Chapter Forty-Two: A Clean Well Lighted Cafe

The café was quiet, clean, and well-lit. It smelled faintly of citrus soap and overpriced espresso, the kind of place that served coffee with just enough bitterness to keep you grounded in your seat. It was the kind of place that played jazz too low to enjoy and served pastries behind glass like they were diamonds.

Their outfits clashed spectacularly with the space. Marissa, in her sleek, backless black jumpsuit, heels clicking too confidently on the white tile floor. Samantha, in her silver slip dress that revealed more cleavage than she was comfortable with, and smudged red lipstick, and fading mascara. She looked like she’d walked out of a dream, and taken a wrong turn.

They sat at a small table near the window. No one else was in the place save for a man in a corner scrolling on his phone and a girl working furiously on a grad paper.

Marissa stared at her, the woman who’d broken up her marriage. Who’d cheated on her husband with Olivia. Who’d had to be rescued by her.

The waitress returned, overworked, red-haired, and pretty in that soft, punk-adjacent way, chipped nail polish, nose ring, Doc Martens. She set down their drinks with an exhausted, “Let me know if you need anything else,” and vanished before either of them could answer.

Marissa watched her walk away, the corner of her mouth twitching upward before she caught herself.

Sam raised a brow. “Is she your type?”

Marissa turned slowly to look at her. “I don’t think you of all people should be asking that.”

There was no venom in her tone, just weariness. The kind that came from being too tired to be angry anymore.

“Sorry,” Sam said fidgeting with the cup of hot chocolate in front of her.

Marissa stared into her tea, chewing the inside of her cheek. She shouldn’t feel guilty about being short with Samantha. God knew she had every right. And yet… she did. Because that was the curse of being Marissa. You could be right and still feel like you owed someone grace.

She crossed her leg and looked at Sam, she didn’t look like the cool effortless Samantha she’d known. Her lipstick was smudged, her eyeliner just beginning to bleed at the corners. She looked like the aftermath of a performance. Like a Faberge egg that had been broken and hastily glued back together.

Samantha didn’t meet her gaze. She looked anywhere else. She looked out the window, at the soft glow of string lights wrapped around the potted plants, at the overachieving grad student hammering keys like she was trying to kill her thesis. Anywhere but at the woman sitting across from her.

“I don’t think I have a type not really,” Marissa answered coolly.

It wasn’t as curt as before, wasn’t soft either. But Marissa quietly had decided there was no point in being cruel.

Samantha’s eyes looked back at Marissa, a cool blue shade of hers as they caught Marissa’s warm brown eyes. “What about-“ she stopped herself. She’s been about to ask about Olivia. But that didn’t seem smart.

“When did you know?”

It was the question. The one every queer woman had been asked by someone—family, friends, strangers, herself. The question that lived in the corners of every coming out. The question with a thousand different answers and no right one.

Marissa gave a low, breathy chuckle, the kind that had no humor in it. “You’re really going for it, huh?”

“Sorry …” Samantha said looking away. And then she decided to be a bit brave. “It’s just … I don’t know a lot of you know …” she didn’t finish the word.

Marissa tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly, “Lesbians,” she said not cruelly, but curious. “You can say the word. It won’t summon lightning.”

“I know,” Samantha said. “Sorry, I feel so … god I don’t know stupid?” She asked looking for solace before she continued. “I don’t know, it’s all new to me,” Samantha said trying not to laugh.

Marissa looked at her, “She picked up her tea, let the cup warm her fingers. “You’re not the first straight girl to end up confused after Olivia blew up her life.”

Samantha looked like she’d been slapped. “I’m not, I mean, I don’t think I’m straight.”

Marissa raised an eyebrow, not mocking, just… waiting.

Samantha stared down at her cup like it might whisper back answers. Her voice was quieter now, more fragile. “I don’t know what I am. I’ve never said that out loud.”

Marissa gave her the space. No interruptions. No reassurances. Just listening.

Samantha exhaled, slow. “I just always did what I was supposed to. Cheerleading. Straight-A’s. Ivy League. Pretty boyfriends my parents could tolerate.”

“Is that what Daniel was?” She asked.

Samantha blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed. She hesitated and looked around the cafe.