Page 279 of Bad Prince
A flicker. Quick. Controlled.
“Yes.”
No excuse.
No explanation.
Just acknowledgment.
That lands harder than anything else could’ve.
We don’t talk about that part again.
Not yet.
Instead—he tells me about where he’s from.
Madrid.
Barcelona.
Long summers on the coast where the air smells like salt and citrus and money.
Family that valued power more than presence.
Legacy more than love.
“I learned early,” he says, fingers steepled lightly, “that if you do not build something of your own, you spend your life inside someone else’s.”
I nod slowly.
“I get that. My mom stayed close to family,” I say. “New England. A lot of them came over during DACA. Everyone kind of… clustered together. Helped each other out.”
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“You grew up in that environment.”
“Yeah.”
“And still ended up here.”
There’s something in his voice when he says that.
Respect.
Not surprise.
Respect.
“I didn’t want to need anyone,” I admit.
The words slip out easier than I expect.
“I watched my mom work herself into the ground. Cleaning. Saving. Making sure we never felt how tight things really were.”
I glance down at my hands.
“I decided early I wasn’t doing that.”
