“What’s the rush?” He asked. “We have all day. Sit. Have another coffee. Read the paper with me.”
“The paper?” She laughed, a brittle sound of desperation. “Newspapers are so boring.” It was completely the wrong thing to say. She knew it the second she’d uttered the words. She’d erred. She’d brought his attention to the newspaper when she could easily have sidestepped the whole issue.
Her worries had loomed so large in her mind that she’d inadvertently thrown them in his face. She cringed inwardly, wondering why no one had yet invented a speech-unsayer machine, a way to wipe words out of someone’s memory.
Stavros had heard, and something passed over his features.
Oh, crap. It was a lot like sympathy. Claudia braced herself for the worst and at the same time tried to remember to be strong. To remember that not being able to read and write didn’t mean she wasn’t good at things.
“Listen, asteraki, I know you have an image,” he murmured softly, trying to broach the subject gently. “But you don’t need to pretend around me.”
She lowered her phone, a frown of genuine confusion crinkling her brow. “Pretend?” She tilted her head, a smile inviting him to continue.
But she felt his frustration barrel across at her. “The whole light-hearted, socialite thing. It is okay for you to read the newspaper. To show an interest in the outside world.”
The ticking of the bomb was getting louder, more urgent. She swallowed, her throat dry, her knees shaking beneath the table. But outwardly, she appeared calm. Amused, even. “I hosted an event to raise funds for child victims of landmines last night and today you’re telling me I’m not interested in the outside world?”
“Yes. No.” He shook his head. “Your high-profile aids your fundraising. I understand that. And your image is predicated on your, shall I say, frivolous nature?”
She barked, a sharp laugh borne of anger. “Frivolous?”
“Fashion. Parties. The fact you’re a dyed in the wool party girl from way back.”
“I can’t believe this.” She stood up, and discovered that her legs were somewhat shaky. “How dare you?”
“I’m trying to make you understand that I accept you as you are.”
Tears sparkled on her lashes. She blinked them away. More replenished them. “No, you don’t.” She swallowed; her throat felt lined with razor blades. “I’m not avoiding the newspaper because I’m cultivating an image. I don’t like reading the paper. I don’t like the news. It’s all too depressing.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said softly.
“You never do.” She stormed away from him, quickly making another coffee as though it were a lifeline. She lifted it to her lips, drinking the lukewarm beverage without tasting it.
He followed, determined not to let this matter drop. “You’re working overtime to distance yourself from your father. You don’t want to be compared to him. I get that. But doing something that pretty much every adult in the world does is acceptable. You must see that?”
She stared at the tiled wall of the kitchen, chasing the grout lines with her eyes, cursing the eyes that saw too much. Cursing her intuition that had known this was coming. Knowing that his dawning understanding was inevitable and that she had been too weak, too dependent on the lure of one more night, to leave when she should have.
“Is it that you want to avoid articles about yourself?” He demanded, trying to soften his voice, trying to be calm when inside he was raging with frustration. And something else. A curiosity at the fact he simply couldn’t understand her.
“No.” She spun around to face him. “This is just who I am. Is it such a big deal?”
“I don’t give a shi—Hell, Claudia. No, it’s not a big deal. I don’t care if you read the paper or watch the news or have any interest in anything outside of your own life. If that’s the way you want to be. But I think you’re pretending. I think you’re caught up in being the socialite to the point you’ve forgotten who you are.”
She was trembling from head to toe. Because he was right. Her whole life, every day, was a pretense. It was exhausting being mindful of her shortcomings all the time, knowing she needed to hide them from the outside world, to constantly be prepared for situations that might reveal to people that she couldn’t really read nor write.
She was so tired of that pretense.
But what was the alternative?
To allow someone in? To allow Stavros in?
Hell would freeze over first.
“If you read the papers,” he continued, his tone softer, but it hid a determination of steel, “you would see things like this.” He dropped the newspaper to the bench in front of her. She didn’t want to look at it, but her eyes were drawn as if by magic.
There was a photo of Marianne and Artie, taken out the front of Marianne’s house. She couldn’t read the headline, particularly not in her overwrought state. But she got the gist.
Hurt simmered in her veins. They were back together? How could her best friend have failed to tell her? To call and let her know? Especially when Claudia had bent over backwards to help make their breakup smoother? She was happy for them, of course, but the pain at finding herself to be an outsider, not worthy of their consideration, cut deep.