Chapter VII (part 3) - Thomas
1363 Words
Aurora chews through the same culinary disaster with the calm composure of someone who seems indifferent to everything.
«Alice told me your father runs a medical specialty program.... but she didn't say which one.»
The silence hangs in the air for a moment while I try to figure out if she really has no idea who I am.
I take a napkin and calmly wipe my mouth before answering.
«He runs cardiac surgery.»
Her eyes light up, as if a piece of the puzzle has finally fallen into place.
«Oh, I see.» She bites her cheek, looking like a child caught doing something naughty.
«You get it?» I say, amused, trying to steer the conversation away from the awkward topic—Dad.
She leans back, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
«Is that why you told me you feel obligated to go into that specialty?»
It's not a question, but I nod anyway.
She takes a sip of water and runs her tongue over her lips.
I take a deep breath, trying to stop the flood of thoughts rushing through my head—images, feelings, nothing clear.
I close my eyes for a second, just to regain my composure.
«And... have you ever thought about what you want to do?»
What I'd like to do.
As if I were allowed to think about that.
I just have to obey.
I've never had freedom of choice—my father always decides for me.
And every time I try to have a say, the answer is always the same:
«You're a Martini. Honor the family. You can't do what you want.»
And I give in—because with him, you give in. There's no alternative.
Same with medicine.
«You'll study medicine, like me, your grandfather, and every man in this family.»
A line that's never been broken.
Even my great-grandmother, one of the first women to graduate in medicine, is still an icon: her portrait hangs in the corridors like that of a saint.
From a small provincial clinic founded by a distant relative, an empire was born: Martini Care.
Clinics scattered across the country, known for excellence and research—my father even managed to expand them abroad in recent months.
And one day all this will be mine.
Not because I want it, but because there's no alternative.
I'm an only child.
And God knows how much I hate all of it.
The privileges, the good life—I'm not biting the hand that feeds me, on the contrary: they're fantastic.
But the idea that everything is already written, that my path is already mapped out, suffocates me.
It's a weight on my chest: every choice, every breath, has to justify the legacy I carry.
On the outside, I smile—the guy everyone likes, the one who gets the looks and the favors, the one who keeps trying to please his father.
Inside, though, the grip tightens until I can't breathe.
I shake my head.
«I've never had to think about it. It just is.»
«Mmm.» She presses her lips together, as if she's read my mind.
«What is it?» I ask, maybe too sharply, because she narrows her eyes.
To soften it, I reach out and lightly touch her arm—a double-edged sword, since my heart instantly starts racing.
«Tell me what you think.»
Usually, people just nod in front of me—always ready to please.
You never know if they do it out of conviction or fear of upsetting me.
But with her, it's different.
She doesn't know who I am—or so it seems—and that makes her dangerously sincere.
Although something tells me she'd have been that way anyway.
She doesn't strike me as someone who chases privileges.
But since I'm definitely not as good at reading people as Will is, I don't trust my intuition too much.
She bites the inside of her cheek, then fires point-blank:
«Are you really obligated, or do you prefer to believe it so you don't have to choose?»
She certainly doesn't mince words.
«Believe me, I'm obligated.»
She shrugs and bites into the last piece of parmigiana.
«Can I be honest?» she asks after swallowing.
«You have to.»
«It's always about choice. Sometimes we convince ourselves there's no other option—that we have to stay and obey. But no one's ever really obligated. We're the ones who, afraid of disappointing others, forget who we are. And often, the price of giving up is higher than the price of disappointment.»
Maybe I'm not such a big fan of honesty.
«God, now all we need is for you to say that every choice is a sacrifice, and you'll sound just like Will.»
«Will?» She stares at me, one eyebrow raised.
I nod.
«A friend. Or rather... a brother.»
She smiles, but I feel a sudden wave of tiredness wash over me.
All this talk feels heavy.
I'm not used to it; usually, I find much more interesting ways to engage my tongue and lips with a girl.
But mostly, it's her damn sincerity that disarms me—she opens me up more than she should, more than anyone ever has.
Except Will.
«Since we're on familiar terms now...» I say, dragging my chair closer to hers, trying in my own way to make her feel a bit uncomfortable too.
«Pediatrics? Is that your choice, or did you let yourself be influenced?»
I pretend to stretch toward the sunlight spilling over her side of the table.
Our legs brush, our arms almost touch—I'm sure she's shivering right now.
«I...» She clears her throat, and I gloat for a second, satisfied that my plan worked.
Then she continues, with new confidence:
«I'd like to join humanitarian missions. Help children who die every day from hunger, disease... war.»
I have to stop myself before my jaw hits the floor.
I really didn't expect that.
I feel ridiculous—like a spoiled kid dressed up as an adult.
Here I am, crushed by the weight of my last name, inventing dramas... and she wants to save the world.
«I want to be there. I don't trust fundraising, I don't want to just watch from afar. I want to get my hands dirty, to really make a difference.»
A stark contrast to the words my father raised me with:
«Your purpose in life is to increase the power and fame of the Martini family.»
I couldn't feel more insignificant than this.
My stomach clenches.
Every word she says pulls me a little closer.
«I sound crazy, don't I?» she smiles.
No.
Not crazy.
Just real.
And that's what scares me.
I can't even answer.
«Everyone tells me that.»
She looks down, fiddling with the worn wood of the table.
«Only boring people,» I finally manage to say, my voice lower than I intended.
I need to touch her—I want to.
I reach out and intertwine my fingers with hers without thinking.
It's instinctive—and by the time I realize it, it's too late to pretend it's casual.
«I think it's brave.»
Then, with a half-smile:
«And a little crazy—but in a good way.»
Her fingers stay in mine, warm and soft.
She doesn't pull away.
And I have no desire to let go.
«Really?» she asks softly.
She looks up, and for a second I feel like I'm drowning in that impossible blue.
A sharp punch to the gut, out of nowhere.
«You have a heart of gold, Aurora. The only people who call you crazy are the ones who don't have the guts to do what you do.»
Her gaze flickers for a moment, but she doesn't pull away.
I tighten my grip slightly, my thumb brushing her skin.
«You're the first person outside my family who doesn't look at me like I've said something stupid.»
«Why would I?»
In the silence that follows, I notice the cafeteria has almost emptied.
«Because...»
Her watch beeps, a metallic sound cutting through the quiet.
«Damn, Tom!» Her eyes widen as she checks the time.
Lost in conversation, we've completely forgotten where we are.
«Let's go.»
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD