During the drive, I realized how quickly I'd misjudged Danilo. He was funny in a quiet, unexpected way. His humor wasn't loud—it crept in subtly, like a whisper that lingered. He was oddly attentive, catching things I didn't even say out loud. And he was an introvert, just like me. We had more in common than I'd ever imagined.
I sat beside him in the back seat, and yes—he had a chauffeur. The car glided through the misty coastal roads, the wind from the nearby beaches curling around us like icy fingers. The air conditioning was on full blast, and I was freezing. Was I the only one feeling it? Or were they secretly Russian ice warriors immune to cold?
I wrapped myself in my school blazer, but it barely helped.
"The windows, Peter," Danilo said calmly.
The driver rolled them up and adjusted the air conditioning without hesitation. I hadn't said a word, yet Danilo noticed. That unsettled me more than the cold. I didn't want to be a bother in someone else's car, especially not in a car this luxurious.
"You could've said something," he muttered, turning on the heater with a sleek remote that looked like it belonged in a spaceship.
I glanced around, finally registering the details. We were in a Ferrari. Not just any Ferrari—this one looked like it had been dipped in luxury and polished with ego. The logo gleamed from every seat. My dad had a Ferrari too, but it was nowhere near this extravagant. The windows were tinted like secrets, and the air smelled faintly of champagne—like parties had been hosted here, and the car remembered.
"We've arrived," Danilo said.
Thank God. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say next. My nerves were starting to show.
"I should get going. Thanks for the ride," I said, hoping he didn't notice how my voice trembled.
"Do you want me to walk you in?"
He was polite, but I didn't see the point. We were already at the house. I wasn't about to get kidnapped on my own porch.
"I'm fine. We're here anyway," I said quickly, opening the door.
"Bye," he said with a soft smile, the kind that lingered even after the door shut.
The car didn't drive off until I closed the front door behind me. It was like he was waiting to make sure I was safe. What did he think he was—my mom?
"Mom?" I gasped, startled to see her sitting on the couch.
"See you later," she said, just getting off the phone.
Wait—wasn't she supposed to be sleeping out tonight? With Carlo?
"There's no need to panic," she said, reading my face. "I know you want the house to yourself. I still have an hour before I leave."
Relief washed over me. She never really bothered me when she was home, but the silence when she wasn't... it was deafening.
"Honey?" she said, and I knew what was coming. Another serious talk. I hadn't even taken off my uniform or dropped my backpack.
"What do I suck at this time?" I asked, the sarcasm slipping out before I could stop it.
She gave a weak laugh. "What do you think about Carlo?"
That caught me off guard. She wanted my opinion? I mean, sure—I was her daughter, but she was free to do whatever made her happy. Carlo, from what I'd seen, was charming, funny, and rich. If I were forty-two, he'd be my dream man. The only red flag? He had a son. But Mom didn't seem to care. I guess having a daughter made her immune to that concern.
"I think he's a great man. I mean, I only met him once. Not like my opinion really matters."
Her mood shifted instantly. Her tone dropped, her eyes dimmed.
"Did I... say something wrong?" I asked.
"If your opinion didn't matter, I wouldn't have asked. If you weren't my daughter, I wouldn't have asked," she said, gulping down a glass of ice water like it was medicine.
Was she overreacting? Or was I missing something?
"I'm not doing this just for me. I'm doing it for you too. When was the last time you saw your father?"
Her voice was calmer now, but the question hit like a punch.
"Don't act like it's all my fault things didn't work out with Dad," I snapped. Tears welled up in my eyes, hot and stubborn. I tried to hide them, but they burned through anyway.
Being a single mom couldn't be easy, I knew that. But blaming me for their divorce? That was something I couldn't wrap my head around. Or maybe I was the one overreacting.
"I was never blaming you," she said quietly. "Acting like your opinion didn't matter—that's what hurt me."
I couldn't take it anymore. I turned and walked away, fast. My feet thudded against the stairs, and I slammed my bedroom door hard enough to make a point.
The bed was calling me. I didn't want a shower. I wanted to disappear. I peeled off my socks and uniform, slipping into the same oversized shirt I'd worn on dinner night. Thankfully, it didn't smell like garlic bread.
I opened Snapchat. The first message was from Yolanda.
Meet me there by 4.
I'd gotten so distracted, I forgot we were supposed to eat out. I checked the time—3:58 p.m.
I had to leave this house. I needed air. I needed noise. I needed Yolanda.
The only struggle was getting past Mom's face downstairs.
All I could think about while Yolanda sifted through racks of dresses for the party was the argument I'd had with Mom earlier. The words replayed in my head like a broken record. Was I overreacting? I asked myself, the question gnawing at me as I leaned against the wall, watching Yolanda hold up a shimmering lilac dress.
"I thought of getting an Oh Polly dress," she said, her voice trailing off. "But I don't think I want to do much anyways."
Those were the last words I remember her saying before my gaze drifted—unintentionally but unavoidably—to her neck.
"What is…" I began, my voice barely above a whisper.
She cut me off instantly, her hand flying up as if to shield the mark. "Relax," she said with a nervous laugh that grated against my nerves like nails on glass.
"It's Keith. It's just a hickey."
Just a hickey? My stomach twisted. That wasn't a hickey—it was far too dark, too raw, too angry-looking. It looked like something that had been inflicted, not something born of affection. I watched the light drain from her face, the sparkle in her eyes dimming as reality crept in. I didn't know how to ask the questions that clawed at my throat. How do you ask your best friend if she's being hurt by someone she claims to love?
"Does he hit you?" The words erupted from me, unfiltered and burning with rage. I hadn't planned to ask. I didn't need to. It was instinct.
"What? No," she said, startled. "I know most people don't like him, but I promise—he wouldn't hurt a fly."
She dropped the dress back onto the rack, her fingers trembling slightly.
"We should go to the party together," I offered, trying to shift the mood. I knew exactly how to lift her spirits, even if it meant stepping out of my own comfort zone. I needed the distraction too—anything to take my mind off the storm brewing at home. And if Keith was going to be at the party, I wanted to be there. I needed to be there.
"You could've said something earlier!" she squealed, her mood flipping like a switch. "I know the perfect outfit for you. Oh my days—I've waited my whole life for this!"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I said, chuckling. "I don't plan on being the center of attention. I'm fine with the simplest outfit in the room."
If I didn't speak up, I knew Yolanda would dress me like a runway model and I'd end up being the talk of the school again. I couldn't let that happen—not after what happened with Zayn. The memory of it still haunted me.
After an hour of her enthusiastic rants and endless outfit suggestions, we finally settled on something. I actually liked what she picked for me—a red off-shoulder crop top that hugged my skin like a second layer, paired with low-waisted jeans that gave just the right edge. Yolanda, of course, didn't stop at one. She bought more than five outfits, each more extravagant than the last.
One of the perks of hanging out with Yolanda was her generosity. She could walk into a store and pay for everything without blinking. It was kind, yes, but I often wondered if she ever thought about limits—about the possibility of running out. Then again, considering the kind of home she came from, I doubted she'd ever know what bankruptcy felt like. She radiated the same kind of effortless wealth as Daniel—both of them carried that aura, like money was stitched into their DNA.
"We can finally get Chick-fil-A," she said, her eyes lighting up like stars.