Lori

I stare at the text from Marcel, not quite sure what I’m reading.

The message is short, almost casual, like it’s no big deal: I will be visiting my mom this weekend. Maybe you can come over and we can find some space to work from there.

I blink at the phone, letting the words sink in. Her mom?

I want to call her and ask if she’s serious, but instead, I type out a reply.

But we need to catch up with the work. Why can’t you just raincheck with her?

A minute passes. Then another. Finally, she responds.

Mom... won’t get it.

I don’t push it, not because I’m not curious, but because I know she’s probably not ready to talk about it. The whole thing feels strange, like she’s trying to make it sound normal when it’s clearly not.

Her parents obviously knows what she does and how busy she gets so why would they make a big deal out of it if she told her mom she won't make it?

I try to act casual, even though I’m feeling a bit thrown off.

Fine then, text me the address?

I don’t know why, but I’m nervous. It’s as though I’m being invited into some part of Marcel’s life I don’t belong in.

Meeting her mom feels like a big deal, like I’m crossing some invisible line.

After work, I head to the mall. Shopping for clothes. Not something I usually do, but this time I want to blend in.

I buy slacks, a few plain t-shirts, stuff that doesn’t stand out but also doesn’t make me look like I’m trying too hard. I don’t want to look out of place in front of Marcel, especially if I’m meeting her mom.

Saturday comes too quickly, and I find myself standing in front of a massive gate, staring up at a mansion that’s so big it almost feels intimidating.

I punch in the code and the gates creak open, like they’re welcoming me into some kind of world I’m not supposed to be in.

The house is just as grand as the gate suggests, full of polished wood, marble floors, and expensive furniture that looks too perfect to be real.

I’m suddenly self-conscious, my slacks and t-shirt feeling too ordinary for this place.

But Marcel’s mom doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe she just doesn’t care. She greets me with a tight smile, a polite handshake, and an air of formality that immediately makes me feel like I’ve stepped into a scene from some drama movie.

“Welcome, Lori,” she says, her voice smooth, controlled. Like she’s the queen of this castle.

She’s beautiful, no doubt, but there’s something about her that makes me feel small. Maybe it’s the way she holds herself, like she’s always in charge.

Marcel doesn’t look much different around her, like she’s trying to shrink into the background. There’s this subtle tension in the air but I do not know why.

I wonder if Marcel feels it too, but she doesn’t say anything.

After lunch, which is, of course, impeccably done—nothing too fancy, but everything just right—Marcel and I help with the dishes.

It’s quiet in the kitchen, and I’m not sure if it’s the unease between us or the way her mom watches us like we’re performing some sort of social dance, but the silence feels thick.

Once we finish, Marcel leads me upstairs to a study—her dad’s old study, she says.

It’s a large room, lined with bookshelves and filled with the smell of old paper and leather.

We settle at a big desk, opening our laptops and diving into work.

At some point, the conversation shifts, almost without warning.

“I’m sorry about my mom,” Marcel says, her voice quieter than usual, her eyes not quite meeting mine. “She’s... well, she’s complicated.”

I look at her, trying to piece together what she means. “Complicated how?”

“She’s... used to being in control of everything,” Marcel says, running a hand through her hair. “She up-tight.”

I don’t say anything at first. It’s not that I don’t want to respond, but I don't know what to say.

I’m not sure how to respond. I’m not the type of person to talk about feelings, but there’s something about Marcel in this moment that makes me want to understand.

“I get it,” I finally say, even though I don't. “She’s probably just trying to hold everything together.”

Marcel looks at me, her gaze softer now.

“Sometimes I wish I could just let her know that it’s okay to be... not perfect at everything.”

I nod. It’s not that I think I can change anything about her mom, but it’s clear to me now where Marcel’s coming from.

Her whole life must’ve been like this—walking on eggshells around someone who thinks they know everything.

Who thinks they have everything figured out, while the people around them are just... trying to survive.

I look at Marcel. It’s like a light bulb has gone off, and suddenly, everything makes sense. The way she acts, the way she hides behind that professional façade.

“You’re not like her,” I say quietly, almost without thinking.

Marcel doesn’t respond right away. She just looks at me, her lips pressed together like she’s weighing her options.

“I don’t know what I am,” she admits. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still trying to figure that out.”

I don’t say anything else. There’s no need to. The air between us feels different now, like the tension has eased just a little. It’s not a perfect moment, but it’s real.

The study feels smaller now. My hand is still resting near hers, and every part of me wants to reach out, to bridge the gap between us.

Her eyes are red, not from crying. I’ve never seen her like this—raw, vulnerable, like she’s on the edge of letting herself fall. And for once, I think she might let me catch her.

I lean closer, the room impossibly quiet save for the sound of her steady breathing.

“Marcel,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

She turns her head, our faces just inches apart now. I can feel her breath, warm against my skin, and I think—no, I know— this is what we both want. It's not a stunt for my ex, it's what we want right now.

But then, the door bursts open.

“Marcelina.”

Her mother’s voice is sharp, cutting through the moment with harshness. Marcel jolts back like she’s been burned, her walls snapping back into place so fast it leaves me dizzy.

Mrs. Navarro stands in the doorway, her expression a mixture of annoyance and something colder. She doesn’t even glance in my direction.

“I need to speak with you. Now,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Marcel straightens in her chair, her face a carefully blank mask. “Can it wait?”

“No,” her mother snaps. “It cannot.”

I feel like an intruder. Marcel hesitates for half a second before nodding stiffly and rising to her feet.

She glances at me, her lips parting as if she wants to say something, but then she turns and follows her mother out the door. It closes behind them.

I don’t mean to listen. I don’t. But their voices aren’t exactly hushed.

“This is what you’re doing now?” Mrs. Navarro’s voice is biting.

“Mom,” Marcel says, her tone calm but strained.

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. Weak, pathetic, and now this? Is this what you’ve come to, Marcelina? What happened to you? What happened to men?”

My chest tightens. I can’t hear Marcel’s response, but her voice is firm.

The argument ebbs and flows, her mother’s harshness met with Marcel’s quiet resolve. I sit frozen, my hands clenching and unclenching as I stare at the door, wishing I could do something but knowing I can’t.

Finally, the voices fade, and the door creaks open again.

Marcel steps back inside, her shoulders stiff. She doesn’t look at me as she sits back down, her gaze fixed on the desk like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

“Marcel—”

“It’s fine,” she cuts me off.

But it’s not fine. Not even close. And the worst part is, I don’t think she wants to fix it.