Chapter Five #2
"Because I was tired." He says it simply. "Tired of the speed. Tired of the people who wanted things from me. Tired of being Santino Aleotti, the driver, and never just—" He stops. "Just Santino."
"So you came here."
"I came here because I needed to be somewhere no one knew me. Somewhere I could be—" He makes a frustrated gesture. "Normal."
"And?"
"And I walked into a café. And there was a girl who looked at me like I was just a man who wanted breakfast." His eyes find mine.
"You did not know who I was. You did not care.
You just—you counted ceiling tiles and forgot the specials and dropped a coffee pot, and it was—" He shakes his head.
"It was the first real thing that had happened to me in years. "
Oh.
"So when that woman—Kimberly—when she said I was slumming it?" His voice has gone cold again. "She was wrong. Because you are the first person in a very long time who has made me feel like a person instead of a trophy. Instead of a name. Instead of something people collect."
I can't breathe.
"But," he continues, and his voice is quieter now, "I understand if you do not want that. If what she said—if it made you realize that this is—" He stops. Starts again. "I understand if you would prefer I find somewhere else to eat breakfast."
"Is that what you want?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
"No." Immediate. Certain. "But I do not want you to be uncomfortable."
"I'm not uncomfortable."
"You have been avoiding me for three days."
"Because I'm scared," I say, and the honesty of it surprises even me.
He goes very still. "Of what?"
"Of this. Of you. Of—" I gesture helplessly at the space between us. "Of wanting something I can't have."
"You think you cannot have this?"
"I think I'm twenty-one years old with a studio apartment and bald tires and a father in prison." The words come tumbling out. "I think you have trophies and sponsors and a life in Monaco. I think Kimberly was right. This doesn't make sense."
"My father worked in a factory," he says quietly. "My mother cleaned houses. I grew up with nothing. And you think I care about tires?"
"I think you should."
"Why?"
"Because—" I don't know how to finish that sentence.
"Because you think your worth is measured by what you have?
" He leans forward slightly. "Thea. I spent twenty-eight years being measured by how fast I was.
By how many races I won. By what I could do.
And it was—" He stops. "It was empty. All of it.
The trophies. The money. The people who wanted to be near me because of what I was, not who I was. "
He reaches across the table. Slowly. Deliberately. Rests his hand palm-up on the table between us.
An invitation.
"You see me," he says quietly. "Not what I have done.
Not what I can do. Just—me. And I would like—" He stops.
Starts again. "I would very much like to keep having breakfast in this café.
With you bringing my coffee and forgetting the specials and counting ceiling tiles when you think I am not watching. "
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you."
My hand is shaking as I reach across the table. My fingers brush his palm—tentative, uncertain—and then his hand closes around mine.
Warm.
Sure.
Like he's been waiting for this.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles. Once. Twice. Such a small gesture, but it feels enormous. Like something is shifting between us, something that's been building for thirty-six days plus four.
"I do not know what comes next," he says, and his voice has gone softer. Rougher. "I do not know where this goes. But I know that I would like to find out. If you—" He pauses. "If you want that too."
"I want that too," I whisper.
His hand tightens on mine. Just slightly. Just enough that I can feel the pressure, the intent behind it.
We sit like that. Hands linked across the table. The café empty and quiet around us. Snow falling heavier outside the window now, blanketing the street in white.
And I'm not counting.
Not measuring distances.
Not trying to figure out the inches between us or the steps to the door or the tiles on the ceiling.
I'm just—here.
With him.
His thumb is still moving across my knuckles. Slow. Deliberate. Like he's memorizing the shape of my hand, the way my fingers fit against his.
"Your hands are cold," he says quietly.
"It's February."
"That is not an excuse."
"It's a reason."
His mouth does that almost-smile thing. "You argue with everything."
"Only when you're wrong."
"I am never wrong."
"That's very confident."
"That is very Italian."
I laugh. Actually laugh. And his smile widens slightly, like he's proud of making that happen.
"There," he says. "That is better."
"What is?"
"You. Not being invisible." His hand tightens on mine again. "I have missed seeing you. The real you. Not the waitress who smiles with her mouth and not her eyes."
"I had to—" I stop. "After what Kimberly said, I needed—"
"I know." His voice is gentle. "But I am telling you now. She was wrong. And I would like—if you will let me—I would like to prove to you that she was wrong."
"How?"
"By being here. Every morning. Seven-twenty-three. Same booth. For as long as you will let me." He pauses. "And by—"
His phone rings, and I watch his entire demeanor change in real-time. The warmth—that mocking, gentle warmth that was just starting to make me believe again—just vanishes. His expression goes neutral. Professional. Something cold slides into place behind his eyes.
His hand tightens on mine for a second. Then he lets go.
"I need to take this," he says, and his voice has gone formal. Distant. Like the man sitting across from me thirty seconds ago just disappeared.
"Okay."
He stands. "I will be—" He gestures at the door. "Just outside."
I nod because I don't trust my voice.
He pulls his phone out. Answers as he's walking to the door. "Sì." His voice is clipped. All business.
