The Savior’s Trap

Chapter Thirty – Coffee and Masks

The street was quiet when Elena pulled into her driveway. Early evening light stretched across the roofs in soft amber, the kind that made even worn fences look tender. She had just stepped out of her car, keys clutched loosely in her hand, when a familiar voice carried down the sidewalk.

“Elena!”

She turned, startled, then softened at the sight. Lizzie stood by the gate, scarf wound in a careless knot at her neck, a bakery bag dangling from one hand. She smiled, that broad, uncomplicated smile that made people trust her without effort.

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by. I brought croissants.”

Elena hesitated. Her first instinct was to retreat—to guard the silence of her house, to preserve the solitude she had curated like a fragile exhibit. But Lizzie’s presence carried the kind of warmth that disarmed protest. Elena found herself smiling back. “Come in. I’ll make coffee.”

Inside, the house felt too tidy. Surfaces gleamed in ways that betrayed emptiness rather than life. Elena led her friend to the kitchen, setting the kettle on the stove. Lizzie unwrapped two almond croissants, placing them on a plate as though they belonged there. Together, they carried everything into the living room, where fading sunlight striped the rug in long golden bars.

For several minutes, they talked about ordinary things. Lizzie filled the space with stories about her youngest daughter’s ballet recital, the chaos of the grocery line, a new yoga instructor whose voice was apparently “too soothing to be real.” Elena nodded, asked questions at the right intervals, even let out a laugh that startled her with its unfamiliarity. For a moment she almost believed this scene was enough—that companionship could be borrowed like sugar from a neighbor.

But Lizzie was not one to linger on surface chatter. She set her cup down, her expression softening into concern. “Elena… I’ve been meaning to ask. I hope it’s not too forward.”

Elena tensed, lifting her coffee as though its heat could brace her. “Go ahead.”

“Did I push you too hard when I made you go on that date?”

The question struck like a pebble in still water, ripples spreading through Elena’s chest. She saw again the table, the man’s eager eyes, his crude curiosity about her patients, the way her anger had carried her out into the night. The memory burned like acid. But Lizzie’s face was full of kindness, not judgment.

Elena forced a smile. “It wasn’t… terrible. Just not what I needed. But you didn’t push me too hard. You meant well.”

Relief flickered across Lizzie’s features. “Good. I was worried. I just want you to know—you can always come to me. Anytime. If you need to talk, even in the middle of the night. Any problem, if you just say it out loud, loses half its weight. You know that, don’t you?”

The words hit Elena like a hand pressing against a crack in glass. She felt it—that desperate urge to speak, to release what had been gnawing at her for weeks. To say aloud the truth: the gifts left on her doorstep, the thrill and terror tangled in Vincent’s presence, the shame of craving and the shame of denial. She opened her mouth, the confession rising like floodwater.

But Lizzie’s voice carried on, gentle, almost teasing. “That’s why I can’t imagine you ever struggling the way some poor women do. It’s just not you. You’ve always been strong, steady. Not like… well.” She hesitated, then leaned closer as if sharing a scandal. “You won’t believe this. A woman I know—married, two kids—was caught sneaking into a male strip club. Can you imagine? Sitting there, watching men take their clothes off. Just because she couldn’t cope with her loneliness. It’s… unthinkable.”

She gave a small laugh of disbelief. “But you? Elena, you could never fall that far.”

Something in Elena cracked, though not in the way Lizzie imagined. Her fingers tightened around the porcelain cup until her knuckles blanched. The confession she had nearly spoken shriveled to ash in her throat. She lifted her face into the mask she had worn for months, a polite smile that betrayed nothing.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Unthinkable.”

Lizzie leaned back, satisfied, sipping her coffee again. “See? I knew it. You’re stronger than that. Still, don’t forget—if anything ever weighs you down, speaking it makes it lighter.”

Elena nodded, though inside she felt the opposite—speaking it would shatter everything. The mask was safer.

The rest of the conversation drifted back to harmless things: recipes, travel plans, the neighborhood association’s endless emails. Lizzie laughed easily, broke the croissant into flaky halves, never noticing how Elena’s smile never reached her eyes, or how her hand trembled faintly as she poured the second cup of coffee.

When Lizzie finally rose to leave, she kissed Elena’s cheek and promised to call in a few days. “Don’t be a stranger,” she said brightly from the walkway. “My door is always open.”

Elena waved back, closing the door with quiet care. As the latch clicked, she leaned against the wood, her breath coming shallow. The mask slipped, just for her, and her face sagged with exhaustion.

The house was quiet again. Too quiet.

She pressed her palm against the door as though to hold back the tide of loneliness pressing in from the other side.

“If only you knew,” she whispered to the silence.

But the silence, as always, gave her nothing back.