Summer
I lose it then, tears escaping my eyes. Everything that doesn’t work in my life, that I’ve crammed into a pretty box and tried to wrap a bow around, comes bubbling to the surface.
He kisses my neck, rubbing circles on my back.
“Why do you care?” My words are muffled against his neck. Maybe what I’m really asking is–how does he care? As a friend? As my self-appointed guardian? Is this the kinky dominant talking–just part of a role he enjoys? Or is there something real between us?
He pries me off him and cradles my cheek. His gold-flecked green eyes rove over my face. His expression is soft and serious, and he opens his mouth to say something, but then seems to change his mind, closing it again.
“I just do,” he says. “Now stop deflecting and tell me why you can’t quit business school.”
Said the king of deflection himself. My stomach bunches up in knots. “Can we please not talk about this?”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m going to lose my breakfast.”
He strokes my cheek, and the look of sympathy brings fresh tears to my eyes. “I think you got railroaded into this by your mom, and you don’t believe you can convince her this isn’t the best choice.”
“Right.” The syllable comes out with a relieved breath. He understands. Once more, I’m surprised by how much he truly sees about me.
“But, cara, you’re twenty-one years old. Your mother shouldn’t be making major life decisions for you anymore.”
The stone in my stomach gets heavier. “My parents still support me. Which means either I need to find a great job and break those ties, or I have to do what they say. And it’s pretty hard to find a lucrative job without a degree and skills that don’t extend beyond a ballet studio. They pay my rent and credit card bill. It’s like I’ve had my chance to be frivolous, but the party’s over, and I have to grow up and work for corporate America.”
“Do you think they want you to be miserable?”
“I’m not sure that matters.”
“I disagree.”
It’s strange and comforting to have a conversation about this with someone who actually knows my parents as well as Carlo does. Maggie and I have hashed this out a dozen times, but Maggie can’t disagree with my opinions of how my family works. Hearing Carlo weigh in helps.
“I’d like you to talk to them this Sunday. I’ll be there with you, if you want, to lend support.”
“Carlo...I can’t.”
He regards me without expression. Like this is part of his bossman act. I’m supposed to do what he says because he’s in charge of my life now. Well, that’s all fine when it comes to a little spanky play, but this is my actual life we’re talking about. It’s not the same. He’s overstepping.
“I’m serious,” he says.
He doesn’t threaten a consequence for disobedience, perhaps because this is real-life, not fetish. Even so, he shows no sign of backing down, demanding I yield to his indomitable will. It almost outweighs my anxiety over talking to my parents.
Almost.
“I’ll try.”
“What does Yoda say about try?”
I roll my eyes. It sometimes surprises her how much American pop-culture he’s absorbed in his five years here. But I suppose they watch Star Wars in Italy, too.
“Sunday dinner. Alone or with me there, it needs to be done.”
“Carlo.” I spread my fingers, “I can’t just go in there and say I want to quit. I’ll need a plan to present them or something.”
“Like what?”
“I should tell them what I’ll do instead, though, and stripping at The Candy Store probably won’t fit the bill.”
“How about teaching?”
My lip curls. It’s what everyone suggests, but I don’t think I know enough to teach dance yet. At Tisch, I specialized in performance, not pedagogy. “I don’t think I could.”
“Because you’re not interested or because you’re afraid?”
Very perceptive. Who the hell is this guy anyway, and how did he manage to get in my head? I don’t particularly want to answer that question, which he also seems to guess because he puts a finger under my chin to lift it.
“The truth.”
“I—I just wouldn’t know what I was doing.”
“Right—because fifteen years of dance training hasn’t prepared you well enough.”
I let out a laugh. “Seventeen. Well…”
“How about if you just tell your parents you’re going to look into your options for teaching, and then you can face your fears after you’ve cleared your plate of this business school nonsense.”
I laugh again at the word nonsense—the exact opposite of what my mom considers it. “Okay,” I say finally.
Carlo smiles. “Good girl.” He helps me off his lap. “And now your eggs are cold. Remind me next time not to challenge you before you’ve eaten.”
I laugh again, warmth infusing my chest. The guy does care. I can’t deny that. And that may be what terrifies me the most. Because I could get used to this. To letting Carlo run my life. Play master to my slave. Become everything to me. And then what happens when I find out it’s just another play for him?