eleven #2
“Anyway, I had been there for a while, so I stepped in. Told the boy to fuck off then gave Daron the last pack of crackers I had as a way to show him that not all of us are that bad. We were all trying to survive and some did it with displaced aggression. We have been best friends ever since,
” I finish.
I hold my breath, silently praying to whatever god that so happens to be listening that Callisto doesn't ask about why I was in the shelter.
I chance a glance at Callisto, and his expression is almost impossible to read. He looks contemplative, as if I said something that shook him, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what that could have been. I clear my throat, and that seems to break his trance.
“So… umm… what about you?” I ask, shifting my weight slightly. “Who’s your best friend? Did you meet them at some ritzy private school or while you were traveling in Italy?” I smile, hoping it seeps into my tone. I want Callisto to understand that I’m not judging him.
“Me?” Callisto’s voice goes a tad higher with the word, pointing to himself with a ringless finger. I can’t tell if he is panicked or confused. I nod, eating another bite of his ice cream as I wait. “Oh… umm… I- I guess Nico.”
“He’s your assistant, though,” I say before I’m able to stop the words from leaving my mouth.
I never did have much of a filter when it came to certain situations, especially those that involve intimacy.
For some reason, this feels intimate to me.
Callisto is sitting so close to me, in a darkened room.
The TV is the only thing shedding light on our stories– the only thing that’s allowed to.
“Umm… yeah, he is… I had more friends when I lived in Italy.”
“How long did you live in Italy?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Umm… My dad sent me to boarding school there when I was eleven,” he responds, looking anywhere but at me.
“Did you like it?”
“Yeah… I loved it. I finally felt like I belonged. I had friends. Some were children of politicians. A few were actual princes,” he smiles fondly, as if caught up in a memory.
“What happened to them?” I ask, confused.
“Nothing. I guess they’re still my friends. We just don’t talk much since I moved back to the US,” he says, his gaze finally finding mine.
“Why did you move back then? You sound like you were happy there.”
“I was… but my dad basically forced me to move back. He said he would take my trust fund away if I didn’t.”
He shrugs as if it’s not a big deal, but once again, he doesn't meet my eyes.
“Since I moved back, Nico is the only one around.”
Callisto’s body stiffens. He is clearly uncomfortable with the topic, but my interest is piqued.
I should back off, but I don't care if I make him uncomfortable.
If he gets mad at me, it doesn't matter.
Not like he can go anywhere, and he will be gone in a few days.
I will never see him again, so what do I have to lose?
“Really? I figured you’d have a whole host of friends with yachts and skiing trips or whatever it is rich kids do. The whole nine.”
I gesture widely with the spoon; even though I kind of knew that Callisto didn’t have anyone.
Evan figured that much out through his research, but I’m not going to lie, not even to myself.
I’m incredibly curious as to why someone like Callisto doesn’t have any friends.
As much as he annoys me, he seems nice enough.
There isn’t anything inherently wrong with him.
He’s a tightass but a lot of people with money are, if you ask me.
He could easily find like-minded individuals to make as friends.
“Oh no. I’m more of a loner I suppose. I usually keep myself closed off to people because I don’t know if they really like me or if they like my money.
Or I guess my parents' money.” Callisto shrugs, as if it doesn’t bother him but I can tell by his tone of voice that it does.
That’s the only reason my snide remark about the woes of a rich kid dies on my tongue.
“I guess I could see that. Never really thought about it like that,” is what I settle on.
For the first time, a flicker of pity stirs for the man sitting next to me.
I never considered the fact that someone would use him for his money.
Money can buy a lot of things, but I suppose it could never buy true friendship.
Not like the bond I have with my friends.
The kind where you live and die with each other.
“If your dad was the one that forced you to go to Italy, then why did he make you move back?”
I set the now empty ice cream container on the table in front of me.
Callisto brings his spoon up to his full lips, licking the rest of the sweet treat off as he contemplates his answer.
I suppress a groan because now is not the right time to get hard.
Callisto’s lips are so fucking full, bright red now, the skin irritated by the cold snack.
“My father wants me to take over the company. He’s told me that’s what he wanted me to do since I can remember. But I hate it. I hate the idea of having that life. He said it was my only choice if I wanted to keep the wealth that I have. I moved back, and instead of taking over his stupid company,
I started art dealing. I want to prove to him that I can do something on my own, without his help. I mean, I guess I still have his help from my trust fund, and I haven’t done anything on my own besides getting kidnapped.”
Callisto’s tone is sad, and I ignore the stabbing sensation piercing through my own chest.
I cannot feel sorry for Callisto. I need to keep seeing him as cartoon bags with dollar signs, nothing more than a check.
“I respect that,” I say, and I mean it. “But you have probably done more than get kidnapped. You did a few modeling gigs, didn’t you? Traded and sold some art since you moved back. You have a degree, don’t you? That’s something. More than me.”
I have no idea why I’m trying to make Callisto feel better, but here I am, offering reassurance to a man I barely know and should hate.
“Yeah, but my family paid the tuition.” It’s Callisto’s turn to sound sad and detached. He huddles closer to me, laying his head on my shoulder for a moment before he sits up straight again. I kind of wish he had left it there. I liked the heavy feeling of his head on my shoulder.
“You still did the work, didn’t you?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“Your old man didn’t take the tests for you.” There is a soft and sincere edge to my tone that I don't want to contemplate. I feel tired, my stomach full and my limbs heavy. The slow cadence of Callisto’s voice makes my eyelids feel heavier and heavier.
“Thank you.” Callisto lays his head on my shoulder again and leaves it there.
I don't say anything nor do I make any attempt to shrug him off.
The moment feels intimate, as if there is a blurry filter on the world around us, making everything softer.
Harsh edges smudged out. “I know it’s pathetic that I have to pay my only friend to be around me, but it is what it is I suppose.”
“If you were a horrible person, Nico wouldn’t stay around. Sure, you pay him, but that doesn’t make him any less of a friend to you. There’s a reason he applied for and took the job, I’m sure.”
“Yeah. I suppose. He knew my father, though, so I’m not sure how much of it is him staying for me and how much is loyalty to my father. I didn’t really need an assistant, but my father didn’t give me a choice in the matter. He probably hired Nico to try to talk me into working for the company.”
Callisto’s jaw moves on my shoulder with each word. They are slow and methodical.
“Has he?” I ask, filing that bit of information away in my tired brain.
I remember Evan saying that he couldn't find any information on Nico prior to his employment with Callisto, so it's interesting that Callisto's father put him in that position.
A guy with no past, forced onto a sheltered rich kid under the guise of an assistant?
It smells like a plant. A handler. But I keep my face completely neutral.
“Has he what?”
“Tried to talk you into working for the company?”
“Oh. No. I don’t suppose he has,” Callisto admits, the words quiet and soft.
I don’t say anything further, the silence settling over us like a weighted blanket.
It’s comforting, in a way, to have someone there and not be expected to entertain them.
When Daron, Fletcher, and Evan are over, I always feel like we have to be doing something whether it’s playing video games or drinking or whatever.
The TV is on, but I’m not sure either of us are watching it anymore.
The weight of Callisto’s head rests on my shoulder, but the weight of his words rests on my heart.