To live in a hallucination of being loved is more painful than rejection. 
— Vinaya Panicker 

Sobremesa 
(n.) the period of time after eating a meal when the food is gone but the conversation is still flowing around the table 

Monday — September 4, 2023 

The one day I happen to throw caution to the wind and decide to live a little, Marcel Huxley simply has to add a lovely family dinner to his calendar. 

A family dinner for two. 

How miserable is that? 

The table can easily fit a party of six. Marcel sits at the head of it, a firm expression on his face that narrows as he spots me. I expel a breath and lock my spine upright as I refuse to show that his gaze unsettles me. 

I take a few steps until I reach the other end of the table, pausing awkwardly as I realize I've got no idea where I'm supposed to sit. Or what to do in general. 

"Hi?" I croak out pathetically. 

I swear his lips twitched upwards. But common sense tells me it was wishful imagination. 

He doesn't reply and instead gestures toward the chair right next to him. I gulp. Isn't this the most welcoming meal. 

My ass hits the cushioned chair and I stare at the food spread out on the table. The aroma is less detectable and I can only assume it's because the food's run cold. But my mouth still waters at the sight of it. I might make it through dinner just for the sake of the food. 

For all the detest I harbor for my sperm donor, being in his presence has me shutting my mouth and caving into myself. His presence demands attention, the sort of aura that comes from assured power. 

I'd made a piss poor attempt at starting a conversation that hasn't done shit, so I'm just going to pretend like that never happened. I distract myself from the inevitable by letting my gaze roam over the room. I haven't been here before. Not since I came back. I've been eating dinner in my room with Netflix or my Kindle. 

Why am I here again?  

Lillian bustles into the room and carefully gathers up the food, taking it away on a silver tray. What? No! Why?? 

Nevermind. 

She's back a minute later with the food sizzling, my head perking up as the aroma of the flavors hit me threefold. Mmm, yes, that smells so good. 

I don't realize I'm grinning like a Cheshire until I hear Marcel thank Lillian and dismiss her, and I school my features into prim sophistication. 

His gaze turns to me and I don't know whether to look at the plate or return his gaze. 

"You look different," Marcel comments and I can't help the snort that escapes me at the shit-obvious statement. 

"Yeah, I can't say the same for you, though." 

The years seemed to have completely overskipped him. He looks exactly how I remembered, not a hair out of place or a change in his posture. It might as well have been yesterday that my parents signed the divorce papers. 

He mirrors my snort and my eyebrows raise because Marcel Huxley was not capable of humor according to my textbook knowledge. 

"Where have you been for the past hour?" He asks casually, sitting up straight as he moves to place a serving of spaghetti carbonara on my plate, setting it gently like its being an inch out of place will trigger OCD. 

I was going to answer the question, but seeing him do something as domestic as serve food himself has my jaw falling slack. 

"I'm not going to ground you." He says as he looks up at me, and I break my resolve of not talking. 

"Sorry, I, uh, was out with a few friends," I mumble, not wanting to reveal that I was at a damn rager. A rager where Chance was seconds away from fucking me in the mud. 

"I'm glad you're settling in," His head dips in a nod. "But in the future, I expect you to either inform me or your housekeeper of your whereabouts so that I know you're alright." 

I can't do anything but nod, because holy carbonara, did I walk into an alternate universe where Marcel Huxley isn't an overbearing asshole? Something shady is going on here. I'm going to figure out what it is, period. 

I'll let him know when I'm going to be out if that's what he wants, but fuck will I be telling him about where I'm going. As if he suddenly cares. 

I want to ask why this dinner all of a sudden, why this attempt at civility, why take me in at all (not that I'm not grateful to some extent, I don't particularly want to be abandoned on the streets), why any of this? 

The past week had been radio silence, I wouldn't have known he even existed if it wasn't for the mere knowledge that he did. 

"I didn't know you would be—" I can't exactly call it home. "—back for dinner. I would have stayed otherwise." 

Home was a word reserved for a place that fell into ruin the day my mother left this planet. 

I don't know why I'm trying to justify myself, though. Maybe it's because I fully came in prepared to be sneered down upon and armored myself for verbal war. The civility with which he addresses me leaves me feeling uneasy. Exposed. 

"Sitting aimlessly for an hour isn't exceptionally entertaining," He says with a lightness to his tone. "But this was long overdue. Dinner was originally bookmarked for yesterday on my calendar but something came up so I had to work the weekend." 

