Sorry it took so long guys. O.o This is basically a filler for you, so move on if you don't want Viv's point of view. :)
Chapter Four
(Vivian's POV)
As I hate myself, I hear the breaking of a glass, then silence. Voices are then heard, echoing to the outside, and I recognize the name.
It's Gianfranco's.
I rush to the scene before I even realize it, my mug of cocoa left alone. I strain to see what has happened when I find my parents.
"Mom, Dad, what happened?" I ask urgently.
"It's Gianfranco's hand," Mother says shakily. "He's crushed his wineglass."
My father then turns on me. "What did you do?" he growls. I understand because he's very affectionate with his godkid, but I can't help feeling a little jealous because he's supporting someone other than his own daughter.
"I didn't—"
"What did you do?" He's mad now, and he hisses the question with such ferocity he's never shown me before.
"I told him to leave me alone," I start in a scared, squeaky voice.
"Tell me everything," he snarls.
"I asked him why he as insisting to let me tell him about me, and if he thinks he can woo me like any other girl he tries to woo!" I blurt in one breath.
My mother gasps, and my father is dumbfounded. "What?" I ask defensively. "Isn't that what all racers do?" I cup my hands over my mouth. I have just said the worst thing ever.
I can see my father trying to restrain himself as he closes his eyes, his arms rigid at his sides. My mother tries to soothe him, but it doesn't work. Tears spring from my eyes but don't fall. Yet.
"This is the main reason why you should socialize, Vivian Jane," he says in an almost-murmur. there's enough fury in his voice to have me scurrying for cover like a mouse. "This is why we always let you alone during an event." He glares at me, and I can tell he's so hurt his eyes are glistening. He winces thoughtfully, then just turns away from me.
"Dad, I'm sorry!" I call, trying to take a hold of his arm, but he's out of my reach in a millisecond. "Father, please!"
"Leave him, Vivian," my mother says. I can see her eyes are glistening slightly. She hurries off towards my father, who has disappeared into the dispersed crowd, leaving me alone.
I'm so stupid. Now I understand why my parents want me to go out more. I don't know what to say sometimes, and even if I do, I don't know what effect it would make on the other party's heart.
I rub my arm as I sulk in a corner. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I never meant to cause harm. But I've done it, and they think I mean it.
That's the thing I really hate most around people: they don't think the way I do. I don't want to change the way I think because that's the only way I can understand things, and the only way I can understand myself. But that's what my parents are telling me: not everyone can see the way you do.
I shake my head in frustration. I will not change the way I think, even if it is immature.
But I walk towards the balcony, where my parents are talking to someone. I try figuring out how to apologize to my father, and start with a cough.
Turns out they're talking to Gianfranco, and I have to revise everything so it can be perfect.
That's another thing about me: I'm some kind of perfectionist. I can never be myself if something is out of place.
"I'm sorry," I start softly, my hand still on my arm and my head bent in shame, "that I hurt you." I'm nervous, and I never expected to say sorry to Gianfranco in the first place. But I can't back out now. "I'm sorry that I—"
"You don't have to say sorry now," he says, and I look up at him. The whites of his eyes are pink, and his expression is frustrated and hurt. "Say sorry when you mean it." And he strides past me.
I act automatically. "Gianfranco, please, I'm sorry!" I call out as I reach for his sleeve. I have a tight hold, but he jerks his arm with such power I'm thrown off my feet for a second. He turns on me.
His voice is stronger and more powerful than my father's. Much, much more powerful. "If this is one of your insults again, I don't want to hear it!" he roars.
Tears are falling form my eyes now, and I can feel them cold on my cheeks as they stream towards the ground. "Please Gianfranco, I didn't mean it!" I cry out. "I didn't mean to hurt you! I just…I'm just…." I don't like this. I don't like being the weakest person in the room. I don't like crying my heart out or tell other people anything about me. I cry as insecurity washes over me, my face in my hands, pitiful sniffling echoing in my ears. But I have to be strong, because he can't understand.
"I never meant to cause any real harm," I repeat. "I…I don't know how to handle myself around someone else." The words come naturally, and I realize the affection in my voice. "There's so much to explain to you, Gianfranco, but I just…I just can't."
"Why, Vivian?" he says, tone hushed but urgent. "Why not?"
"Because…because…." I try searching for words. Great. Now I have to give some reason because of my heart's stupidity. "Because I'm never sure of myself."
My face drops to my hands once more because I know the next thing he'll do is to leave me alone in the snow. But he doesn't. Instead he's kneeling over me, his warm sweater over me, and that's when I realize how much of my body warmth has gone into the center of my body. I look up at him, and I sort of know he's forgiven me, but still.
His voice is so gentle and loving it makes my head dizzy. "Come inside," he says. "It's cold."
He slowly gets to his feet, my hands in his, and I follow. We skirt the crowd and head upstairs to what I guess is his room.
His quarters is lightly scented with something like mint, with a slight interference of wood, as most of his furniture—chairs, bed, closet—is not antique, but they are of timber. It's more colorful than mine, and is clean and devoid of any messes. His desk is cluttered with books and a full-scale desktop sits in the side though, and I realize he's also a student. There is not a gaming system around, or a television, or even a sign of a handheld game. He has shelves full of books—you could call it a mini-library—and I'm so amazed by the fact he reads a lot. My room is much, much smaller, even if you count my father as a prestigious race car driver.
He settles me on his bed and reaches into his closet for another sweater. As I peek past the doors I see a lot of clothing—much more than I have, once again—and I catch a jacket with a lot of patterns, and I figure it's his racing jacket. He closes it before I get a better look, though, and sits close beside me. I lean my head on his shoulder, and eventually I realize he's so warm I just lean my whole body against him his arm has to go around my back.
It's him who speaks first. "Why are you so protective of yourself, Vivian?" His voice is soft and curious. "Why hate me when I haven't done anything to you?"
My own voice takes on the same softness. "Because of something that's happened to me."