Page 16 of Caterina
A man in my driveway. A man outside my office. A man waiting while I have dinner, while I work late, while I go to my own goddamn kitchen for coffee in the morning. A stranger seeing the rhythms of my life from the inside.
“Absolutely not,” I say again, quieter now but no less firm. “I am not having some man in my house every day.”
“Yes, you will,” he says. “He is a professional.”
“How comforting.”
“He is good at what he does.”
“I don’t care if he’s the best in the country.”
“I do.”
I just look at him.
He does not smile. Not even a little.
Somehow, that makes it worse.
“You’ve met him already?” I ask.
“I will soon.”
“So you don’t even know him.”
“I’ve checked his credentials and history.”
“And?”
“And he is competent.”
“That is your glowing character review?”
“Caterina,” he warns.
I rub a hand over my forehead. “This is insane.”
“That feeling will pass.”
“You don’t know that.” My hand drops. “You don’t get to decide that.”
The air in the room changes.
It is slight. But I feel it.
My father’s patience, already stretched thin, gives another inch.
“You are talking as though this is about preference.”
“It is about preference. Mine.”
“It is about survival.”
“It is about trust.”
“Yes,” he says. “And right now, there are not many people I trust withyours.”
That shuts me up for a second.
