At least, nothing I can prove.
That evening,I’m alone in the kitchen, washing the dinner dishes. Mom’s already gone to bed. She has an early start tomorrow, and Mr. Montoni has been running her ragged lately with some big event he’s planning. I don’t ask about it. I don’t want to know anything that happens in this house anymore.
The water is warm on my hands, the soap suds iridescent in the overhead light. I’m scrubbing a pot when I hear the back door open.
Footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried. Harsh and ragged breathing, the way a man sounds after a run. There’s only one man it can be, because it’s not like Mr. Montoni would ever work out.
I will not turn around.
Cristiano walks past me to the fridge, closer than he needs to, and opens it.
He’s shirtless, with his T-shirt tucked into the back pocket of his low-slung running shorts. His chest is slick with sweat, rising and falling with exertion, and there’s a flush across hischeekbones. I can see every line of muscle, every plane and ridge of his body. He’s not a boy anymore. He’s a man. A man who looks like he was sculpted by someone who adores the athletic male form.
I yank my gaze back to the pot in my hands, my face burning.
He grabs a bottle of water and drinks deeply, his throat working, and I absolutely do not watch him out of the corner of my eye.
I can feel him looking at me. The weight of his eyes. But when I glance up, his gaze is on the water bottle in his hand. He lingers for a moment like he’s waiting for something. Or considering something.
Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
I stand there, hands in the soapy water, staring out the window, feeling like I’ve run a marathon.
I never told anyone what happened between us. I wanted to. In the weeks after that night, I was ready to. I rehearsed the words I’d say to Mom a thousand times.He locked me in a wardrobe. He pinned me to the floor of his bedroom. He said and did the craziest things, and I was so frightened by how far he’d go.
If he approached me again like I warned him not to, I was going to tell Mom everything.
But he didn’t.
I warned him never to come near me again, and he obeyed me without question. He’s never far, but he never approaches. He never speaks to me beyond a word of greeting and never does anything that I could call inappropriate.
It should feel like indifference.
Yet it doesn’t.
It feels like calculated patience.
Sometimes, late at night, I wonder if I overreacted that day. If I made what he did into something bigger than it was. He was fifteen and hurting. People do stupid things when they’re scared.
But I remind myself of the click of the lock. The darkness of the wardrobe. Him tackling me to the ground and showing me just how strong he is and how weak I am, and I know I didn’t imagine how frightening he can be.
The question is whether the boy who locked me in a wardrobe is gone.
Or just waiting.
Giodorno’s Pizzais my place with my friends. It has been since freshman year. Katrina, Priya, and I love the cheap slices, bottomless sodas, sticky tables, and a jukebox that only plays nineties hits. It’s the kind of place rich graduates from St. Peter’s wouldn’t be caught dead in.
At least, they shouldn’t be caught dead in.
The door opens, and a group walks in. The boys loud and laughing. The girls talking and preening. They wear designer clothes and expensive watches and possess the easy confidence of people who’ve never had to worry about money.
And in the middle of them, tall and broad and impossible to ignore, is Cristiano. Leather jacket unzipped, curls ruffled by the evening wind. One of the girls in his group is glued to his side, her hand resting possessively on his arm, her smile flirtatious as she leans up to murmur something in his ear.
He doesn’t react to her. Doesn’t smile back. Just keeps walking with that lazy, predatory grace, like a lion who can’t be bothered to notice the gazelles circling him.
Katrina and Priya are deep in a discussion about our English exam, and I think they ask me a question, but I’m too busy watching him move through the restaurant. That quiet command. The way the crowd seems to part for him without him even trying. He doesn’t look at me, but he chooses a booth directly in my line of sight and slides in, draping his arm across the back of the seat like he owns the place.
I glare at him, while he’s blissfully unaware of me.