In realistic terms, I should be upset at the news, that work was prioritized before his own daughter, but I had never been close to my father — hadn't had any expectations — so this in itself is a huge deal for me. 

Make a girl survive on a single drop of water each day and she'll balk at the prospect of a mouthful. 

"That's alright," I say because getting all touchy-touchy right now felt weird as shit. I twirl my fork between my index and middle finger, feeling like maybe it's my turn to contribute something to this conversation, and blurt out, "So, how's life been these past years?" 

A light chuckle leaves him, surprising me. 

I console myself by deciding that he's probably laughing because my question was unexpected and not because I'm a socially lacking, uncharismatic parasite. 

"How was school?" He asks instead, brushing aside my question, and the mention of school has me thinking about Chance. 

My heart does a weird thing in my chest. 

It isn't pleasant. 

The thought of Chance has my mood deflating like a sad balloon no one wants to play with, and the pasta suddenly loses its taste. 

I'm disgusted with myself for what I let him do to me this afternoon. It felt so... I don't know, not wrong(?) at that moment. I hate myself for it now. It repulses me. Especially after the way he treated me in the evening. 

My stomach churns and the carbonara threatens to make a reappearance. 

I find my father staring at me expectantly, running his gaze over me as I scramble for a response. 

"School was alright, I guess. I made a few friends, so I suppose it went better than I expected." 

"Are you sure about that?" He asks after a pause. 

What's that supposed to mean? 

"Well, I mean— yeah." 

He regards me for a moment. "There's something else I've been meaning to talk to you about." 

I set my fork down once I shovel the last of my food into my mouth. Why does that sound so menacing? 

"Chance Ambrose attends Blackwood Creek Academy. I hope you haven't already run into him, have you?" 

Of all topics, this was probably the one I least expected yet it doesn't surprise me one bit. 

My hands still subconsciously at the sound of his name and I'm about to nod truthfully before I decide against it and shake my head in response to the question. "I heard a few people talking and assumed he did."  

He nods. "I will not restrict your social life, but if Chance Ambrose, for any reason, gets entangled in it in any possible way, I expect you to come to me first thing. You will stay out of his way at all costs; I hope you remember as much." 

I do remember. 

I remember six-year-old me sitting on Mom's lap in the living room as she and my father firmly told me that the boy next door was bad, bad news. I was not to get involved with him and if he approached me, I was supposed to punch him in the throat (Mom) and come to them immediately and inform them (my father). 

It seemed so stupid back then, not to be allowed to indulge. People were people, what was wrong with befriending them? 

Well, I had my answer. There was people, and then there was Chance Ambrose. 

And I knew that now from first-hand experience. 

"Yeah, I remember," I say, my voice less solid than I hoped. 

"Good. I don't want him involved with you in any way. Steer clear of him if you see him, as you always have." God, if only he knew how close we were before. Wait, no, scratch that. He'll have my head on a spike if he finds out. 

Oh, and god forbid he ever finds out what went down today. 

But if the presence of social media has taught me one thing, it's that shit never gets swept under the rug. I groan and throw my head back as I realize that the evening's happenings might just be all over it right now. 

I'm so screwed. 

I open my eyes and find him looking at me distrustingly and now might be a good time to tell him that something might already have happened. You know, because he's being all nice and fuzzy. 

"Okay, maybe I lied." 

He pushes back his emptied ceramic plate and bores his stare into me, the ice in his gaze turning to indestructible frost. 

"I might have spoken to Chance a little bit already." 

His spine straightens, face hardening. 

"What did you talk about?" He asks carefully, slowly, punctuating every word with a stare that sharpens. "And I want you to mention every damn sentence that you exchanged. Word for word." 

My brow raised. "Don't you think you're like overreacting a bit just for a damn business rivalry? Like that's between you and his father, shit isn't going to blow up just because me and him talked." 

He doesn't relent, a harsh undercurrent entering his features. Yeah, okay, I'll shut up. 

"What did he say to you?" He asks again. 

Well, let's see. He made me suck his dick. He made me look like a cheap whore. And he threatened to fuck me in public just because I was accidentally within a mile's radius of him. Did I mention the part where he was being an absolute asshole and dickhead? 

Oh, and that's actually understating what happened and what I really felt at the moment. 

That sounds about as pleasant as telling him I have a sex tape of him and my mom. 

I don't. 

I'm just using it as a comparison. 

"Callista," He says my name for the first time since I've been back. Yep, I'm in deep shit. 

