Page 8 of A Coffee Away

I did it.

I clutched my arms to my chest and took a shaky breath.

I fucking told them.

Downstairs, the music cut off mid‑beat. The house turned into a tomb.

Will they come?

Minutes passed. No footsteps. No knock. Nothing.

And I sat there, sobbing until my throat burned. Things would never be the same.

Someone pounded on the door.

The first rays of the sun shone through the window, painting my room into a calm canvas of mellow yellows and whites. The canvas Mom had set for me stood next to the glass windowpane, half a sunset painted on it. My four-poster bed lay unused.

I stretched. I was curled on the floor. I must have fallen asleep.

Another knock.

“Your mother made breakfast. We’ll be waiting for you at the dining table. Be ready for church.” His commanding voice sent shivers down my spine.

I held my breath until his footsteps receded. “Fuck!”

My stomach roiled, and nausea churned at what I was about to face.

I covered my face with both hands. What the fuck came over me? Why did I do it like that? Was it Esteban, or the fact that I was living a lie while my life passed before my eyes? Whatever it was, it was done.

I reined in my emotions. I had to be strong when I faced them. There was no escape from it.

I followed my daily routine of push-ups and pull-ups, then took a shower. I dressed in khaki dress pants and a cream knitted top. I brushed my hair, letting it fall to my shoulders, and put on my black spectacles. I wanted to look good for Esteban.

Last night’s encounter was surreal. I’d never had a man talk to me the way Esteban had. Such security in himself. Such a no-bullshit attitude. He was a man, and I wouldn’t let my insecurities rule me.

Never again.

I caught my reflection in the mirror. I was lean but fit. As for Esteban… Warmth spread throughout my body. Fuck, he was big and strong. I shook my head and fixed my pants. It was no time for fantasies.

I checked my phone. It was 10:00 a.m. I needed to hurry if I wanted to get to Miramar in time.

My parents’ voices were hushed as I walked down the stairs.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the dining room. They looked me up and down.

“It’s about time. Sit. We’ll be late,” Dad said.

I sat next to Mom. Our table was for six in case we had visitors, especially my parents’ friends.

I grabbed my turkey sandwich and munched on it.

“Son.” Mom’s voice was mellow. “Remember to pull your hair up for church.”

Fuck. I was through with this shit. I hated the hypocrisy. How could you say you loved God and refuse to accept your own son? I closed my eyes and sipped my coffee. “I’m not going.”

Mom gasped.

Dad slammed his mug down so hard the table shook. “What do you mean you’re not going? We have everything set. Our family and friends are waiting.”