Page 2 of Dark Knight
He was a dark knight if I ever saw one in real life. That’s who this man is. Rugged, dark, and mysterious. Butterflies take flight in my belly, and heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. I stare intently at the stranger, trying to figure out who he is and what makes him tick, but all I can seem to observe is anger.
Dad clears his throat, dragging my attention back to him. “Romero, this is my daughter, Tatum. Tatum, this is Romero. He's going to be staying with us for a while.”
“What? Not in there, I hope?” I nod toward the open doorway they just walked through. “You said I would get to move my stuff into that wing once I start high school in the fall.”
“I saidmaybe,” he sighs, narrowing his eyes. I know that look. It means whatever patience he had has suddenly vanished. “I know you wanted to move your stuff in there but that’s hardly the most important thing right now. Romero needs a place to stay, and rather than give him a room near yours, I think he would do better to have his own separate wing. Eventually, I might move him out to one of the cottages on the property.”
My chest aches, my heart tightening in my chest. Forget the mysterious knight, the jerk just ruined everything! Yes I know it’s just a room, and I shouldn't feel this let down over something so small but I was really looking forward to it. Another step in the direction of maturity and responsibility.
My father is a businessman in every aspect of his life and once he’s made a decision, that's it. Since I don't want to look like a spoiled baby in front of a cute boy, even if I'm disappointed, I grit my teeth and choose to swallow it down. Does it really matter that I was looking forward to having all that extra space, plus the added privacy? I guess not. I’ll eventually get over it, just like I get over everything.
“Okay,” I mutter, digging my nails into my palm instead of lashing out like I want to.
“I see you’re dressed for swimming,” Dad points out like he didn’t hear me inviting him to join in the fun.
“Yeah, Bianca’s coming over, remember? That’s why I asked if you wanted to go swimming with us.”
“Oh. That's nice sweetie, maybe next time. I have a bunch of work to get done.” His attention drifts and he turns back to Romero. Suddenly it's like I was never here to begin with. “In this house what is mine is yours. Anything you want, you only have to ask. We have a cook who comes six days a week. She takes off Saturday nights and all day Sunday, but always makes sure the kitchen is stocked.”
They pass me on their way out to the kitchen and all I can do is stand there and stare at them. It's not like I expect to have a say in anything, because I never do. Not really, but I can’t deny the anger that blooms inside my chest at his clear dismissal. Obviously, whatever Romero's story is, Dad wants to help him and that’s cool, but at the expense of brushing me off like I’m nothing. I reach the kitchen in time to hear Dad introduce Romero to Sheryl, our cook, and she's as kind to him as she's always been to me.
“Can I fix you something for breakfast?”
“No, thanks,” he mumbles his gaze on the floor, his voice thick and raspy. “I'm not really hungry.”
“That’s fine, but you be sure to stop back whenever you want.” She notices me hanging around and gives me one of her bright, kind smiles. “Good morning, Miss Middle School Graduate. I fixed your favorite: French toast and bacon, plus fresh orange juice.”
“Oh. Thank you.” And now Romero knows I just graduated middle school, which means he knows how old I am. Cue the embarrassment. I have to open the refrigerator door to abate the way my cheeks heat up.
Behind me, Dad speaks up. “You should really eat something.”
I'm almost jealous of the concerned tone he gives him. Yes my father loves and cares about me, but he never seems concerned, not like this. It's more like he's especially interested in Romero, like he cares if he eats.
Why? Who is he? And what about him would make my father care so much?
“I've made plenty,” Sheryl adds. “It's only a matter of pulling an extra plate from the cabinet.”
Great.He gets the wing I was supposed to move into, and now Sheryl is making him a plate of my special breakfast. I have to bite my tongue as I pour orange juice into a glass without asking if Romero wants any. He can get his own since he obviously lives here now.
“I’m really not hungry.” The edge in his voice becomes sharp, angry.Why is he mad? Because people are being kind to him?That seems ridiculous.
“Fair enough,” Dad murmurs in that gentle, caring way. “So long as you know everything you need is here. You don’t have to be shy. Why don’t I show you around the grounds, and then you can get settled into your room?”
Nothing hurts worse than to see the hand he places on this strange, rude kid’s shoulder as they walk out of the room. If I thought he’d give me the whole story, I’d think to ask Dad later why Romero is here and how long he’ll be staying, but I know my father. He’ll tell me to go hang out with Bianca or go swimming, or shopping. Whatever it takes to keep me out of his way.
Especially now that he has the son he always wanted.
I don’t know where that thought comes from, but it takes away my appetite until I have to finish the rest of my food. Sheryl went through all the trouble, and I don’t want to insult her like Romero did. Not that she seems to mind—she’s busy humming to herself as she pulls produce from shopping bags and washes it in the sink.
“Tatum?” My spirits lift immediately when I hear Bianca’s voice echoing through the entry hall.
“In the kitchen!” I call out. A few seconds later, she hurries in, all flushed and wide-eyed.
“Who is that boy outside with your dad?” She flashes an embarrassed little grin at Sheryl, who just laughs.
I give her a look that means we’ll talk about this privately while getting up from the table and leaving the dish next to the sink. “Do you want anything?” Sheryl asks Bianca, who politely declines before I pull her by the arm outside onto the back patio. It’s already hot and sticky for this time of the day, and I can practically feel my curls frizzing thanks to the humidity.
“What’s going on?” Bianca’s carrying a backpack over one shoulder and a beach towel in the other arm, both of which she sets down while I pace the ground in front of her.