A kiss that sayseverything.
14
Lorenzo
I knowthe look on my mother’s face before she speaks.
It’s the one she used to wear when I was ten and coming home with bruised knuckles and a chipped tooth.
The look that says . . .You don’t have to tell me what you did. I already know.
But more importantly, at this very moment, it clearly states,You are not one of them. Know your place.
We’re in the staff kitchen. She’s elbow-deep in dough for tomorrow’s breakfast rolls, her hands moving with the kind of practiced calm only someone who’s lived an entire lifetime serving others can maintain.
The overhead light flickers as I brace for a lecture.
It’s coming…that much I know for sure.
If my mother is one thing it’s predictable with how she reacts when she thinks I’m fucking up.
I lean against the counter, waiting. I wish she would just spit it out already so I can go on with my day.
She coughs once, clearing her throat.
Be careful what you wish for.
“You keep staring at that girl, and we are going to have a problem, Enzo.”
My shoulders tense. Just slightly. But enough for her to notice because she always notices.
“What girl?” I ask, but it comes out more like a deadpan because with my mother, I’m a terrible liar and an even worse actor. With everyone else, I’m fantastic, but Mom is my kryptonite.
She gives me a look that is so sharp it could slice through bone. “I didn’t raise an idiot. Don’t pretend to be one now.”
I lean back harder, crossing my arms like that might protect me. “What if I am?”
She slams the dough against the marble, the crack echoing through the room. “Then you’re being reckless.”
There’s a long beat. The only sound in the air is the dough being rolled and turned.
Actually, if you strain real hard, you can hear the hum of the refrigerator, but other than that, you could drop a pin, and it would echo.
My heartbeat pounds in my chest.
“If someone else notices,” she continues, voice tightening as she punches the dough, over and over again, “we’re both gone. Out. No job. No place to go. No second chances. You understand?”
I nod, jaw tight. “So we just pretend nothing’s happening? Pretend I don’t feel—”
“Yes.” She cuts in sharply, finally lifting her gaze.
Her eyes land on mine with a force that makes my back go ramrod straight.
“That’s exactly what you do. Because this isn’t a fairy tale, Lorenzo. And you’re not a prince.”
That lands hard. Too hard. Like a fist between the ribs.
I swallow the hurt down, but I swear it feels like I’ve just consumed needles by how hard it burns.
