Page 134 of Ruthless Chaos
Alexander’s gaze grows harsher. I hold my breath.
He looks away from me and to the window, at the people lazily strolling down the street. Most of them look like tourists—they’re obvious with their cameras and broad hats, others are residents hawking their wares on the sidewalk.
“My brother ran away,” he says simply. “He ran away with his pregnant girlfriend and I have to pick up the pieces. My father didn’t raise me to be his successor, and he doesn’t believe I have what it takes.”
Alexander, the most feared person on campus, doesn’t have what it takes to be a leader? That must be a joke.
His father sounds like a real asshole. We have that in common.
“That’s hard to believe,” I breathe. “You’re a natural leader.”
His eyes narrow. “That’s flattering, sweetheart.” He lowers his gaze to his nearly empty wine glass. “Things are a bit more complicated than that. My life is…very complicated. I visit Tommaso’s restaurant whenever I need an escape from it.”
I smile. “Thank you for sharing your safe space with me,” I say, then realize how mushy it is to say that. “I didn’t mean to make it weird,” I add as an afterthought.
He shakes his head quickly. “No, it isn’t weird. It’s just that I’ve never talked about why I come here with anyone before. Even my friends, they never really ask. We just eat and leave.”
His words weigh on me because I hear the sadness in them. That sentiment is something I know. I know what it’s like to be completely alone despite being surrounded by people.
I grew up in a house full of people and only Dolores ever asked how I was.
Soon, Tommaso appears with our orders.
The food is steaming hot, plated in ceramic dishes that look older than me. He sets our silverware and napkins down, then leaves us with a smile.
The food is so delicious, I keep reminding myself that I’m eating in front of someone else. I almost lick my fingers when I get some marinara sauce on them. The last time I had pasta this good was in Italy, which was a lifetime ago.
I’m not even sure it tasted as good as this.
“This issotasty,” I say with a moan, unable to hide the smile on my face. Seriously, I could eat this ragù di salsiccia every day for the rest of my life.
Alexander smiles back at me. “I made the right choice then? Good.” I can feel his eyes on me as I eat, but the food,the food. It has my attention.
We spend the rest of lunch engaged in light conversation—mundane things like our favorite foods, the places we’ve been to and the kind of music we like. In the end,Fifty First Date Questionsdoes come in handy.
Alexander likes to travel but doesn’t get to do it very often. He loves Tommaso’s ziti, shepherd’s pie, Wagyu steak, and, surprisingly, hates a full English. He’s into jazz and indie rock but likes a few pop songs.
It’s fun talking to him, more fun than I expected.
Just lunch, don’t forget.
When we’re finished with our meal, Alexander tries to tip Tommaso, but the old man refuses his money.
They have a full-blown argument about it, both refusing to cede to the other.
In the end, Alexander leaves the money on one of the tables closest to the door, and the two of us slip out of the restaurant before Tommaso realizes.
Alexander offers me his arm. I take it.
We walk along the main street for a while, before turning down a lane that takes us behind a few buildings. They shade us from the sun.
We pass people going in the opposite direction. They give us friendly smiles. I smile and wave at everyone who acknowledges us, but Alexander only regards them with cold stares.
Now that we’re out of the restaurant, he’s back to his usual sullen demeanor.
“Where are we heading now?” I ask, clutching his arm tighter.
He chuckles. “What happened to just enjoying the journey?”
