Chapter 8

I swear I could feel him watching before I even opened my mouth. Like his eyes crawled into the room first. Dad sitting there like always, same spot, same stupid newspaper spread out like he’s pretending it’s important, same mug, same sunlight hitting all the lines in his face like the sun is trying to prove something about time. Coffee smelled burnt or maybe I was just already annoyed.

“You’re up late.” not even a glance. Like I’m some teenager sneaking back in.

“It’s nine.” but it’s never about the time, it’s about him finding a way to poke. Two weeks home and I can already hear the script in his voice, that slow way he starts when he’s building to something.

Performance review, I said it, I couldn’t help it. He folds the paper and looks up, and I know it’s about to be the same speech dressed in new clothes. Work, stability, waking up before noon, blah blah. I sipped coffee too slow, like I could hide inside the cup. He says he won’t watch me waste away. Waste away? That’s dramatic. But it still hit like a slap. Like he’s got no clue how heavy it all feels already.

I lied. Said I’d been looking. He didn’t even flinch, just raised that eyebrow, the one that says “I see straight through your bullshit.” He starts listing all these things like I’m a resume he already wrote: numbers, organizing, payroll. And then—he says it. Help here. With him. Castellano Construction.

My heart stuttered. Here? As in his here? The one person I’ve been telling myself not to think about at 2am? He didn’t even notice what the word did to me, just kept talking like it was obvious, like Dom was some kind of teacher I could “learn from.” Learn. Right.

I said “it’s a thought” but he steamrolled right past. No thought, no choice. “It’s happening.” His voice, that tone that used to stop me cold when I was a kid. Except now it almost made me laugh. He had no clue what he just dropped in the middle of everything.

Upstairs later, laptop open, supposed to be hunting jobs, instead I’m scrolling through their gallery. Steel beams and sun glares and boots and then there he is. Every damn photo pulling me in. Clipboard in his hand like it belongs there, sweat dripping down the side of his jaw, him mid-laugh like someone caught him being human for once. And me staring too long, telling myself I wasn’t.

It isn’t about a job. Not even close. It’s about being there. About how close that office puts me to him. And the stupid way my stomach twists even thinking about it.

Later after dinner, pretending to flip a magazine, waiting for a break in the noise of the game. I threw it out casual—office thing serious? He didn’t even look away from the screen, just said “start Monday.” Like he’d already drawn up the papers. Like my whole life just rearranged while he chewed chips.

“You already told him?” I asked. He said “course I did.” And I swear my chest got tight. Course he did. No warning, no space for me to think, just pushed me straight toward the fire. Dom’ll “deal.” Deal? I don’t think he even knows how anymore.

Morning after, porch coffee, sun burning on my legs, quiet humming like the world waiting to break. Then the car. Dark sedan, just sitting there too long, guy with glasses on, hand on the wheel, not looking but definitely looking. I knew it. Felt it in my chest. He didn’t move for five minutes and then drove off like it was nothing. I didn’t tell Dad. Didn’t tell anyone. Just locked it inside because it made everything clearer—if I’m being watched, I need to be near him. Near Dom. Doesn’t matter if he hates it.

Friday, I caught him. Before he could vanish into that truck like always. Told him straight, my dad says you’re training me. His face did that thing, flicking over me like he was searching for the angle. He said it wasn’t a good idea. I said, “why? Because you’ll have to see me every day?” And his eyes went hard, not the playful kind of hard, the dangerous kind. “Because you’ll be in the middle of things you shouldn’t.”

I said the word—partnership deal—and he snapped. Don’t start. His voice was rough, rougher than it should’ve been. Told me if I wanted to help, I should stay out. And I leaned closer because of course I did, said “I’m not great at staying out of things.” And the air shifted, heavy and hot, like I’d leaned into a storm. He looked at my mouth and then ripped his eyes back up like it burned.

He gave me Monday, eight a.m., like a sentence. Told me not to make it a game.

That night I couldn’t sleep. Staring at the ceiling, counting cracks like they’d spell it out. Monday isn’t a day anymore, it’s a fuse. Lit and crawling toward something I don’t know if I should run from or straight into. That man in the car. The clipped talks between Dom and Dad. All the warnings I keep pretending don’t matter.

I’m walking straight into it. And the worst part? I want to.