Page 18 of Tell Me What you Think

"Well, no wonder you're not waking up if you drink decaf—I don't know how you stand that stuff. Want me to get you a real one?" Marina offered.

Olga's eyes go wide. She finally has the chance to stop forcing down that weak excuse for coffee, and this time she isn't going to let it pass.

"If you're going anyway, yes, please. A cortado with a little sugar."

The corner of Marina's mouth moves just enough to make Olga want to catch her breath.

"Done. Go look for that chart while I'm gone."

"Thank you," she murmured, but her voice came out so low that Marina doesn't hear it.

The moment her boss disappears, she pulls up the internal messaging system and sends Silvia a note begging her for some time at the bar before they leave for the night. Two days in a row isn't exactly their routine, but as far as Olga's concerned, this is an emergency.

When they get to the bar, Olga insists on finding a table instead of standing at the counter like yesterday, and because she's too frazzled to know how to explain herself without spiraling, she just reaches into her bag, pulls out the letter, and sets it in front of her friend.

"Did they fire you for undressing Marina with your eyes?" Silvia joked, but when she sees Olga's face, the smile disappears. "Okay, that wasn't funny. Let me read."

Olga folds her hands on the table and waits, bouncing her leg the same way she did this morning at the post office. When Silvia finishes, she picks up her beer and takes a long, slow sip.

"Okay, let me see if I'm getting this—this Marc is your brother, your cousin…"

"My cousin. My uncle Andreu's only son—my dad's brother." Olga takes her first sip, because saying his name has dried her mouth out like sawdust. "We're not close. The last time I saw him was at his father's funeral, and before that at my mother's."

"I don't get it," her friend said, tucking the pages back into the envelope. "I thought the apartment was yours—inherited, but yours."

"So did I." Olga sounds so defeated that her friend reaches across the table and takes her hand, and that's when she starts telling her the whole story. "The apartment belonged to my grandparents, but my dad died before my grandmother did. I was twenty-one when he passed, and when she died four years later, they split things the old-fashioned way—just between my uncle and my mother, since there were only two siblings. They agreed that the house in the village and the money went to my uncle, and the Barcelona apartment went to my dad's side."

"And since he was already gone, the inheritance passed to you," Silvia finished.

"Right. I just signed whatever they put in front of me at some notary's office and never thought about it again. Not long after that my mother died—they were both older when they had me—and then last year my uncle."

"God, that's so many losses," Silvia said softly.

"Yeah." Olga smiles, sad and small. "Now it turns out none of it was ever officially transferred. The apartment is still registered under my grandmother's name, and Marc is claiming half of it is his."

Silvia is quiet for a moment.

"Is he right? Can he actually claim it?"

"I don't know." Her voice cracks. "I guess so, since he did. I don't know anything about this stuff—I don't even know what I signed back then, or where the papers are, or whether my grandmother ever made a will. I've spent my whole life memorizing everyone else's schedule and it turns out my own life is a total mess."

"Hey." Her friend squeezes her hand. "Take a breath. Don't let yourself spiral before you even know what you're dealing with. The first thing you need to do is hire a lawyer. Starting tomorrow we'll look for someone who specializes in this—there's definitely a way to fix it."

"It's almost Christmas, Silvia. No lawyer is going to see me before January, and I'll lose my mind from the uncertainty."

"Someone will. Don't worry. A notice like this is always meant to do one thing: scare you."

"Well, it worked."

Olga stretches out on the couch in her pajamas, feeling like the day has been a complete disaster, and then her phone starts ringing to cap it all off. When she sees the name on the screen, she sits up fast. Her cousin Marc is calling, and for a moment she hesitates—but her thumb moves before her brain does.

"Hello?"

"Olga, it's Marc. Is this an okay time?"

Her eyebrows rise in disbelief. He sounds gentle and friendly, as if he had nothing to do with the letter that's been sitting like a stone in her stomach all day.

"Go ahead," she said flatly.