Chapter 8: Awkward Encounters
The Civic’s engine screamed as Isabella pressed the gas pedal flat against the floor. Wind roared through the open windows, hot and relentless, doing nothing to erase the sticky shame clinging to her skin. Her fingers dug into the steering wheel, the leather creaking under her grip, while the scent of Donna’s jasmine perfume clung to her like an accusation.
She swerved into the driveway, tires crunching gravel, and there was Tony—slouched on the porch swing, laptop balanced on his knees, a sad-looking sandwich in one hand. His head snapped up at the sound of her screeching brakes, eyes widening as they landed on her disheveled hair, the too-luxurious silk robe barely covering her.
"Mom?" His voice cracked mid-word, sandwich slipping from his fingers onto the porch boards. "What the hell—?"
"Not now, Tony." She cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand, already moving past him before he could finish. The screen door banged shut behind her, rattling the frame, leaving him gaping in her wake.
The house smelled like teenage laundry and yesterday’s spaghetti, the living room cluttered with Sofia’s discarded cheer bag and Marco’s gym shoes kicked carelessly into the middle of the floor. She stepped over them, pulse hammering, as Marco’s voice boomed from the kitchen.
"Isabella?" His tone was too cheerful, too oblivious. "That you? I’m making sandwiches—you want one?"
She forced a breath through clenched teeth. "Just me," she called back, voice tight. "Be right there."
Her bedroom door slammed behind her, the lock clicking into place as she sagged against it, lungs burning. The room was a mess—clothes piled on the chair, half-read books stacked haphazardly, a tangle of yarn sprawled across the bed where she’d abandoned her latest knitting project. Normally, the chaos soothed her. Now, it just felt suffocating.
The robe slithered off her shoulders, pooling on the floor like something guilty. She kicked it aside, then yanked open the dresser, grabbing the first long skirt and off the shoulder blouse she touched. The fabric was soft, familiar, a shield against whatever the hell today had become.
In the mirror, her reflection looked back—wild-eyed, flushed, hair a disaster. She dragged her fingers through the tangles, exhaling hard. "Okay," she muttered. "Here we go."
She glanced toward the kitchen, where Marco was still humming, blissfully unaware. Thoughts of guilt and doubt filled her mind. She pushed past thrm, heading for the kitchen. The smell of salami and provolone hit her—warm, greasy, normal. A stark contrast to the storm brewing in her chest. Marco stood at the counter, whistling as he slathered mustard on bread.
She took a deep breath. Time to be subtle.
Isabella leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Hey," she said, forcing her voice light. "Smells good." Marco turned, grinning, his biceps flexing as he spread mustard across bread. Sunlight caught the gold in his hair, making him glow like some damn Greek statue. She quickly looked away, focusing on a chip in the countertop instead.
"Just a little something to tide us over 'til dinner," he said, waving the knife. "Want one?" The scent of salami and fresh bread should’ve made her stomach growl, but all she felt was a nervous flutter.
"Nah, I'm good," she lied. "Just... wanted to chat." She stepped closer, the linoleum cool under her bare feet. "So, what are you up to later?"
Marco shrugged, slathering mustard with unnecessary force. "Gym, probably. Coach wants me bulking up for the season." He flexed his bicep, the fabric of his t-shirt straining. Isabella’s mouth went dry. "You know, the usual."
"Right, the gym," she said, fiddling with a stack of unopened bills. "Lots of... interesting people at the gym, I bet." Her voice sounded too high, too eager.
Marco chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, a few. Mostly just dudes trying to outlift each other." He arched a brow. "Why, you thinking of joining?"
"Oh, god, no," she blurted, then winced. "I just meant... dating-wise." She swallowed hard. "You seeing anyone?"
Marco's knife stilled. "Dating? Nah, not really." His gaze turned curious. "Why, you trying to set me up with someone?"
Isabella laughed, too loud. "No, no, just curious." She gestured vaguely at him. "You're a good-looking guy. Figured you'd have girls lined up." She hesitated, then added, "Or... older women, maybe?"
Marco's eyes widened. A slow grin spread across his face. "Older women, huh?" He leaned in, voice dropping. "What makes you say that?"
