Page 69 of Caterina
"And I think it scares them," he says.
"Me?" I say. "Scares them? I'm their daughter, their sister. How could I possibly scare them?"
"Because you're not playing the role they expected you to. Because you've carved out a space for yourself in their world that tradition doesn't dictate," he explains. "Your father may be more modern than some of the old-world families, but he still looks to them for an expectation of how things should be.
"You're the daughter. You were meant to be protected from it. Not brought into it."
It hits me, then, the whole ugly truth of it. Of how my family sees me.
I've always resented the way they try to shield me, but I'd always chalked it up to them being overprotective, or them being sexist, or them being possessive of the women in the family.
But it's more than that.
It's fear.
They're afraid of me.
Not because they think I'm going to betray them, or because they think I'm going to get hurt, but because they don't know what to do with me.
And when people don't know what to do with something, they either try to control it or they try to get rid of it.
"They don't know how to handle me," I say, the words a quiet revelation. "So they try to manage me."
"Exactly," he says. "They love you. But they don't understand you. And their fear of not understanding you, of not being able to control the situation, is what's driving them to keep you in the dark."
I think about all the times I've felt frustrated, all the times I've felt like they were treating me like a child. All the times I've felt like they were holding me back. And now I see it for what it is.
Fear.
"I've been fighting the wrong battle," I say, the realization hitting me with the force of a physical blow.
"Maybe," he says. "Or maybe you're just fighting it on the wrong front."
I look at him, at the way the kitchen light catches the planes of his face, the quiet intensity in his eyes. And for the first time since he walked into my life, I don't see him as an intruder or a problem to be managed.
I see him as someone who understands.
And incredibly handsome? How did I miss that?
The thought occurs so suddenly that it irritates me.
I drag my eyes away from his face almost immediately, as if that will undo it.
No. Absolutely not.
This is exhaustion, fear, adrenaline, too much proximity, too much honesty, and an entire day of him forcing me to look at things I did not want to look at. That is all.
His brow shifts slightly, like he can tell something changed even if he cannot possibly know what.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly.
His gaze stays on me for one beat longer, unreadable in the dark.
Then, mercifully, he lets it go.
But that does not change the feeling. And I find myself wanting to tell him something, something I've never told anyone. Not my father, not my brothers, not even my sister.
