Mom and Carlo had been talking ever since dinner began. I was in awe of how mutual and animated their conversation was, while Danilo and I, on the other hand, exchanged nothing but sharp, fleeting, uncomfortable glances. The wall clock across the room seemed weary of my constant stares, its ticking mocking my impatience. My phone was off-limits—etiquette demanded it.
"Ah, Zelda, you and your mother are always welcome at ours," Carlo said warmly. "We have an anniversary gala coming up soon, and you are more than welcome to attend."
I smiled politely, though inside I scoffed. Like I'd ever want to step into the home of Daniel. Our eyes collided again, and this time neither of us looked away. Perhaps it was his silent way of saying, I'm sorry—I should have told you.
"We should get going. Dinner was amazing. Let's do this again sometime," Carlo said, dabbing his lips with a serviette. He seemed almost theatrical in the gesture—every movement laced with refinement.
Both men rose from their seats, and in that moment I noticed how different they appeared. Carlo, dressed in a sharp suit that screamed long hours at the office, radiated power and poise. Danilo, however, wore only a simple t-shirt and denim—casual, yet his clothes whispered luxury in their discreet branding.
Carlo made his way towards me. Reluctantly, I rose, pushing my chair back with as little noise as possible. He leaned forward, pressing his lips against my forehead. His cologne lingered in the air—a dark, masculine musk I could almost taste.
I hadn't realized Danilo had been standing just behind his father, like a boy queuing for his turn in the cafeteria. After Carlo's kiss, he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around me. I braced for an apology, for those long-awaited words—I'm sorry. Instead, he whispered, "Goodnight, love." His Italian accent, softened by years of America, brushed against my ear. Unlike his father's commanding blend of British and Italian, Danilo's voice wavered between two worlds. I smiled, aware that Mom was watching me closely.
Later, I curled into my bed, headphones drowning me in indie melodies. I thought about watching something, but the energy wasn't there. Reading new comments on my page felt easier, like little sparks of attention lighting up my night.
Thank goodness there was no homework—where would I have found the strength?
My phone chimed. It was from the group chat: Yolanda had already bought me the exact sunscreen I used. LOVE YOU, I replied to the picture of the sunscreen she sent.
Tuesday arrived, and for some reason, I woke up unusually happy. So happy that Mom teased me before leaving for work. "Did you win a lottery or something?" she asked. Truth was, I had no idea where the joy came from—it was simply there, bubbling inside me.
"Oh my Zelda, I've searched the whole world for you!" Yolanda's voice rang out, dramatic as ever. "You need your sunscreen, don't you? I'm sorry, babes. I hope you don't get new burns." She fussed like a mother, though she wasn't one—at least, not yet. That was just Yolanda.
I laughed, but quickly shifted. "What happened between you and Omar?" The words slipped out. Maybe this was the only chance I had to bring it up. He was everywhere with us—except in her DMs.
She gave a nervous laugh, handing me the sunscreen. "What do you mean? We're good."
I arched a brow. "Come on, you two aren't like you used to."
That's when I noticed it—the glisten of tears threatening to escape. She sank onto the red chair by the park, her usual armor of confidence cracking. I joined her, my heart heavy.
"I screwed up, Zel," she whispered. It was the first time I'd seen her so vulnerable. To her followers, she was an unstoppable force: a fast-rising influencer, a strong feminist, a fearless girl-boss. But here, stripped of the spotlight, she was just Yolanda—a girl clinging to her mistakes. Life had become one long façade, and I wasn't judging her. I was simply seeing her, truly seeing her.
"We were talking over summer, things were perfect," she continued. "I know I never told you, but… I got back with my ex. I know you think I'm terrible—"
"Keith? Keith the Senior?" I interrupted, horrified. The disappointment stung. After all her rants about him, she went back? She chose Keith over Omar? Why are beautiful girls so blind when it comes to boys?
"What? No…" Her tears finally slipped free, rolling down her cheeks. But I couldn't shake the thought. Keith was poison—everyone knew it. Drugs, fights with teachers, no future in sight. And Yolanda? She was sunshine, potential, life itself. I refused to let him drag her down. Not while she was my best friend.