Heat flooded her cheeks. "Just... some guys are into that," she stammered. "Mature, confident women can be very attractive."
Marco chuckled, stepping back. "Haven’t really thought about it." His gaze lingered. "Depends on the woman." He tilted his head. "What about you? You got a thing for younger guys?"
Isabella choked. "What? No!" She grabbed a dishrag, scrubbing furiously at the counter. "This is ridiculous. I just wanted to know if you were seeing anyone!"
Marco held up his hands, laughing. "Okay, okay, chill." His expression sobered. "Speaking of women... Donna was always kinda flirty with me."
The rag froze in Isabella’s hand. "Flirty?" Her voice came out strangled.
"Yeah." Marco shrugged. "Compliments, touching my arm. I figured she was just being nice." He paused. "But now, with Dad gone and her having all that money..."
Isabella’s face drained of color. The room tilted. Her mind raced with questions. Would Marco date Donna on his own? Is it possible she might not have to admit to Donna's offer of college tuition? Could it be that easy? No, of course not. Nothing is ever that easy.
"Have you ever thought of dating an older woman... like Donna, I mean?" Isabella felt pulled in two directions. Please, choose Donna, was one thought. Please choose me... She shook her head, trying to quiet the whirlwind inside her.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small, the air thick with the scent of mustard and something else—something electric. Marco leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with that same knowing smirk.
"Donna's got money, that's for sure," he said, rolling his shoulders back. The movement made his shirt stretch tight across his chest. "And she's not bad looking, for an older lady." He paused, running a hand through his hair in a way that felt deliberate. "I mean, it wouldn't be the worst thing, right? She could help us all out."
Isabella's stomach twisted. "Help us out?" Her voice came out thin, like she'd been running. The words tasted wrong in her mouth.
"College, Mom," Marco said, like it was obvious. He grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, took a loud bite. Juice glistened on his lower lip. "Tony's engineering, Sofia's cheerleading—it all costs a fortune. Donna could pay for everything."
She stared at him, the counter's edge digging into her palms. Was he actually considering this? The way he said it—so casual, like they were discussing grocery budgets—made her skin prickle. "You'd... date her for the money?"
Marco shrugged, swallowing another bite. "It wouldn't be just for the money." His gaze flicked over her, slow. "I'd have to be attracted to her, right?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "But yeah, the money would definitely be a factor."
Nausea rose in her throat. She gripped the counter harder, knuckles whitening. "This is insane," she whispered.
He stepped closer, the space between them shrinking. "Why not?" His voice dropped, rough at the edges. "Win-win. I get a sugar mama, you guys get tuition, Donna gets..." His fingers brushed her wrist, feather-light. "Whatever she wants."
Isabella jerked back. "Don't."
Marco didn't move. His eyes—dark, too knowing—held hers. "Maybe she just wants company."
The air between them crackled. Isabella's pulse thundered in her ears. "Stop talking like that."
He grinned, slow and dangerous. "Think about it. No more struggling. No more loans." His thumb traced the inside of her elbow. "Easy street."
She slapped his hand away. "Disgusting."
Marco laughed, unfazed. He picked up the mustard knife, twirling it between his fingers. The blade caught the light. "You've thought about it too."
Isabella's breath hitched. "What?"
"Come on." He stepped closer, backing her against the fridge. The cold metal seeped through her blouse. "I saw how you looked at me at the estate." His knee brushed her thigh. "How you're looking at me now."
Her cheeks burned. She should push him away. Should scream. But her hands stayed frozen at her sides.
"Don't lie," he murmured, lips grazing her ear. His breath was warm, smelled of apples and something darker. "You've imagined it."
Isabella's vision blurred at the edges. "Get away from me."
Marco pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "Why?" His fingers skimmed her waist. "Don't you want to know?"
She couldn't speak. Couldn't think.
He stepped back suddenly, leaving her swaying. "Think about it," he said, slinging his gym bag over one shoulder. At the door, he paused. "We could both get what we want."
