Page 16 of Milo

"Back up, Connor! It's going to blow."

"Fuck!"

And I'm carried away.

Only me.

I clear my throat, sucking a sharp breath. "A car accident. I was the only survivor."

Chapter 6

Lies in the Eyes

Milo's gaze is unwavering as he stares at me with understanding, compassion, sympathy. For a brief moment, he looks almost human.

Innocent.

It's unnerving, uncomfortable, uneasy.

And I don't need it.

I don't need his sympathy. I don't need to relive the past. Talk about it. Dwell on it. Think about how things could have gone differently. There's no point.

None.

Nothing will bring them back. Nothing will bring anyone back.

"I—"

"So anyway,” I cut him off, moving past this undesirable topic, "I moved in with my grandparents who decided to homeschool me."

"Homeschooling?" Milo asks, evidently picking up on my tense body language and not prying further into my parents.

"Yes.” I stand up, a dull burst of anxiety preventing me from sitting still. I turn away from Milo, scanning the various Leonardo Di Vinci prints hung on his dark grey walls. "They tried to enroll me in a normal high school. It didn't work out."

"Why?"

I shrug, not bothering to look at him. "PTSD or something.” I take in the detailed anatomy of the renaissance painter's work. "I was planning on going to university but then my grandfather passed away and I couldn't leave Nana all alone. We had some family money, so I didn't have to work."

At this point, I don't care that I'm telling him everything. I'm going to die anyway. There's no point in lying, in hiding the truth.

"You did not attend university?" he asks. I crane my neck toward him; he's lost.

"Does the University of Wikipedia count?" I tilt my head. "If not, then no."

Milo frowns. "If you never received formal training, how is it that you can speak seven languages?" He pauses, reclining in his leather chair. He links his fingers across his torso. "Or were you lying?"

"Would you like to quiz me?" I let out a genuine laugh, amused that he thinks I'd lie given the circumstances. "I'm not lying but I also can't give you a concrete answer." I pace in front of his desk, gliding my fingers along the back of the gritty chair. "My grandmother, she was a—" I pause, biting my lip. "A worldly woman, eccentric at best, and when my grandfather died, she spiraled a little, if you will. She didn't want to leave the house; she didn't want to do anything."

I dart my gaze to Milo who nods, indicating that he's following.

"I think she felt bad for keeping me in Hawthorne so every few months, she'd go through these obsessive phases where she'd choose a country and our lives would revolve around it," I explain, attempting to find the right words.

"It started with Spain. We'd watch Spanish movies, TV shows, eat Spanish food, read Spanish books, with translations, obviously. But somehow, I started to pick up the language. At first, I thought it was because I took some Spanish in grade school but then the same thing happened with French, Italian, Russian, you get the picture."

Milo blinks. "You are telling me that you became fluent in seven languages by watching films?"

"More or less," I say, circling his desk. I pause in front of the arched checkered window that overlooks a grand courtyard, a pool in the center. "Once I noticed how easily I was picking up words, phrases, I studied the languages more thoroughly, and after six/seven months, I became fluent. According to the internet, I'm a hyperpolyglot—" I turn my head toward Milo who's spun around to face me. "Supposedly, I possess a particular neurology that makes me skilled at language accumulation."

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