26. Paolo

CHAPTER 26

PAOLO

T he silence is deafening. I keep glancing between everyone at the table. My mother, my father, Chloe, and Maria stood in the corner.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more stressed in my life. I can feel myself growing wrinkles in real time from the pressure of it all.

I just need them to believe this one thing. I just need Chloe to play the part of a convincing wife for an hour.

She promised that she would, but she’s sitting here looking so miserable I almost want to kick her under the table and beg her to start smiling. She is being polite at least, but her beautifully happy face has been marred by a frown.

I can’t understand why. Maybe it’s the nerves.

If I wasn’t doing my very best acting, I would probably be frowning like that too. God knows I’m nervous enough. But this seems kind of unlike her. I want to ask her what’s wrong, but I can’t do that now. Not while my mother and my father are holding a magnifying glass to us, scrutinizing our every move.

“So, Chloe,” says my father, breaking the silence with the promise of an awkward question. “Paolo here tells us that you are a working woman.” I wince. Why did he have to say that like it’s a bad thing? “What is it that you do?”

Chloe takes a large sip of her glass of water then forces a smile on her face. It looks fake. “I work in a bar,” she says.

“You own it?” asks my father.

“No,” she bites out, her entire body tensing like she knows she’s being led into a trap.

I wish I could have told my parents not to do this. Not to humiliate her in front of them. Not to make her feel like she’s worth so much less than she is.

I know what they’re doing. I’m sure Chloe can see it too. They’re trying to assess if she has any sort of dowry, if she comes from any sort of important family, any sort of money. I already told them that she doesn’t, but asking them to listen to me is like asking a fish to start breathing and walking.

“No, I don’t own it,” she says quietly, not quite able to look my father in the eye. “I am one of the more senior bartenders, though. The next time there’s an opening, I think I’m probably going to be promoted to manager.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” sneers my father, and I see Chloe wilting like a flower in the sun.

I clench my fists under the table. Screaming would do no good now, but it would make me feel better. There’s too much riding on this, though. We have to keep our composure.

Even if it kills me, we have to keep this together.

“You met while Paolo was on one of his business trips?” says my mother, spitting the words “business trip” to make it really clear to each and every one of us exactly what she’s insinuating.

Yeah, yeah, I want to say, we all know you think I’m useless. We all know you think I’ve never had any sense of responsibility in my life. You all think that I spent my entire year in exile acting like an idiot — and you’re probably right. After all, what have I got to show for any of it?

Suddenly Chloe feels so far away. If I could, I’d reach out and take her hand.

“Yes. He was in New York for work and he happened to come into my bar. I can’t explain why but we really hit it off. We went out a couple of times, really got along, and then he popped the question. It was sudden, but it felt right.”

I release a shaky breath. At least she got that pitch-perfect. She nearly sounded convincing.

“You know,” says my father, his face unchanged, “when Luca got married, people were partying in the streets. Everyone in the country was out celebrating. And Miguel?—”

“Yes, Father,” I interrupt with a sigh. “Everyone knows about Miguel’s wedding.”

“Does your wife?” he spits, staring me down.

I close my eyes tightly. “No,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Miguel,” says my father as if I hadn’t just spoken, “asked us to declare a national holiday for his joyous day. You see, when things are done properly, we like to celebrate in this country. We like to do good things for our people. And we like to make sure that our family is well looked after.”

My fists are clenched so tight under the table that I’m leaving little crescent marks in my palms. I know he’s just doing all this to get at me, but it is getting to me. He’s making me look bad in front of Chloe. Right now that hurts more than anything in the world

I glance over the table at her, trying to decode the expression on her face. She still looks sad. Is it because she’s falling for my father’s propaganda? Is she believing what he’s saying about Luca and Miguel? I hope not.

I’m not perfect, but surely she knows me better by now. Surely she’s seen enough of me to know that this is just my father’s mind games.

I try to catch her eye, wanting desperately for her to look at me so I can make some expression to say this isn’t true. Not that it’s all untrue — there really was a national holiday when Miguel got married.

But the thing that isn’t true is the way he’s suggesting that, because I didn’t do the same as my brothers, I am a lesser person.

Maybe I am.

It’s taken me all this time to see it. But in the last month I’ve gone through a bigger journey of realization than at any other time of my life.

They wouldn’t listen if I did, but for the first time in my adult life, I feel like I could stand up to my parents and say, “No, I’m not a dumb child. I know who I am. I know who I want to be — and the person I want to be is the kind who marries Chloe because she’s normal. Because she’s kind. Because she makes me into a better person.”

But that would only fall on deaf ears, so I keep my mouth shut.

I might be changed — but I’m still a coward. All this conversation is making me want to do is run away and hide in a deep, dark hole.

Maybe exile was better for me. At least when I was in exile, nobody was judging me. Or at least, I couldn’t see it. I wasn’t living it every day.

Two months I’ve been back, and I’m trying so hard not to fall into my old ways. But every time my parents speak to me like I’m stupid, it gets so hard not to live up to those old expectations.

I glance at Chloe again, and this time she does catch my eye. She offers me the faintest of smiles. It’s enough to give me some hope. It’s not much, but I’ll take it.

We just have to get through this. Once my parents see that we mean it, they’ll back off. Once we make it clear that this is who we are, and we’re not going to change it, they’ll stop bothering me about it.

This is what they’ve always wanted, anyway. Me to get married. Me to become a better person.

We just have to show them.

And maybe get married again, properly. But that’s a conversation for another time. A time when Chloe doesn’t look so scared and close to tears.

Why did I have to get sat so far away from her? Why can’t I take her hand and run?

Why can’t this just be over?