Colin must have noticed, because the hint of panic in his eyes gives way to concern, so I jut my chin slightly.
“It wasn’t so touching that you need to cry over it, Olive Garden,” he says slowly, not taking his eyes off me.If only he would, because somehow I get the feeling he can see a part of me I don’t want to show anyone.A weak, vulnerable part.A part I wish didn’t exist.
“Get tae fuck, Fantino,” I snap.
I hear a laugh and wish I could take my words back.“Is that Olive, the one you told me about?”the girl on Fantino’s phone screen asks, and I feel like I’m on the outside looking in.But he heard it too, because he goes bright red, right up to his ears, as he whirls around.He must be glaring at his wee sister, but I heard what I heard.He’s told her about me.For whatever reason.Probably bitching about me.Which would serve me right, because I moaned about him to my friends.But somehow I’m affected by that information.Because it means Fantino’s bothered about me.Like I’m bothered about him, though I’d never admit it.He’s just an arrogant, unfairly attractive, spoiled brat from the USA who’s never learned any respect for anyone.But sadly, that doesn’t stop me flushing hot every time his dark eyes rest on me.Like now, for instance.
“Cleo, we’ll talk later, OK?”he says roughly.Still looking in my direction.I cross my arms challengingly over my chest, ignoring the dull ache in my shoulder.
Fantino looks back to his sister.
Cleo.Pretty name.Cleo and Colin Fantino.He must be a great big brother.Aye, I mean that totally unironically—I can imaginethat Fantino’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t hesitate to beat up anyone who upset his wee sister.He knows how to fight and how to protect, and he can be very intimidating.Not that he intimidatesme, however fierce he can look.He annoys me, and those are two very different things.
I chew gently on my bottom lip as I wait for Fantino to say goodbye and end the FaceTime call.
“So you told your wee sister about me,” I say slowly as he puts his phone away.He doesn’t turn immediately, but I can see his shoulders rise and fall slightly.
“Would you like that, Olive Garden?”he asks, turning side on.I notice how handsome his profile is.Not that his face isn’t nice from the front.But lots of faces look good from the front.If you look great from the side, you’re winning at life.And yeah, Fantino’s the bloody champion.
The phrase pisses me off in books, but his jawline is razor sharp.His nose is almost a wee bit too straight and perfect, in contrast to his full eyebrows.When he frowns—which he does very well—they contract until there’s this little ridge over the bridge of his nose.But he’s grinning smugly just now, so his brow is smooth.
“Not at all,” I say, bored, strolling toward him.I nicked that move off him, and I hope he doesn’t notice.It seems to have the desired effect, because while my eyes roam around the room, I can sense Fantino watching me.My skintight sports leggings, which remind me that I used to be an athlete, and the short, baggy sweatshirt I’m wearing with them.It stops just above my waistband, and if I stand up straight, a little flash of skin peepsout.I’m sure that’s what Fantino’s looking at just now.And I do like that.
“What will you give me if I don’t grass on you?”I ask with a sigh, running my finger over the dusty piano.I didn’t even know the school had another, besides the highly polished specimen in the main hall.
Fantino’s laugh is nervous and angry.Yeah, that’s how it feels, my friend.Suddenly I’ve got the upper hand.
“How are you going to rat on me when you’re out after bedtime yourself?”
Bedtime.Cute the way he refuses to use the school jargon, like admitting he’s at Dunbridge now would make him less cool, less individual.He’s one of us, whether he likes it or not.
“I was on my way to the sick bay to get some paracetamol when I heard a noise,” I say, radiating innocence.It’s winding him up.
“Noise,” he repeats to my surprise.I’m amazed that that seems to faze him most, because it shows this really means something to him.All this.Playing the piano.I’d have believed anything of him, but not that Fantino’s a brilliant pianist.I’m not musical, but I know it takes emotion and passion to coax so much out of the piano keys.And I wouldn’t have thought he had that in him.
When he was playing, there was something soft and vulnerable in this room.More than just the constant rage he has to take out on me and everyone else.
“It’s not fucking noise, OK?”he says when I still don’t say anything.
“Right, yeah, sure, sorry.”I raise both hands.“I’d never haveguessed you were a secret amateur musician.”He exhales sharply.Ha-ha.“And I have to admit, it was impressive,” I continue because, unlike him, I’m big enough to give credit where it’s due.“Did you play that all from memory?”
“By ear,” he answers grimly, but I can see that he’s a bit unsettled by me asking him questions, being interested, rather than snapping at him.I bet that’s what he told his wee sister.Olive Garden, this bitchy drama queen.Soannoying.That makes me smile.
“Amazing,” I say.“Do you write your own songs too?”
“No,” he says curtly.
“Uh-huh.”I wait a moment, but he doesn’t reply.“You’re a great conversationalist, Fantino, so easy to talk to.”
“I want to study music therapy,” he blurts, and I fall silent.“It’s fascinating.Processing your emotions through music.People underestimate that, but they shouldn’t.”His voice has dropped with every phrase, almost like he’s already regretting having told me that.“So go ahead and laugh at me now.”
“Why would I?”I ask.
He hesitates.“Beats me,” he admits in the end.
“Only arseholes laugh at stuff that matters to other people.”
He swallows hard.
