OLIVIA
I chose a small coffee shop on a side street downtown.
Marcelle was already there when I walked in, sitting near the window with his hands folded neatly on the table. He looked up when he saw me and smiled.
“Thank you for coming,” I said as I slid into the chair across from him. My voice came out raspy, still worn from all the yelling and crying I’d done last night.
I glanced toward the polished wooden counter, then back at him. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please,” He answered.
I waved to a barista and gave our order. “For me, make it strong and black. And hot enough to scald, please.”
“And you, sir?” the barista asked Marcelle.
“Just a standard double espresso, thank you,” he replied smoothly.
The barista nodded and walked away to make the drinks. I leaned fo