Then he was gone, the screen door slamming behind him. Isabella sagged against the fridge, her legs trembling. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the silence. Somewhere outside, Marco could be heard entering an awaiting car. The vehicle filled with male voice.
She pressed a hand to her mouth. What had just happened? What had she almost let happen? The answer coiled in her gut, heavy and shameful.
From the living room, Tony's voice called, "Mom? You okay?"
Isabella swallowed hard. "Fine," she lied.
But nothing was fine. Nothing at all.
The kitchen was too quiet now, the hum of the refrigerator suddenly deafening. Isabella pressed her palms flat against the countertop, the cool laminate doing nothing to steady her racing pulse.
"Yeah, Mom, you were kinda yelling in here," Tony called out, his voice closer now. The floorboards creaked under his approaching footsteps. "Everything all right?"
She inhaled sharply through her nose, catching the lingering scent of Marco's cologne mixed with mustard and her own sweat. "Fine," she lied, too quickly. The word tasted bitter.
Before she could formulate a better response, Tony appeared in the doorway, his brow furrowed with concern. He'd grown another inch this summer—now nearly eye-level with her—but still had that baby-faced softness around the jaw. His gaze darted around the kitchen, taking in the abandoned sandwich fixings, the knife left askew on the cutting board, the way Isabella's fingers trembled against the counter's edge. "What was that about?"
"Nothing, honey." She forced a smile that made her cheeks ache. "Just... discussing college options with Marco." The lie slithered out before she could stop it.
Tony's eyes narrowed. "College options? With Marco?" His laugh came out sharp as broken glass. "Since when are you two suddenly financial advisors?" He stepped further into the kitchen, his socked feet silent on the linoleum. The suspicion rolling off him was almost palpable.
Isabella reached for the dishrag again, needing something to do with her hands. "It's nothing, Tony, really." The fabric was damp from her earlier scrubbing, cold against her skin. "Just trying to figure things out."
Tony didn't blink. For a long moment, the only sound was the ticking clock above the stove, each second stretching taut between them. Then his shoulders slumped. "Whatever," he muttered, turning away with the practiced indifference of a teenager who'd learned not to expect answers. "I'm gonna head downstairs. Need to work on my coding."
The basement door creaked open before he paused, back still to her. "The basement's probably the only place I can get any peace and quiet around here anyway." The words landed like a punch, deliberate and precise.
Then he was gone, his footsteps retreating down the hall. The basement door clicked shut behind him with finality.
Isabella stood frozen, the dishrag dripping onto her bare feet. The weight of Marco's words—his touch—still burned against her skin, but Tony's quiet exit left a different kind of ache. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until colors burst behind her lids.
The house exhaled around her, settling into an unnatural quiet. She pushed away from the counter, legs unsteady as a newborn foal's. The living room greeted her with its familiar chaos—Sofia's glittery pom-poms spilling from an overturned duffel, Marco's protein shake bottles lined up like soldiers on the coffee table, Tony's abandoned hoodie draped over the armchair.
Her fingers trailed along the photo frames lining the hallway. There—Marco at fourteen, grinning with his first varsity letter, all knobby knees and unchecked enthusiasm. Next to it, Tony at his middle school science fair, proudly displaying a circuit board that looked more like abstract art. Sofia's kindergarten portrait, gap-toothed and smeared with finger paint.
The last frame held an older photo, edges slightly curled. Her ex-husband's arm slung around her shoulders at Coney Island, Sofia a squirming toddler in his arms, Marco mid-laugh with cotton candy stuck to his cheek. The sun had bleached the colors over time, leaving them all washed-out versions of themselves.
A floorboard groaned underfoot as she reached the basement door. The metal knob was cold in her palm, the brass tarnished from years of use. From below came the faint click-clack of Tony's keyboard, the occasional muttered curse when a line of code refused to cooperate.
The scent of damp concrete and old cardboard drifted up through the cracks. Somewhere down there, beneath the exposed pipes and cobwebbed corners, her son sat hunched over his laptop—building something, escaping something. Just like she wanted to.
Her fingers tightened on the knob. Marco's voice echoed in her skull—We could both get what we want. The latch clicked open with a sound like a gun cocking.