Chapter 13 13

Chapter 13 13


The library at St. Helena International School always smelled like old paper and lavender cleaning spray. It was the one place no one looked for Rafael De Luca Ricciardi. Which, of course, made it the perfect place for him to hide. And ruin my peace.

I was already halfway through highlighting a dense chapter on post-colonial architecture when the chair across from me scraped back. Loud. Rude. Unapologetic.

“I need somewhere quiet,” he said, dropping his bag on the floor.

I didn’t even look up. “So naturally, you chose the one place where I am.”

He grinned. I could feel it before I even saw it. “Exactly. You look like the kind of girl who won’t talk to me.”

“Correct,” I said flatly, dragging my highlighter across the page like I was outlining his obituary.

Rafael didn’t move. Didn’t fidget. He just sat back in the chair like he owned the oxygen between us.

“You’re Vicky, right?” he asked eventually.

“I’m ignoring you.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

I finally looked up. Big mistake.

His face was a goddamn violation. Dark hair just long enough to break the rules, eyes that made you forget yours, and a mouth made for ruining grades and good judgment. The tie around his neck was loose. The top button of his uniform shirt undone. Of course.

“Are you lost?” I asked. “The football locker room is three buildings over.”

“Technically,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “I’m here because I got benched.”

“Why?”

“I may have kissed the coach’s daughter.”

Of course.

He flipped his pen between his fingers, eyes scanning my open textbook. “Architecture?”

“Yup.”

“Like, you actually care about that?”

“No,” I deadpanned. “I just like torturing myself with cultural theory and concrete dimensions.”

He tilted his head, that annoying smile tugging again at the corner of his mouth. “So sarcastic.”

I narrowed my eyes. “So persistent.”

“I like the challenge.”

“I’m not a challenge.”

“That’s what makes you a challenge.”

And just like that, Rafael Ricciardi inserted himself into my Tuesdays and Thursdays. Every study hour. Every library session. He brought nothing—no books, no pens, no brain cells—just his smug expression and too-long eyelashes, and yet somehow, he never left.

After a week, he brought cookies.

After two weeks, he started quizzing me on class topics I didn’t think he was paying attention to.

By the third week, he was in my head.

Worse—he was starting to feel like a habit.

One Friday afternoon, the sky outside was bruised with a coming storm. We were the last two in the library. Again. My notes were everywhere, my hair a mess, and Rafael had been uncharacteristically quiet for ten whole minutes.

Then, without warning, he said, “You don’t like anyone touching your stuff.”

I looked up. “Because people break things.”

“People aren’t all the same.”

“Says the guy who got benched for kissing the coach’s daughter.”

He smiled. “She kissed me, technically.”

“Technically, you’re still not on the team.”

He chuckled and then leaned across the table, eyes serious this time. “You think I’m just some bored rich kid who’s going to flirt with you for sport.”

I didn’t answer. Because… yes.

“But you’re wrong,” he said. “About the sport part.”

“Then what is this, Rafael?”

He paused. And for once, he didn’t have a quick comeback.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just… like being around you.”

And I hated—hated—how much my pulse betrayed me in that moment.

I capped my pen slowly, heart thudding against my ribs like it was trying to warn me. Or escape.

“This isn’t a movie,” I said.

He smiled faintly. “Good. I hate predictable endings.”

And just like that, I knew I was in trouble.

Big, expensive, six-foot-one kind of trouble.

—

A WEEK LATER

It was raining. The kind of rain that soaked through uniforms and made everything smell like wet pavement. I was walking to the art building when I saw him—standing under the awning, arms crossed, hair dripping slightly.

“Skipping class?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Waiting.”

“For?”

“You.”

I blinked. “Why?”

He took a beat. “Because I told myself if I saw you in this rain, I’d kiss you.”

My throat dried instantly. “Wow. That’s… not creepy at all.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to feel.

“You can walk away,” he said. “I won’t follow.”

I stared at him. This boy with too much charm and too many rules he never followed.

Then I did something stupid.

I stayed.

And when he kissed me—soft at first, then bolder, wetter, deeper than anything I’d ever felt—I didn’t pull away.

Not because I trusted him.

But because, for the first time in a long time, I felt something that wasn’t guarded. Or strategic. Or rehearsed.

It was just… him.

And me.

And a rainy Friday no one else would ever know about.

Not even eight years later.

:::

It was a Tuesday night in late December when Rafael snuck into the greenhouse.
And because the universe hates me, I was already there first.

I was sitting cross-legged on one of the wooden benches, sketchbook open, earbuds in. The glass panels above were fogged from the cold, droplets sliding down like slow tears. Outside, snow drifted lazily under the yellow campus lights.

