Three weeks pass in a blur of coffee and stolen kisses and late-night phone calls that last until two AM.
Three weeks where I'm happier than I've ever been.
Three weeks where I'm convinced nothing can touch us.
I should know better.
***
It's November now. The trees outside Riverside Academy are stripped bare, and Boston cold has settled into my bones. But every morning, Aurelio is at my locker with coffee. With cinnamon. With that smile that makes me forget I'm supposed to be guarding my heart.
We haven't made any grand announcements. Haven't changed our social media to "in a relationship" or whatever people do. But everyone knows anyway. It's impossible to hide when he walks me to every class, when we eat lunch together, when I wear his jacket because mine is too thin for November and he noticed.
When he looks at me like I'm the only person in the room.
The attention is overwhelming. Girls who never spoke to me before suddenly want to know where I got my shoes, what lip gloss I wear, whether Aurelio is really as sweet as he seems.
Boys who used to look right through me now nod in the hallways.
Teachers watch us with expressions that range from curious to concerned.
And Sterling Hayes watches us with barely concealed fury.
***
It's a Wednesday when Grandma Rosa finally brings it up.
I'm doing homework at the kitchen table in our small Roxbury apartment when she sits down across from me. She's just gotten home from her shift at the hospital—twelve hours on her feet, and she's exhausted. But her eyes are sharp.
"So," she says. "You going to tell me about this boy?"
I don't look up from my calculus. "What boy?"
"Don't play with me, Cassia Marie. The boy you been smiling about for weeks. The one making you check your phone every five seconds."
I put down my pencil. "His name is Aurelio."
"Italian?"
"Yeah. His family owns restaurants in the North End."
Recognition flashes across her face. "Santoro?"
"You know them?"
"Baby, everyone knows them. Old money. Real old money." She leans back in her chair. Studies me with those eyes that see everything. "And what does this Santoro boy want with you?"
The question stings even though I know she doesn't mean it that way.
"He likes me," I say quietly.
"I'm sure he does. You're beautiful and smart and any boy would be lucky to have you." She reaches across the table, takes my hand. "But Cassia, baby, boys like that... they come from a different world. And that world doesn't always mix well with ours."
"Grandma—"
"I'm not saying he's a bad boy. I'm not saying he means to hurt you. I'm just saying..." She sighs. "When I was your age, I fell for a boy from a good family. Thought love was enough. It wasn't. His mama made sure of that."
I've heard this story before. The boy who promised her everything and married someone appropriate instead.
"Aurelio is different," I insist.
"Maybe. Maybe not. Just promise me you'll be careful. Guard your heart, baby girl. Don't give it away to someone who might not know how to keep it safe."
***
Thursday afternoon, I meet Aurelio's father.
We're at the Santoro café in the North End—the original one, the flagship. Dominic Santoro is behind the counter when we walk in, wearing an apron dusted with flour, laughing with a regular customer.
He looks like an older version of Aurelio. Same dark hair touched with silver, same grey eyes, same easy smile.
When he sees us, his face lights up.
"Aurelio!" He comes around the counter, pulls his son into a hug. Then turns to me. "And you must be Cassia. I've heard so much about you."
"All good things, I hope," I say, suddenly nervous.
"The best things." He gestures to a table in the corner. "Sit, sit. Let me make you something special."
He disappears into the kitchen. Aurelio squeezes my hand under the table.
"He likes you already," he whispers.
"How do you know?"
"Because he's making you his special tiramisu. He only does that for people he wants to impress."
Ten minutes later, Dominic returns with three plates. The tiramisu is perfect—layers of cream and espresso-soaked ladyfingers that taste like heaven.
"So, Cassia," Dominic says, sitting with us. "Aurelio tells me you're a writer."
"I want to be. Right now I'm just a student who writes sometimes."
"Don't sell yourself short. Aurelio showed me the essay you wrote for AP Lit. About forbidden love and class barriers. It was brilliant."
Heat floods my face. "You read my essay?"
Aurelio looks sheepish. "I thought it was really good. I might have shown my dad."
Dominic leans forward. "You know, my father came to this country with nothing. Built this business from the ground up. People told him he couldn't do it. That he didn't belong." He meets my eyes. "But he did it anyway. Because he was brave enough to believe he deserved a seat at the table."
I understand what he's really saying: *You deserve to be here too.*
"Thank you," I whisper.
"No, thank you. For making my son smile like this. I haven't seen him this happy in years."
***
That night, Aurelio calls me at midnight.
"My dad loves you," he says, voice warm through the phone.
I'm in bed, lights off, phone pressed to my ear. This has become our routine—talking until we can't keep our eyes open anymore.
"He seems great."
"He is. My mom is... different. But my dad is good people."
There's something in his voice when he mentions his mother. Hesitation. Worry.
"When do I meet her?" I ask.
Silence. Long enough that I check to see if the call dropped.
"Aurelio?"
"Soon," he finally says. "Just... let me prepare her first. She can be intense."
"You mean she won't like me."
"No, I mean she's protective. She has expectations. But Cassia, it doesn't matter what she thinks. I like you. That's what matters."
I want to believe him. But Grandma Rosa's words echo in my head: *His mama made sure of that.*
"Okay," I say.
We talk about other things. About the essay I'm writing on *Jane Eyre*. About the game his school's basketball team lost. About how he wants to study literature in college but his mother wants him to study business.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"I want to teach. High school English. Help kids fall in love with books the way Ms. Okonkwo did for me."
"That's beautiful."
"My mom thinks it's a waste. That I should do something 'meaningful' with the Santoro name."
"Teaching is meaningful."
"Try telling her that." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Sometimes I think about just... leaving. Going to college across the country. Starting over somewhere no one knows my family."
"Would you really?"
Silence again. Then: "I don't know. Maybe. If I was brave enough."
We talk until three AM. Until his words start slurring with sleep. Until I hear his breathing even out.
I don't hang up. Just listen to him breathe. Let the sound lull me to sleep.
***
Friday, everything changes.
Aurelio picks me up after school in his BMW. This has become routine too—him driving me home instead of me taking the bus. Forty-five minutes together with music playing and his hand finding mine on the center console.
But today, he doesn't drive to Roxbury. He drives to the North End.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"My house. For dinner."
My stomach drops. "Tonight?"
"My mom wants to meet you. I told her about you last weekend and she insisted."
"Aurelio, you can't just spring this on me! I'm not dressed for—"
"You look beautiful. You always look beautiful."
But I'm wearing jeans and a sweater from Target. My hair is in a messy bun. I have exactly seven dollars in my wallet and anxiety creeping up my throat.
"I can't meet your mother like this," I say.
He pulls over. Puts the car in park. Turns to face me.
"Cassia. You are brilliant and kind and more real than anyone I've ever met. My mother is going to see that. Okay?"
I want to believe him. Want to believe that love and authenticity matter more than money and pedigree and knowing which fork to use.
But when he pulls up to his house—a four-story brownstone that probably costs more than I'll make in my entire life—I know I'm walking into a war I'm not equipped to fight.
"Ready?" he asks.
No. God, no.
"Ready," I lie.
He takes my hand. Squeezes it.
And together, we walk toward the door that's about to change everything.