I struggle to invent a story on the spot, snatching a slice of garlic bread off the table and stuffing it in my mouth to keep it busy, staring out of the glass that makes up one entire wall, looking out at the front yard. 

He's probably going to find out someday, but today isn't going to see that shitshow. 

"It was nothing," I say in the end, lifting my head as I finally strap on my balls and look at him. There's a flare in his eyes and I don't want to know what that means. I don't want to see any emotion in his eyes because that would defy everything I've spent my whole convincing myself of. 

I don't want to hope anymore. 

"Callista, what. Did. He say to you?" The edge in his voice sends me spiraling, and all excuses die in my throat. 

He stands up. Staring down at me as his gaze very well forces an answer out. 

"I— I— He was just being a dick, okay!" I complain and then slap my mouth shut as I realize the curse word a second too late. He doesn't seem to give a shit about that, though, as his eyes narrow. 

"Elaborate." His jaw ticks and the person before me suddenly looks a lot more threatening. 

"I don't know, okay, he just said stuff like I was— I mean— he just called me some... offensive names, alright? Just normal guy behavior." I mutter the last part, hoping it'll blunt some of the edge but he doesn't look the least bit inclined to relax. 

I take in the tense stance of his shoulders and I seriously wonder why he gives so many fucks. "When did this happen?" He asks. 

What is this, an interrogation? 

Apparently. 

"Why do you care so much?" I exclaim as I look up at him, feeling severely disadvantaged as he towers over me. Disadvantaged in so, so many ways. 

I see his fist curl and I press myself to the back of the chair. "Answer the question." 

"Just now. I was at a party and most of the students were too and so was he." I don't mention the previous night. I've got a feeling that'll lead to another questioning that I don't want. 

"He approached you?" 

"Yes." 

"On his own? Without your sending any indication of wanting to converse?" 

"Yes." 

Shit. What has my life come to? 

He breathes in deeply, then pushes his chair back. 

"Don't engage with him. At. All. I mean it. I don't want you to get caught up with him." And hell is his tone serious. I can't even find it in myself to say something against it. I nod and drop my gaze. 

"You will tell me if anything of the sort occurs again." 

If I wasn't so conflicted over my daddy issues, I might have been more concerned about his thought process about Chance. I'll break my head over that later. 

"Okay," I say. 

I wait for him to leave. He doesn't. I chance a glance only to find him still staring at me. By the lord, what did I ever do wrong? 

"What?" I ask. 

He runs his eyes over my outfit and I part my hands to look down at myself, finding smudges of dirt along the sides of my pants and on my sleeves. 

"There's more on your back, too." He adds and I swallow. 

Fuck you, Chance Ambrose. I do not need all these complications in life. I exhale deeply. 

"I'll go get changed." I'm not going to offer up any explanation if he doesn't ask. 

He speaks just as I push my chair back and stand up. "If I find out that the Ambrose boy had anything to do with—" He sends a pointed look at my clothes. "—that..." 

He doesn't finish the sentence. I don't know if I want to know the rest of it. 

I mumble something incoherent that even I don't understand and turn to leave. 

"Callista," He calls out. I turn around. There's a moment of silence and my skin crawls. "Are you..." He runs his gaze over me again as if straining to find the right words and then speaks, "You aren't hurt, are you?" 

My eyes widen at the question, at the implication of what it might mean. 

"I'm alright," I whisper, wrapping an arm around myself. 

"Good." He replies, voice similar. 

I stall for a moment, standing there. "Dinner was nice." 

"I'll try to make it happen more often, then." 

"That'd be nice, too." And that is it. 

He appears conflicted as well, torn between leaving and saying something. The latter wins the war. 

"I know it's been a while, but still... I'm sorry about your mother." Hearing it from him is a special kind of pain. It cuts me deep; slices me apart. "And your—" He pauses for a moment as emotion flashes in his eyes that I don't catch — emotions that I refuse to let myself catch — and swallows, then continues, "Your stepfather. And I'm sorry I wasn't there at the funeral." 

The words should be catharsis. 

I've cried over the very fact for so many nights during my early teens. For my father to give a shit about me, to give a shit if I was alive or dead. I just wanted something. Anything. 

For a second as I look at him, I don't see Marcel Huxley; I see a man who has the potential of becoming a true father. One I never fully had. 

And that terrifies me more than anything. 

