Chapter 18: The Mask (Daniel POV)
Chapter 18: The Mask (Daniel POV)
I walk into the new condo my parents picked out for me. The key feels heavy in my hand as I turn it in the lock. The door swings open, and I step inside. It’s all white walls and glass, cold and clean, nothing like the messy warmth of Leo’s place. My boots echo on the hard floor as I drop my keys on the counter. They clatter loud in the quiet. This isn’t home. It’s a box they’ve trapped me in. Rita’s already here, sitting on a gray couch that looks too stiff to sit on. She stands when she sees me, her smile small and tight. “Hey, you’re late,” she says, her voice soft but with a little edge. She smooths her skirt with her hands. She’s trying to make this work. I can tell. But I don’t feel anything back.
“Traffic,” I say, shrugging off my jacket. I don’t look at her. I hang the jacket on a hook by the door and walk to the table. She’s set up dinner there. Takeout pasta in plastic boxes, two candles burning in the middle. It’s supposed to be nice, I guess. My stomach twists instead. I sit down, and she sits across from me. Our forks scrape against the plates as we eat. She starts talking, filling the air with words. “I went to this art gallery last week,” she says. “They had these cool paintings. I thought maybe we could go sometime. Do you like art?” Her eyes flick up to mine, waiting. I think of Leo’s canvases, all dark and wild, stacked against his walls. I see his face, paint on his cheeks, grinning at me over coffee. Not her. Never her.
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, stabbing a piece of pasta with my fork. My voice comes out flat. I don’t want to talk about art with her. She keeps going anyway. “My parents took a trip to Italy once,” she says. “They loved it. Maybe we could go somewhere too. After everything’s settled.” She reaches across the table, her hand brushing mine. I pull back fast, like her touch burns. She stops talking for a second, then picks up again, softer now. “I just think it’d be nice. You know, to get away.” I nod, but I’m not really listening. I chew the pasta. It tastes like nothing. My mind’s stuck on Leo, on the way he’d laugh, loud and rough, when we’d sit in that diner. Not this quiet, fake dinner.
We eat for a while, her voice a steady hum. I don’t say much. I can’t. Every word feels like a lie I’m choking on. She tries harder, asking about my day, about the company. “How’s work going?” she says, leaning forward a little. “Your dad said you’re still helping out, even after…” She trails off, not saying it. Even after I got kicked out. Even after I told them I’m gay. I shrug. “It’s fine,” I say. That’s all she gets. She nods, like it’s enough, and keeps eating. The candles flicker between us, the light bouncing off the glass table. I stare at them, watching the flames move, trying not to think about anything else.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, loud against my leg. I pull it out and see Dad’s name on the screen. My chest tightens. I stand up and walk to the window, turning my back on Rita. The city lights stretch out below, sharp and bright. I answer the call. “Hey, Dad,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Daniel,” he says, his tone hard and sure. “Good move today, son. Walking away from that mess. Rita’s perfect for you. We’re setting the wedding for three months from now. Keep it together, and you’ll be fine.” His words hit me like stones. I grip the phone tighter. “Got it,” I say. That’s all I can manage. He doesn’t wait for more. The line goes dead, and I stand there, staring out at the lights. Three months. A wedding. A life I don’t want. I shove the phone back in my pocket and turn around. Rita’s watching me, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Everything okay?” she asks, her head tilted. “Yeah,” I lie, walking back to the table. “Just work.”
We finish eating, and she clears the plates, stacking them neat in the sink. She’s still talking, something about her job now, but I’m not hearing it. My head’s full of noise, memories I can’t shake. Leo’s hands on me, his lips, the way he’d fight for everything. I should’ve fought too. I didn’t. I let Dad win. Rita wipes her hands on a towel and turns to me, smiling again. “This was nice,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” I nod, not trusting my voice. She grabs her purse and steps closer, leaning up to kiss my cheek. Her lips are warm, soft, but they feel wrong. I don’t move. She pulls back, says goodnight, and walks out. The door clicks shut behind her, and I lock it fast, like I’m keeping something out.
I stand there, alone now, the quiet pressing in. My hands feel empty. I grab my jacket off the hook, just to do something, and head to my truck outside. It’s parked in the garage, cold and dark. I climb in, slamming the door shut, and sit there, breathing hard. I don’t start the engine. I just need to be somewhere that’s mine. My hands run over the steering wheel, rough from years of use. Then I feel it, something lumpy in the passenger seat. I reach over and pull it out. It’s a shirt. Leo’s shirt. Black, stiff with dried paint, the one he wore that night we got drunk and lost ourselves in that lounge. My breath catches, sharp and painful. I hold it up, staring at the streaks of color, blue and red smudged across it.
I clutch it tight, my knuckles turning white. It smells like him, faint but there, sweat and paint and that wild spark he carried. My eyes sting, and I press the shirt to my chest, leaning my head back against the seat. I see him clear as day, his dark hair falling in his face, his grin when I bought his painting. I left him. I walked out. My hands shake, and I grip the shirt harder, like it can pull me back to him. I sit there, the truck cold around me, the shirt warm in my hands. Minutes pass, maybe longer. My phone buzzes again, breaking the silence. I dig it out, slow, and look at the screen. It’s Rita. A text: “Lunch tomorrow? :)” I stare at it, the smiley face glaring back, and my fingers hover over the keys. I don’t type anything. The shirt’s still in my lap, and her text stays unanswered, glowing in the dark.