Then he's outside, and I'm alone in the café with my hand still warm from his touch and the cold rushing back in to fill all the spaces where he was.
I watch him through the window.
He's pacing. Five steps one way, five steps back. His free hand is gesturing sharply—cutting through the air in that way people do when they're frustrated or making a point. He's speaking Italian now. Fast. Too fast for me to catch any words even if I understood the language.
But his body language I can read.
Tense. Controlled. Like he's keeping something locked down tight with effort.
This is not the man who just told me about go-karts and factory jobs.
This is someone else entirely.
Someone professional. Someone cold. Someone who exists in that other world—the one with trophies and sponsors and lives that don't include coffee-stained waitresses.
He stops pacing. Runs his hand through his hair. Says something sharp—I can see his jaw tighten from here—and then he's quiet, listening to whoever's on the other end.
I should look away. Give him privacy. But I can't stop watching because this is a version of him I've never seen before. This is Santino Aleotti the driver. The professional. The person who makes decisions about racing and sponsorships and whatever else exists in that life.
The person who has nothing to do with me.
He turns slightly, and for a second I think he's looking at me through the window. But his eyes are unfocused. He's not seeing the café. He's not seeing me. He's somewhere else entirely.
Another minute passes. Maybe two. I've stopped counting.
Then he nods at whatever the person said. Says something short—agreement, maybe, or acknowledgment—and ends the call.
He stands there for a moment. Staring at his phone. His shoulders are tight. His jaw is still clenched.
Then he looks up at the café.
Sees me watching.
And something crosses his face—guilt, maybe? Regret? I can't tell because it's gone too fast, replaced by that neutral professional mask.
He comes back inside. Snow in his hair again. Cold air following him. He closes the door, and the café feels different now. Smaller. Or maybe just colder.
"I have to go," he says.
"Okay."
"There is—" He stops. Starts again. "Something has come up. With the team. I need to—" Another stop. "I am sorry."
"It's fine."
"It is not fine." He looks at the table where we were sitting. At the space where our hands were linked just minutes ago. "We were—I did not want to leave like this."
"It's okay. Really." I force a smile. The professional one. The invisible one. "Go. Do what you need to do."
He's studying me now. Really looking at me. And I can see him trying to read my expression, trying to figure out if I mean it, if I'm okay, if this is going to send me back into hiding.
"Tomorrow?" he asks finally.
"I'm working."
"I know. I will see you tomorrow? Seven-twenty-three?"
"Okay."
He takes a step toward me. Then stops. Like he's remembering something. Remembering that phone call maybe. Remembering whatever cold professional thing he needs to be.
He reaches for me anyway. His hand lifts toward mine—that same palm-up gesture from earlier—and then he catches himself. His hand hovers in the air between us for a second.
Then it drops.
"I—" He stops. Tries again. "I wish I did not have to go."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yeah." And I do. I can see it in his face—the frustration, the conflict, the way he's torn between whatever that phone call was and this moment right here. "Go. It's fine."
He looks at me for a long moment. Then: "I am not good at this."
"At what?"
"At—" He gestures between us. "Being two people at once. Being the driver and being—" He stops. "Just being Santino."
"I know."
"Do you?" His voice has gone quieter. Almost urgent. "Because I need you to know—what you saw just now, on the phone—that is not—" He makes a frustrated sound. "That is the part of my life I am trying to leave behind. But it is not easy. It follows me."
"I know," I say again.
"Tomorrow," he says. "I will explain tomorrow. About the phone call. About—everything. I promise."
"You don't have to—"
"I do." He takes another step toward me, and now he's close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to. "I do not want you thinking—" He stops. "Please. Just—tomorrow. Let me explain tomorrow."
"Okay."
Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "Seven-twenty-three." He reaches out again—and this time he doesn't stop. His hand finds mine. Squeezes once. "Goodnight, Thea."
"Goodnight, Santino."
He lets go. Steps back. Walks to the door.
He pauses with his hand on the handle. Looks back at me one more time.
"I meant what I said," he says quietly. "About wanting to find out where this goes."
Then he's gone.
The door closes. I watch through the window as he walks to his car, gets in, sits there for a moment before starting the engine.
Then he drives away, and I'm standing in the empty café with my hand still tingling from that last squeeze and this question echoing in my head:
Which version of you is real?
The one who told me about factory jobs and go-karts and being seen?
Or the one who just walked away looking like all that warmth was something he could turn on and off with a switch?
I finish closing. Lock the door. Count the register. Turn off the lights.
And I try not to think about the fact that for twenty minutes, sitting at a table with our hands linked, I let myself believe again.
But then that phone rang.
And the professional version of him came back.
And I'm not sure which one I'm going to see tomorrow at
seven-twenty-three.
I drive home counting streetlights (forty-three from the café to my apartment), and I try to convince myself that tomorrow will be different.
That tomorrow he'll come back, and the warmth will be real, and the phone call won't matter.
But I saw his face when he answered that call.
I saw the way the warmth just—vanished.
Like it was never there at all.
And I don't know which scares me more:
That he can turn it off that easily.
Or that I'm already hoping he'll turn it back on tomorrow.