He hadn't been there for me when I was young, and after the divorce, I needed some time to warm up to my stepfather. And I had. My tongue had slipped more than a few times when I'd called him "Dad", and it had felt good. Having a father. 

Whatever progress Carlos and I had made came to an abrupt end when Mom died five months ago. I hadn't lost only one parent that night, but also a vital part of another who I was beginning to consider as one. 

And now he was gone, too. 

I suppose some part of him remained; he didn't have any obligation to look after me yet he still did. For however briefly. I would have been here five months ago otherwise. 

But for the most part, he was gone. 

"Doesn't matter." My voice is the smallest of whispers, I barely hear myself. 

Vicious tears assault the back of my eyes, lashing at me with stinging strikes that have my composure shattering. 

"Very well," My father says, bringing me back to the present, and runs a hand down the front of his unbuttoned navy blazer. I don't let myself meet his gaze. I don't want to know what I'll find there. 

I hold back only for a second more before I turn around and head back upstairs, my head hanging low and my hair curtaining my vision as I keep the tears back only by an iron will to not break down when not in solitude. 

Muscle memory from the past few weeks guides my feet to my bedroom and as I shut the door behind me, I let the tears fall in full force, letting them crumple my restraint. 

The waterworks last half a minute, but that doesn't make it any less agonizing. I stare at the ceiling as I furiously scrape the wetness from my cheeks, a dull pang in my chest at the thought of Carlos and Mom. 

I have the craziest urge to run to my mother right now and spill my heart out to her. About my father, Chance, hell even Drake Valentino and that damned grin of his, and Sabrina Lopez with her fucked up pornographic head. 

I just want to talk to her. 

My breath catches as I realize I'll never see her again, never even be able to talk to her. 

Her grave is back in Vancouver and Carlos' will had stated that he wanted to be laid to rest right by her side. 

I'll never talk to her. 

No. 

No, no, no. 

I can't live without her, I can't— 

I sink into the sheets and cry out, burying my face in the comforter as it hits me. I'll never be able to talk to her, tell her anything. 

No one's going to visit her grave anymore, there'll be no one to place fresh roses every morning, no one, no one, no one at all. 

I scream. 

I press my face into the pillow and I scream. 

I scream for all the Christmases I'll never have with her, for the cinnamon hugs of Carlos I'll never feel ever again, for a life I looked forward to with all my soul that was ripped away so violently, so suddenly. 

It wasn't fair, it wasn't fucking fair. 

My chestnut hair flies around me as I furiously shake my head, the ache building up again, one I'd become so familiar with. 

I scream a raw, brutal scream that comes straight from the core of my soul. A scream that never quite leaves me no matter how many times I force it out and shut the trapdoor on its face. 

My hysterics crumple into broken sobs as I squeeze the life out of the pillow. It smells clean. Fresh. 

It doesn't have the familiar scent of cinnamon, nor the lavender softness of my mother. 

It's gone. All of it. 

Gone, gone, gone. 

Lost in time, in ether, just two more names to add to the Universe's death toll. Forever and ever and ever and never again to make an appearance. 

If I died right now, would it be the same for me? In a marked grave surrounded by a hundred others, yet so deeply alone? 

But I— I guess Mom and Carlos weren't alone. 

They had each other, alongside one another even in the afterlife. It's what they've always wanted. 

I hope— I hope they're happy. 

They have to be. 

Please, God, let them be happy, they fucking deserve it. 

The last of my sobs subsides once I'm out of tears to cry, thoroughly spent and exhausted. I peel myself out of bed with a resolve to change into my nightwear and hit the sheets despite it being rather early. 

Black splotches of makeup mar the white cover of the pillow, I find, once I'm in comfortable shorts and a tank. Dirt and grime from my clothes earlier stick to the sheets. 

I don't mind it. I throw myself onto the California king-size bed and burrow myself into it, the chill of the cotton sheets skittering across my skin. 

There's so much silence. 

Silence in the atmosphere. Silence in my soul. 

Yet my mind can't help but replay flashes of a life that was filled with warmth and laughter, a life left far behind, a life snatched away so brutally from a girl who just wanted a life of love. 

A life I don't think I'll ever find again. 

Not unless Marcel Huxley steps up and fills the void left behind by the absence of a parental figure in life for so long. 

It's an alternative I don't let myself consider. 

I'd been shattered once, then twice. 

Third time's a charm. 

I won't survive it. 

I won't. 

But, 

but, 

but— 

Just maybe... 

Maybe.