A Shoulder to Cry On

Amara didn’t remember leaving the house. One moment she was in the dining room, her mother’s soft, dreamy voice still echoing—“You’ll see, sweetheart. With time, everything will change.” The next, she was walking fast down Havenridge’s quiet, tree-lined streets. The air smelled of warm grass and faint jasmine drifting from a neighbor’s garden. Porch lights glowed faintly, their yellow halos bending around her blurred vision as fireflies blinked in and out of the gathering darkness.

Her phone buzzed relentlessly in her pocket, a cruel tether to the world she’d abandoned.

Priya: Amara. What happened???

Lexi: Babe, are you okay??

Priya: Please. Answer. Where are you?

She gripped the phone, knuckles white, but didn’t reply. Her fingers trembled too violently, her thoughts fracturing into jagged shards of disbelief, anger, and a shameful flicker of fear.

When she looked up again, her feet had carried her here: a familiar house standing like a sentinel in the quiet night. The two-story colonial with ivy-wrapped columns and warm yellow lights belonged to Dr. Marisol Calderón, Simone’s oldest friend and colleague at Havenridge College. Marisol had always been a fixture in their lives, equal parts confidante and surrogate aunt, a presence Amara had never questioned—until now.

She climbed the creaking steps, her hand hesitating for a moment before she knocked. Once. Twice.

“Amara?” Marisol’s voice carried surprise and concern as the door opened. Her dark, wavy hair was tied back in a loose bun, tendrils escaping to frame a face lined with exhaustion. Her silk blouse was crumpled, a faint coffee stain at the hem betraying a long day. “Honey… what’s wrong?”

Amara opened her mouth, but no words came. Her throat ached from holding back the storm of emotions brewing inside her.

“Come inside, querida.”

The house smelled faintly of lavender oil and fresh coffee, the air still warm from an earlier pot. Marisol led her through the hallway and into the kitchen, the soft hum of an old refrigerator the only sound. “Sit. You’re shaking.” She set a glass of water down with a soft clink, her eyes never leaving Amara.

The moment Amara wrapped her hands around the glass, the dam burst. Words spilled out, ragged and raw.

“They’re insane. My mom—she’s acting like… like one of those women in history vids. You know the ones. Aprons, baking pies, smiling while their husbands bark orders. She called him ‘My King.’” Her voice cracked. “And Garrett—he’s worse. He’s quiet, polite, but he’s controlling her. Tonight he slammed his hand on the table, and Nia just… folded like a little girl being scolded.”

Marisol’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing yet. Her warm brown eyes stayed locked on Amara, absorbing every word.

“They’re not the people I know,” Amara went on, voice rising. “Mom doesn’t let men tell her what to do. She doesn’t giggle like a schoolgirl. And Nia—she used to mock girls who let guys boss them around. Now she’s saying crap like ‘Daddy says I should behave.’ It’s disgusting.”

Marisol let out a slow breath. “I had a feeling.”

Amara blinked, startled. “You… did?”

“She invited me to a garden party on Sunday,” Marisol admitted. “Said she wanted to introduce Garrett properly. Faculty, donors, even a few board members will be there.”

Amara’s stomach lurched. “She’s showing him off? Like a… prize? What the hell is she planning?”

Marisol hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee mug. “She also said… these past weeks with him were ‘eye-opening.’ That with time, everything would change. I didn’t think much of it—until now.”

Amara shook her head violently. “This isn’t her. Simone Thomas doesn’t plan garden parties for men. She doesn’t let someone ‘restore respect’ in her house. She’s… she’s gone.”

Marisol reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “She’s ****, Amara. More than she lets on. I’ve… I’ve known her longer than anyone.” Her voice softened, tinged with something Amara couldn’t place—longing, guilt?

Amara’s throat tightened. “What do I do? She won’t listen to me. And Nia… she’s already halfway gone.”

“Then we watch. We wait. And at that party, if he slips—if we see even a crack—we make it public. The right people will be there.”

“You’d help me?” Amara asked, voice trembling.

“Of course.” Marisol’s grip on her hand tightened slightly. “I can’t stand seeing her like this. Or seeing him take over. Stay here tonight, querida. You shouldn’t go back there yet.”

Amara nodded silently, the weight of exhaustion pulling at her shoulders.

Later, as the house settled into silence and Amara’s soft breaths drifted from the guest room, Marisol lay in her own bed staring at the ceiling. Her mind was a storm of thoughts, images of Simone flashing behind her eyelids. Simone laughing, lecturing, her strong voice carrying across lecture halls. Then Simone, today, with her eyes shining in a way Marisol hated—shining for him.

She felt heat coiling low in her stomach, guilt mixing with longing. “I won’t let him take her,” she whispered into the dark. “I don’t care what I have to do.”

Her hand slipped beneath the waistband of her pajama shorts as her phone screen lit up with a secret photo album: candid shots of Simone she’d taken over years of quiet infatuation. Some showed Simone laughing at a faculty party, wine glass in hand. Others were more private—Simone in her office late at night, in her dressing gown, even a few secret photos in lingerie that Marisol had snapped through half-open doors. Perfect. Untouchable. But now tainted.

Marisol’s breath hitched as she swiped through them, shame and desire warring in her chest. She hated herself for it, but she hated Garrett more. I’ll save you, Simone. I’ll expose him. No matter the cost.