Page 56 of Broken Pieces
I sit up, locking my gaze on hers. “How so?”
“Like, if you really liked some dumplings more than others, why did you give them all the same rating?” she asks with a confused frown, like she couldn’t fathom the thought of giving the same rating to something so simple.
I’ve quickly come to realize this woman doesn’t play when it comes to dumplings. It’s kind of endearing and cute. “Because what if the next one is better than the previous?” I ask.
“That’s so… pessimistic.”
“I like to say I’m realistic,” I counter.
“No. Because being realistic would mean you can accept that there can be multiple good things, not only one,” shecounters back.
I shrug, resting my head back on the couch seat, looking at her. “I’ve learned to keep my expectations at a minimum, keep hopes at bay.”
She places her arm on the couch and rests her chin on the palm of her hand. Her eyes study me intently, like I’m some sort of scientific object she needs to discover and understand. “You are a mystery, Damian Romano,” she murmurs.
“That’s half the charm,” I say barely above whisper with a playful wink.
The truth of the matter is, I always had to keep my expectations at a minimum. The majority of my life I expected so much from people—my father, to be more specific—that I eventually learned to let things go. Until it became part of my routine, and even when it comes to the most mundane things—like dumplings—I’ve kept the same rule. It’s how I’ve built my empire; how I became a self-made billionaire. Because when you stop expecting things from people, you start building your own expectations for what you want, and work harder for it. It’s a motto I’ve lived by, and I don’t plan to stop anytime soon.
I guess this is the difference between us. She’s a dreamer, I can tell. She sees the best in people, even when she shouldn’t. I wonder why. But if I think about it, this is probably why I’m so attracted to her. Because she sees the world so differently, and in a masochistic way, I like her point of view. Like life is an adventure, and that it’s okay to expect better from people.
That it’s okay to have hope, too.
She yawns as she gets up. “I’m heading to bed. I have a long day tomorrow.”
I nod, yawning. “Good night.”
She nods back and walks to her room. She stops and turns around, her fingers fidgeting nervously. “Listen, I know you must have a million things to do tomorrow, but if you want to come with me, you can. I’m just going to do some touristic things I like doing every time I’m in New York. I’m also going to The Met, thought you’d be interested.” She smiles at me, shyly.
My heart quickens at the thought of spending all day with her. This is what I wanted. So why am I hesitating? If I do this, there’s no coming back. I can control myself to an extent, and spending the whole day with her is certainly risky.
The hesitation must have shown in my eyes because she suddenly stiffens.
Before I can reply, she says, “Forget I said anything. You’re probably busy anyway.”
“No, no,” I interrupt her quickly, anxiety crawling at me at the thought of me missing this amazing opportunity to spend more time with her. “I was just thinking if I had anything pressing for tomorrow. But I don't. So, yeah. That sounds nice.”
Her shoulders drop with relief. “Okay. See you tomorrow then.”
I let out a huge breath as she leaves, letting my shoulders relax as I close my eyes.
Maybe it is okay to have hope, after all.
Islept like a baby. I don’t know if it was the twenty plus dumplings I had last night, or how easygoing the night was with Damian by my side, as we laughed and talked about the most random things.
This is definitely not good for my heart, but yet, here we are.
After that food coma, I had the great idea to invite him to spend the whole Saturday with me. I cringe just thinking about it, because it definitely feels like a date and the worst part is that he has no idea. Maybe he was just being nice, tagging along, making sure I wasn’t by myself.
Or maybe he wants to spend time with you, and you need to stop overthinkingso much.
It’s chilly today, same as it usually is in Chicago, so I opt to wear black leather pants with a black long sleeve shirt and a brown puffer jacket with my usual white Converse. I wake up extremely early to deal with my nest—aka, my hair—and straighten it, feeling a thousand times better now that it looks put together. I’ve considered a perm, but every time I’m about to make the appointment, something just makes me stop. It’s like, if I go through with it, my mother wins somehow. And I’m just too petty for that.
I walk out of the room to find Damian waiting for me in the living room, looking so well put together as always. That man has the kind of beauty that is raw, and anything but ordinary. He’s wearing a white turtleneck sweater, with black pants, boots, and a trench coat. Today, he has his lazy curls again, and the sight of him just does something to me. That man can rock his curls, always. But again, this is Damian who we’re talking about, he looks good no matter the look he has going on.
“Ready?” he asks, getting up from the couch.
I nod.
