Thirty-eight
Chiara
The coffee shop sits just off the road, close enough to the Colony that I can see the line of cars turn in and out if I angle my chair right.
I take the seat by the window and set my phone facedown on the table, my keys beside it, my coffee untouched.
Cars continue to come and go along the stretch of road I can see from the window, each one slowing in the same place before easing forward again. The movement repeats without variation—the pause at the gate, the lift of an arm, the barrier rising just long enough to let them through.
Nothing about it feels random, and there’s no give in it once the sequence starts.
A low engine cuts through the pattern, deeper and more deliberate than the rest, pulling my attention back to the road.
I glance up as a Bugatti pulls into the lot, dark, polished.
The driver steps out, shutting the door with a controlled push.
She’s dressed to work out—clean lines, expensive fabrics that don’t need logos.
Then I spot the logo on her windshield. It’s the same sticker I saw on the Mercedes at the gate.
She’s not staff; everything about her—from the car to the way she carries herself—signals she belongs on the other side of the gate.
She steps inside without looking around, like she doesn’t need to check where she is or who’s watching.
I drop my cup into the trash by the door and follow her in.
By the time I reach the counter, she’s already in line, one hand resting lightly against the edge as she looks up at the menu, waiting her turn like this is just another stop in a routine she doesn’t have to think about.
“I’ll do a double ristretto oat milk latte, extra hot—like, actually hot—no foam, in a pre-warmed cup. Add two pumps of sugar-free vanilla, one pump regular vanilla, and just a light dusting of cinnamon. And can you make sure the milk’s not too thick?”
The barista calls her order. She steps forward, gives her name—Sela—and waits while they make it.
I order a basic nonfat latte pay and stand by her as she studies her cell phone.
“You live around here?” I ask, keeping my voice even as I stop a step back.
She glances over her shoulder, taking me in quickly before turning back. “Sometimes,” she says.
I shift my weight as the line inches forward, keeping a step of space between us. “I just got in,” I say, letting my gaze lift briefly to the menu before dropping back. “I didn’t expect everything to be this… controlled.”
She gives a small smile without turning fully toward me, one hand still resting on the counter. “That’s the point.”
“I noticed,” I say, my attention drifting toward the windows. “The gate.”
Her eyes flick back to me, sharper now, and her posture tightening just enough to register. “Then you know how it works.”
“I’m learning,” I say, staying where I am as the line moves again.
I lower my voice and look down at the counter instead of at her. “They won’t call through,” I say. “Not without the right name.”
She doesn’t answer immediately. She takes a half step forward as the barista calls the next order and then glances back at me.
“Then you don’t have the right name,” she says, measured.
“That’s the problem,” I say.
She doesn’t step away, her fingers curling around the cup as she turns just enough to face me.
“If you’re not on the list, there’s a reason,” she says.
“I’m not trying to get in,” I say, shifting slightly so I’m facing her more directly. “I’m trying to reach someone.”
“That’s the same thing,” she replies, holding her ground.
“Not if they don’t know it’s me,” I say.
She studies me longer this time, her attention steady, her hand still wrapped around the cup.
“Who are you trying to reach?” she asks.
“My mother.”
She doesn’t soften. “And you don’t have her name.”
“I have an address,” I say.
“That’s not enough here.”
“I know,” I say, keeping my voice even. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
Her expression tightens, and the line behind me starts to close the space.
“We don’t do this,” she says.
“I’m not asking you to let me in,” I say, holding her gaze. “I’m asking you to make a call.”
She shakes her head once, controlled, already pulling back. “That’s exactly what the gate is for.”
“The gate is filtering me out,” I say.
“And you expect me to fix that,” she says.
“I need her to recognize me.” I say.
Sela’s name is called, and she picks up her drink but doesn’t walk out the door.
She looks down at her cup and then back up at me.
“You’re asking me to put my name on it,” she says.
“I’m asking you to pass along a message,” I say. “That’s not the same thing.”
She exhales slowly, her gaze shifting past me toward the windows, toward the road.
“This is how people get around security,” she says.
“I’m not trying to get around anything,” I say. “I’m trying to reach my mother.”
“And you think she doesn’t know you,” she says.
“I think she doesn’t know that it’s really me,” I say. “My father isn’t part of this,” I say. “I’m here for me.”
She studies me again, weighing it.
“I can call when I get home,” she says. “That’s all I’m doing.”
“You can’t call from here?”
“No.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “If you want me to call her, I have to do it my way.”
“You’re going to call her, right?” I ask.
She sets her cup down on the counter and pulls out her phone.
“What do I tell her?” she asks.
“Tell her Chiara’s at the coffee shop, and I hope she’ll come see me,” I grab a scratch piece of paper and scribble my number. “Or she can call me.”
She hesitates at that.
“That’s the name?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Sela nods once and then lifts her phone.
“Do you mind?” she says, angling it slightly.
I don’t hesitate. I step closer, letting her frame me.
She takes the picture, quick, efficient, and then looks down as she types.
She lowers the phone.
“That’s it,” she says, picking up her cup. “I’m not getting involved beyond that.”
“Thank you,” I say, holding her gaze as she gathers her things.
She gives a short nod, already turning away as she steps past me and heads for the door without looking back.
I move to the window and take the seat I vacated, angling my chair just enough to keep the road in view. The gate itself sits out of sight from here, but the approach isn’t, and that’s enough. I keep the approach in view even if the gate itself is just out of sight.
Cars continue to come and go, each one slowing at the same point before slipping past the line I couldn’t cross. The rhythm doesn’t shift, and nothing about it opens.
My phone stays silent on the table.
I leave it there.
Behind the counter, the barista starts breaking things down, wiping surfaces in long, practiced motions while chairs scrape softly against the floor as they’re turned and stacked. Someone near the door flips the sign.
I stay where I am, my hands resting loosely against the edge of the table, my attention fixed on the road instead of the screen in front of me.