Page 162 of Suite 7

We sit in silence. I drink my latte. Try to steady my breathing.

“He wants to talk,” I say finally. “Friday.”

“I know.”

“How do you—” I stop. “You’ve been talking to him.”

“I’ve been talking to both of them. Because I care about all three of you.” Marcel’s voice is steady. “I’m not taking sides. But I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

“What do I do?” I ask. “About Friday?”

“That’s up to you. Do you want to hear what he has to say?”

“Part of me does,” I say. “Part of me wants to stay angry.”

“Both can be true.”

“Can they?”

“Yes.” He leans back. “You don’t have to decide right now what Friday means. You have to decide if you’re ready to listen. Not forgive. Not forget. Listen.”

“And if I’m not ready?”

“Then you’re not ready. Tell him that.”

“But?”

“But.” His eyes hold mine. “Eventually, you’ll have to decide what you want. Not what they want. Not what you think you should want. What you actually want.”

“I want them to not have lied.”

“Can’t change that now.”

“I want to not feel like an idiot.”

“You weren’t an idiot. They were cowards.”

The bluntness hits exactly right. Tears spill over.

“I want them back,” I admit finally. “Both of them. But I want them to earn it.”

“Then you need to figure out if you can forgive them. Not today. Not this week. But eventually.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Then you can’t. But Sloane?” He waits until I look at him. “If you decide you can’t forgive them, make sure it’s because you actually can’t. Not because you’re punishing them. Not because you’re scared. Because you genuinely can’t move past it.”

“How do I know the difference?”

“Time. Space. Honesty with yourself.” He finishes his coffee. “And maybe talking to them. Hearing what they have to say.”

“I’m still so angry.”

“Good. You should be.” He stands. “But Sloane? Whatever you decide about Friday, you don’t owe them anything. But you might owe it to yourself to hear them out.”

He leaves me sitting there with my latte and the weight of that choice.

Monday, three eighteen PM