“Please don’t call me that.” She shudders, her expression grim.
“Why?” I ask, my curiosity piqued by her strong reaction.
“It reminds me too much of home,” she replies, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness as she picks at her food, her enthusiasm dampening like a flame snuffed out.
I raise my eyebrows. “They call youMiss Stanleyat home? Are you descended from royalty?”
She laughs a sound that seems to chase away the shadows for a moment. “Sure, you’re sitting in front of a princess and don’t even know it.”
I can tell she’s joking, so I play along. “Oh, you’re very much a princess but not of royal blood.”
“Hey!” she protests, her eyes sparkling with mock indignation as she mutters, “I am so not.”
“What do your parents do then?” I ask, hopefully steering the conversation toward why the mention of London is uncomfortable for her.
“Father is a lawyer, and Mother a housewife,” she answers simply, her tone nonchalant but her eyes avoiding mine.
I notice how formally she talks about them, but it’s clear we haven’t made enough progress today for her to open up more, which irks me. I want to learn more about her, to understand the layers behind that spark and wit. But I respect her boundaries, recognizing that trust takes time—especially with someone as guarded as Amelia.
“What do your parents do?”
Well, I brought this on myself…
“They’re conflict journalists,” I reply, taking another bite of lasagna to buy myself a moment to think about how much to reveal. She’s not the only one who’s guarded, after all. “They specialize in covering stories from war zones, providing news coverage from regions experiencing armed conflict.” I rattle off what Grandpa made me tell people when I was a kid,and people asked where my parents were.
Apparently,“They went to war to interview the bad guys”wasn’t good enough.
“Where are they right now?” Her brows knit together in concern.
“Somewhere in the Middle East,” I shrug nonchalantly, trying to mask my discomfort with indifference.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her response catching me off guard.
“Why?” I ask, puzzled. People usually react with ahow cool,orthat’s so brave, not with sympathy.
“That must be hard, always being worried about them,” she utters quietly, her eyes reflecting a genuine concern.
It feels like I’m worried for everybody all the time. But I just huff, letting my guard slip a little. “I’d be more worried if they showed the same concern for me.”
Her eyes widen. “They don’t?”
“Not as much as parents probably should,” I admit, the words tasting bitter as they leave my mouth.
“I know that feeling,” she murmurs, a shadow passing over her features.
So it’s the parents,then.
This conversation is straying dangerously close to therapy territory, and after the emotional roller coaster of the evening, I’m craving a break. “Have you watched any good puppy videos you can recommend today?” I ask, obviously changing the topic.
She tilts her head to study me but then seems to decide to let it slide. “Oh, so you’re a dog person, huh?”
“One hundred percent. You are too, I guess?”
“I’m an everything person. I’d probably have a zoo if I had the time.”
“What would you get first?” I probe, genuinely curious.
“A puppy, definitely,” she admits, her voice carrying a hint of longing.
