arrived, he seemed slightly more at ease, turning off the engine to face me.
“He wasn't supposed to be home. I thought he had a meeting and would be back late. I'm really sorry,” Zane said, shaking his head in frustration.
“I'm not,” I replied. “I don't see why you're so upset. He seemed… nice.” I lied; he wasn't nice, but his demeanor hadn't warranted Zane’s intense reaction either.
“Nice?” Zane scoffed. “He hates me and everything I do—or anyone I…” he trailed off, a shadow crossing his face.
“What? Date?” I asked, curiosity piqued. “Have you brought many girls there?” My heart raced at the thought, and a wave of unease hit me. How many girls had he dated? How many had lain in that bed and kissed him in the same way I did? I wanted to shake off those thoughts.
“Is that really what you want to know?” he teased. I nodded earnestly.
“Just you,” he replied, and I playfully nudged him.
“Liar!” I exclaimed, laughter breaking the tension between us. Ultimately, he didn't answer my question, but it hardly mattered; that was the past.
Zane leaned in to kiss me gently before heading out.
His absence left an emptiness that seemed to grow day by day.
I craved to fill that void, yearning to spend every moment by his side.
I was falling for him—deeper and deeper—wondering if there would ever be an end to this spiral and just how significant this feeling could become.
“Ah, you made it just in time! I was worried you'd miss dinner,” my mom remarked as I entered the kitchen.
“Hey, Mom,” I responded with a faint smile.
“How's Zane?” she inquired, her gaze keenly observing my face as she retrieved a roast from the oven.
“He's doing fine,” I replied curtly, hoping she wouldn't press further.
“It seems like things are going well between you two,” she continued as she began slicing the roast. I nodded, briefly mentioning that I needed to change.
“We can have dinner a bit earlier today since your dad is home.
The roast is ready, and it's best served hot,” my mom added while I headed upstairs.
I entered my room, and I noticed my dad standing by the terrace door.
“Dad? What are you doing?” I asked, a sense of concern washing over me. His expression was tense, and my heart sank—I could tell he was upset and that it was about something serious.
“I'm just seeing what I could do about this,” he said, shifting his focus to the terrace door.
“What do you mean?” I approached cautiously. He took a deep breath.
“You see, today I felt like a complete fool when a patient of mine told me she saw a boy climbing your terrace,” he said, pausing while I involuntarily gasped. I didn't know how to defend myself; I couldn't deny it. How did people know everything? Unbelievable.
“I'm sorry, it was nothing—he just wanted to talk,” I stammered, realizing how flimsy my excuse sounded.
“Sure, because that's all kids do at this age,” he scoffed.
“Dad, please. I promise that was all it was, and it only happened that one time,” I said, partially lying, hoping he would accept my words. We had already dealt with trust issues, and I didn't want to go down that path again. I could see he was considering it too and eventually nodded.
“I promised your mom I wouldn't make a scene today, but we will revisit this later,” he warned, pointing a finger at me. Without another word, he walked out, leaving me feeling embarrassed and guilty.
About a few minutes later, I joined my parents for dinner. The evening was still bright as the days were getting longer. My mom was upbeat, having set the table with candles and wine, as if celebrating something special. I was curious about what it could be.
Once we sat down, my dad avoided eye contact with me, still clearly upset.
“Are we celebrating something today?” I asked, glancing at my mom.
“As a matter of fact, we are,” she replied excitedly, looking between my dad and me. She placed her hand on his, and he smiled back at her.
“Twenty-three years ago, a shy boy came up to me and said, 'I like you, and I want you to be my girlfriend,'” my mom reminisced, her eyes sparkling as she locked gazes with my dad.
“I was shocked,” she continued, “thinking, how could he ask me to be his girlfriend when I didn't even know he liked me? I was about to say no, but then he added that if I said yes, he would win a bet with his friends and get two concert tickets.” She chuckled at the memory.
“So, you said yes?” I asked, intrigued by the story.
“She did, but with one condition: that I take her to that concert with me,” my dad interjected, his eyes still fixed on my mom.
Watching them, it felt as if they were reliving that moment from long ago.
I wondered if I would ever have someone look at me like that.
Could Zane be the one? Was it possible for young love to blossom into a mature, committed relationship?
I used the word “love” in my thoughts, even though I had never voiced it out loud, and neither had Zane.
I knew he had feelings for me, but how deep were they?
The first time I said “I love you” was to Marco, but what I felt for him paled in comparison to my feelings for Zane. So what was holding me back from saying those words now?
As the dinner progressed, my dad seemed to have forgotten his anger. We shared some wine and engaged in pleasant conversation, mostly revolving around my parents’ love story. For dessert, we enjoyed a chocolate cake with raspberries that my mom had bought for the occasion.
The following day, Zane was absent from school. He texted me, saying he had overslept and wasn't feeling up to attending. It felt like a lie.
I had to work at the coffee shop that afternoon, so I rushed to catch the bus. Emily walked with me.