Page 43 of Ricardo

Instead, I stay.

“My father is not a monster,” she says, quieter. “My mother isn’t either.”

“I did not think they were.”

“They were not cruel to me when I was a child. I had everything. Schools, clothes, vacations, tutors, lessons. I never went without anything.”

“Except warmth.”

She looks away.

I regret the words for half a second, not because they are wrong, but because they are too accurate.

Then she says, “Yes.”

I say nothing.

She takes a breath, slow and controlled. “They love me in the way they know how. I think they do. But the way they know how always comes with instructions. Sit this way. Smile now. Don’t say that. Wear this. Be grateful. Be careful. Think about how it looks. Think about what people will say.

“Last night, I realized I have spent most of my life measuring myself against some invisible ruler that they’ve made up. I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“So start small,” I say.

Her brow creases. “What?”

“Ask for something small.”

“From you?”

“If that suits you.”

She gives me a look that would make a weaker man retreat. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It may be.”

Her lips part slightly, but she says nothing.

I should stop.

I do not move closer. I do not touch her. I do not make this easier or harder by turning it into something physical before she chooses it. I simply sit next to her and wait.

“Teach me how to use the espresso machine.”

For a moment, I only look at her.

Then I laugh.

“Now?” I ask.

“No.” She gives the machine a distrustful glance. “Not tonight. Tonight, I’ve already lost one fight to it.”

“A wise retreat.”

“A strategic retreat,” she corrects.

“Of course.”

The corner of her mouth lifts, and this time the smile stays. It is small, tired, and nothing like the bright one I remember from Naples, but it is a start.