Page 2 of Lost Prince
“You can’t mean that. We have so many great memories.”
I feel bad for Lana, who clearly needs Lazaro to remember their lives together.
“Right. If they’re so great, I would have remembered, don’t you think?”
“You’re being a dick.”
“And you’re being a bitch.”
I glance over at Anna, her head down, eyes focused on kneading bread. Maria is cleaning dishes.
"You can't give up," Lana pleads. "Remember when we were kids? You never backed down from a challenge."
A heavy sigh follows. "That's just it, Lana. I don't remember being that person. I don't remember any of it."
Poor guy is beyond frustrated. I’ve seen this part of him more often than not since his return. The way his brow furrows when someone mentions a shared memory, the flash of anger in his eyes when he can’t recall a simple family tradition.
"Maybe if we try looking at old photos again?—”
"No!" Lazaro's shout makes me jump, nearly cutting myself with the long knife.
“I’m sick of staring at pictures of a life I don't recognize. I'm tired of disappointing you, of not being the brother you want me to be."
The silence that follows is deafening. I hold my breath, feeling like an intruder on their private pain.
"Lazaro, you could never disappoint me. I'm just happy you're alive, that you're here."
"Am I? Sometimes I wonder if it would've been better if I'd stayed dead."
“Lazaro!”
“Leave me the fuck alone, Lana.”
“Fine. Be a whiny dick.”
Silence fills the air again. In the kitchen, our breaths hold, wondering what’s going to happen next.
The door bursts open, swinging and slamming against the wall behind it.
We all jump.
Lazaro storms in. Glancing around, he sees a mug on the table. He grabs it and throws it hard against the wall, well away from any of us. It doesn’t matter that the shattered pieces don’t come near us. Anna and Maria let out a shriek and bolt out of the kitchen.
I don’t move. Instead, I watch, unable to take my eyes off Lazaro as he paces the kitchen like a caged animal.
"Why can't they just fucking leave me alone?" he growls, sweeping his arm across the center table, sending utensils clattering to the floor.
I continue to watch him, but not in fear. Instead, I’m saddened by the raw pain in his eyes. I wipe my hands on my apron and reach for a plate of cookies I made earlier this morning.
"Mr. D'Amato," I say softly, approaching him with a bright smile. "Would you like a cookie? I made them fresh this morning."
Lazaro whirls to face me, his hazel eyes wild. For a moment, I think he might lash out, but then something in his expression shifts. The anger drains away, replaced by confusion and a hint of shame.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
I hold out the plate, my smile unwavering. "Offering you a cookie. You look like you could use one."
He studies me like I’m some sort of enigma. “You think I’m childish too?”