CHANCE | ✔

13| Callista

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.