*****
At work, every sound feels amplified. The forks clink against plates too loudly. The cheerful laughter almost drills through my skull. Every time the bell jingles I want to disappear. I don’t want anyone to see me. Not when I feel this raw. This exposed .
Maria asks if I’m okay, and I snap at her. Dad gives me a worried look, and I glare at him. Mom forces me to eat a sandwich. I manage one bite.
Then Caspian walks in, radiating a ridiculous amount of charisma.
Hands in pockets, his smile nervous but hopeful, it’s like getting a full body slam without any shields.
“Hey,” he says, his hazel eyes studying my face carefully.
I scowl at him. Why is he looking at me like a damage inspector?
“Hi,” I snap . Snapping is good. Snapping makes him wary.
“Hi,” he repeats.
“You said that already,” I point out, crossing my arms. “I’m not going to say hi twice.”
“That’s fair,” he says softly.
No, it wasn’t.
He rubs his neck.
“I wanted to tell you that I’m not—not a glutton. Or a ward of the state. I can, uh, function. In society, I mean. Without a guardian.”
He looks mortified. He should. What even was that?
I thought Caspian’s words would never trip over themselves like mine.
“Good to know,” I say, voice sharp enough to cut through his bro polo.
Hurt flashes on his face, but he quickly covers it.
“I’m Caspian,” he says as if I didn’t know. As if his stupid name hasn’t been carved into my memory against my will.
He looks at me hopefully. I ignore the unspoken question.
“Are you going to order something?” I ask, flinching at my rudeness.
He opens his mouth, and then his restaurant-behavior-disorder strikes again, making him order two lasagnas and a cappuccino.
He scratches his jaw, and my gaze flicks into the faint stubble.
A sudden image of him shaving in front of the bathroom mirror smacks me in the head, and I blink.
“No cappuccino after 12 p.m.”
I hold on to that. I might not know a lot about sophisticated stubble, but I do know coffee.
“No cappuccino after 12 p.m.” He repeats it so earnestly my heart skips a beat. He’s ridiculous.
“I’ll bring you an espresso,” I decide . “And obviously just one lasagna.”
His grateful smile would be more fitting if I had donated him a kidney.
Just like last time, he eats quietly and thanks me every time I pass his table.
