She rolls her eyes. “The book had a significant number of pages, I’ll give you that.”
Sophia giggles.
“You always say you love history,” Maria continues, her eyes sparkling. She loves to tease me.
“I know you have a thing for Marcus Aurelius, but what else is so interesting about the past?”
I blush, the heat creeping up my neck when the noble Roman Emperor is mentioned.
“I don’t have a thing for Marcus Aurelius. I admire his stoicism.”
“And I admire your passion,” Sophia tells me, shooting Maria a look.
“Thank you, Sophia,” I say, glaring at my sister. “If you really must know, history feels safe to me. Safer than the real world, at least. The misery is catalogued and contained in books and articles.” I pause and sip water to settle the tightness in my throat. “Nothing in my history books can jump out and attack me.”
“That’s grim,” Maria says, but her tone has softened. She knows what I mean.
“No one has a brighter mind than my son,” Mom says, reaching for my hand. She pats it gently. “Nonno was the same when he talked about soccer. So eloquent.”
“His post-game analyses were an inspiration,” Dad agrees.
We’re all silent for a while, remembering Nonno, until Maria nudges Sophia.
“Tell them your news.”
Sophia’s cheeks turn pink.
“Dr. Stone will be my attending .” Her eyes shine. “She’s in her early thirties, can you believe it? I don’t know anyone else who has accomplished that much
at her age. She’s a legend.”
“That’s incredible, Sophia,” I say, and I mean it.
I’m happy for her. That doesn’t stop the name Stone from dropping straight into the bottom of my stomach.
Stone means Caspian Stone.
Caspian Stone means Ryan Rutherford.
And Ryan Rutherford made high school hell.
For Sophia’s sake, I hope Dr. Stone is nothing like her spoiled brother.
I hope she’s warm and professional and entirely un-Stone-like.
Mom flips open the notebook she calls Prospect Book. She keeps updated lists of eligible bachelors. The fact that she thought Kevin was eligible is a good indicator of her matchmaking style. At this point the book is basically a Greek tragedy.
“Speaking of remarkable people, Arthur Pennington is looking for a partner.”
“Wasn’t that for salsa class?” Dad asks.
“Well, yes, but maybe he wants to salsa in the bedroom too,” Mom says, wiggling her brows at me.
“Why would you say that?” I stare at Mom, almost gagging. “I’m not goingout with some wanton salsa enthusiast.”
Maria collapses into violent laughter. It stops the moment Mom turns toward her.
“Thomas DeWitt is single,” she continues smoothly. “Very respectable. The pickle dynasty heir. Slightly older than you, but his hip replacement surgery was a success.” Mom pauses, then delivers her final pitch. “He ferments his own cucumbers.”