I didn’t hear him come in. I only noticed when the air shifted—warmer, thicker, like it recognized him before I did.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, not looking up.

“Neither should you,” he replied.

I sighed, tugged out my earbuds, and met his gaze. He was wearing his racing jacket, the navy one with his initials stitched near the collar. The one I once told him made him look like trouble dressed as charm.

“What do you want, Rafael?”

He leaned against the metal shelf behind me, his breath visible in the cold. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Try counting your bad decisions.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “That would take all night.”

“Then start early.”

He chuckled softly, pushing off the shelf and walking closer. Too close. He smelled like rain and the leather of his gloves—something too familiar for my own good.

“Why do you always look like you’re about to leave?” he asked suddenly.

The question caught me off guard. “Excuse me?”

“Every time I see you,” he said, eyes searching mine. “It’s like you’re already halfway out the door.”

I swallowed. “That’s because I am.”

“Columbia,” he said quietly.

I looked down at my sketchbook. “Yeah.”

He nodded, once, like he was reminding himself of something painful but inevitable. “You’ll go far, Vick.”

“I have to.”

He smiled faintly. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

There was silence then. The kind that made your chest feel heavier than your lungs could hold. He sat down across from me, elbows on his knees, watching me in that unblinking way that made time bend a little.

“What are you drawing?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Show me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s embarrassing.”

He tilted his head. “You drew me, didn’t you?”

My cheeks heated. “No.”

He laughed under his breath, that low, warm sound that somehow made the whole room smaller. “You did.”

“Maybe,” I muttered. “By accident.”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned forward. “You accidentally drew my face. Repeatedly.”

“Shut up.”

“I knew it,” he whispered, grinning. “You like me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t have to,” he said. “You just did it for me.”

I rolled my eyes, trying not to smile. But it was too late. He saw it—the tiny crack in my armor. And he took it.

Rafael stood, slow and deliberate, and walked around the bench until he was behind me. My breath caught as his hand brushed my shoulder. Gently. Barely there. Like he was testing the air between us.

“Can I see it?” he asked.

I hesitated, then turned the page toward him.

It wasn’t even that good—a half-finished sketch of his profile, pencil lines messy, shading uneven. But his expression softened when he saw it, and for once, the teasing disappeared.

“You made me look calm,” he murmured.

“You were,” I said. “That day on the track.”

He studied it for a long time, then looked at me. “You see things I don’t.”

“That’s because you’re too busy running from them.”

He smiled, small but real. “You really don’t hold back, huh?”

“Not my style.”

He nodded. Then, quieter: “Don’t ever change that.”

He sat back down beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. Neither of us spoke. The world outside was silent except for the snow and the occasional hum of the heating system.

After a minute, I whispered, “Why do you even like racing?”

He tilted his head. “Because when I’m driving, I’m not thinking. I’m not my father’s son, I’m not my mother’s ghost. I’m just… moving. Fast enough that nothing can catch me.”

I turned to look at him. “That sounds lonely.”

“Sometimes it is,” he admitted. “But so is wanting too much.”

“What do you mean?”

He hesitated, then looked straight into me. “You.”

The word hung there like smoke.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because I knew what he meant. And I knew I’d let him say it.

He reached for my hand then, slow and deliberate, as if waiting for me to pull away. I didn’t.

His fingers were warm against mine. Calloused. Real.

We sat like that for what felt like forever—two seventeen-year-olds trying to make sense of something too big for their age and too fragile for the world around them.

And maybe, in that moment, we were something almost like perfect.

Almost.

⸻

Two Days Later

He didn’t show up to class.

Rumor said he was called back to Monaco. Something about his father, some racing contract, a test session in Italy. No one knew for sure.

By the third day, I stopped pretending I wasn’t checking my phone every five minutes.

By the fourth, I went back to the greenhouse.
It was empty.
Except for a folded note left on the bench where we’d sat.

My name, written in his messy handwriting.

Vick —

I don’t know how to do this the right way. I don’t know how to stay when I’m being pulled to leave. But you should know I never lied. Not once. Not about how I see you. Not about how you make me feel like I’m not just another name on a list of expectations.

Don’t wait for me. But don’t forget me, either.

R.

I read it once. Then again. And again.
Until the words blurred and the paper went soft under my fingers.

Outside, the snow started falling harder.
And that night, for the first time since I’d met him, I cried.

Not because he left.
But because I knew he had to.

And deep down, I knew he wouldn’t be the one to look back.
I would.