“Your parents are going to be so proud of you,” I tell him, gripping his shoulders.
All the joy, all that brightness in his eyes, suddenly dims. “Sure. Yeah.”
Anxiety plummets through me as I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. If his parents cared about his track achievements, they’d be here.
“Well, I’m proud of you,” I say fiercely, my hands still on his shoulders. “You worked so hard for this. You deserve to celebrate.”
A smile crooks the corner of his mouth, and he looks at me like I just handed him the world.
A whistle blows. Someone’s calling his name. Cristiano glances over his shoulder, but he seems reluctant to leave my side.
“Go! Go!” I push at his chest, laughing. “They’re waiting for you!”
“Will you wait so we can go home together?”
“I’ll wait.”
He nods once, squeezes my waist one more time, and then he’s jogging back toward the track, glancing over his shoulder twice to make sure I’m still there.
I wave.
He smiles, heat glowing in his amber eyes, his tan so warm and golden it’s like he swallowed the sun.
My stomach flutters as I watch him duck his head to receive his medal, the gold in his hair catching the sunlight. I’m triply proud of Cristiano to make up for the fact that his family isn’t here to see this.
An hour later, we take the bus back to our neighborhood, and I’m still buzzing with excitement, replaying the race in my head. Cristiano is quieter, his gym bag between his feet, but there’s a softness to his expression I don’t see very often.
“You were so fast,” I say for probably the tenth time. “Like, I knew you were fast, but that final sprint—”
“You said that already.”
“Because it’s true!” I bump his shoulder with mine. “You’re going to be impossible to live with now. All cocky and insufferable.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m never cocky.”
“You’re always cocky. You just hide it under all that brooding.”
He shakes his head, but he’s almost smiling. Actually almost smiling. It makes warmth bloom in my chest.
The bus drops us two blocks from the Montoni mansion, and we walk the rest of the way. The late afternoon sun turns everything golden. The trees, the sidewalk, Cristiano’s profile when he tilts his head back to look at the sky.
We reach the gates of the mansion, and the warmth I’ve been feeling all afternoon starts to fade. This house always makes me feel small. Like I’m trespassing just by being here.
Cristiano heads straight for the front door and goes inside, holding it open for me. Mom is probably in the kitchen by now, finishing up dinner prep. I should find her, help her with something, and prove I’m not “wandering around the mansion like I own the place,” like she sometimes scolds me.
“I should go find my mom,” I say reluctantly.
“Stay for a bit,” Cristiano says. “We could go to the garden. Or—”
“Cristiano.”
Mr. Montoni is standing in the doorway, perfectly still, his hands in his pockets. He’s a big man, though not as tall asCristiano, and there’s something about him that makes the air feel harder to breathe.
“Dad.” Cristiano’s voice goes flat. Empty. He was reaching for my hand, but it drops back to his side.
“I need a word with you.” Mr. Montoni’s eyes slide to me, and the look is so cold, so contemptuous, that I feel myself shrinking. “Shouldn’t you be helping your mother with the laundry?” he says to me.
Heat floods my face, and I realize how I must look to Mr. Montoni. I came through the front door of his mansion with his son, and I’m standing by his side as though I belong here the same way Cristiano belongs here. My flesh prickles with embarrassment and my heart pounds.
