THE GRAVITY Of US

CHAPTER 4

The elevator ride up is quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your skin itch. The woman in the gray suit stands beside me, hands clasped in front of her, looking like she was programmed in a lab for exactly this task. Escort. Deliver. Exit. Repeat.

I try not to fidget. I fail.

When the doors open, the floor is almost silent. Unlike the chaotic buzz of the barista stations or the stiff urgency of the conference rooms below, this part of the building feels... still. Almost sacred.

I follow her past two glass-walled offices, a modern art sculpture I don’t understand, and a hallway that smells like expensive wood polish and money.

Then she stops.

“He’s waiting for you inside,” she says, gesturing toward a tall oak door.

No nameplate.

No security badge.

Just a door that opens with a soft click when I push it.

He’s there.

Behind a desk big enough to park a car on, back straight, hands folded like he’s already three steps ahead in whatever conversation we’re about to have.

Felix Santiago.

In the flesh.

And for the first time, I understand why people say a person can have presence.

He doesn’t just sit — he occupies space. His jaw is too sharp, his shirt too white, his eyes too still. He’s the kind of man you don’t want to look at for too long because he’ll make you feel like you’ve done something wrong even if you haven’t.

“Ms. Robin,” he says.

My throat sticks.

“Mr. Santiago.”

He gestures to the seat across from him. I sit, trying not to look like I’m about to be sued or fired or worse.

“I apologize for the short notice,” he says, voice low and even. “I realize this is unusual.” “Yes,” I say before I can stop myself. “It is.”

One dark eyebrow lifts. Barely.

“Do you know my mother’s name?” he asks. The question punches the air out of me.

I blink. “I—I don’t. I mean, I met a woman yesterday. She said her name was Maris. She... she said she was your mother.”

A pause.

Then: “Describe her.”

My mind flashes to the woman from yesterday — long black coat, weathered hands, the sad way she smiled like every memory was a burden.

“She had dark eyes,” I say carefully. “Gray hair. Wore a blue scarf. She said she’d been trying to see you for years but your security never lets her up.”

His jaw tightens.

“And she told you that?”

“I didn’t ask,” I say quickly. “She just started talking. I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting. I didn’t know who she was until—”

“You’re not in trouble.”

It’s the first thing he says that doesn’t sound rehearsed. I blink. “I’m not?”

“No.”

He leans back.

But the way he’s watching me — it’s not relaxed.

It’s surgical.

“She’s dying,” he says.

My heart stutters.

“She has late-stage leukemia. She asked the front desk for your name. Said you were kind to her. That you didn’t treat her like she was invisible.”

I swallow, throat thick. “I didn’t know...”

“She wants to see me,” he says, like it’s a challenge. “Wants to reconcile. After fifteen years of silence.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

“I’m not looking for pity.”

He stands, crosses to the window.

It’s so quiet in the room I can hear the hum of the lights.

“She’s asking for you again,” he says. “Not to give her access. But to meet her. Talk to her.” “Me?” I say, stunned.

He turns back around.

“You clearly made an impression.”

I shake my head. “I’m nobody. I make minimum wage and clean up foam spills.”

“Exactly,” he says. “You’re not after anything. You’re neutral.”

I stare at him, realization dawning.

“You want me to... vet her?”

He doesn’t deny it.

Just shrugs slightly. “Call it what you want.”

“That’s not my job.”

“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”

“Then why ask me?”

He holds my gaze for a long moment. The weight of it is almost unbearable.

“Because you listened,” he says finally. “And that’s more than most people do.”

I leave the office with a phone number scribbled on the back of a business card and a voice in my head screaming what the hell are you doing?

Because no part of this makes sense.

But I do it anyway.

Maybe because I feel sorry for the woman.

Maybe because Felix Santiago looked almost human for a moment.

Maybe because I’m tired of my life being the same thing on repeat — coffee, bills, exhaustion, grief.

I call her that night.

She answers on the first ring.

“Criselda,” she says, like she’s been waiting.

“I’m not calling to promise anything,” I say. “He gave me your number.”

“I know,” she says. “He won’t come, will he?”

“I don’t know.”

A long pause.

Then: “Will you?”

We meet two days later in a little diner tucked behind a laundromat on 3rd Avenue.

She’s already there when I arrive. Hair pinned back. Scarf tucked in. A cup of tea cooling in

front of her like she hasn’t touched it.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she says softly. “I’m not here for him,” I say.

“I know.”

I sit.

We don’t talk for a long while.

Then she says, “I wasn’t a good mother.”

I look up.

“He doesn’t think so either,” she continues. “But I was never cruel. Just... gone. I left his father when Felix was eight. I had to. There were things happening. Things I didn’t want him to see.”

“Did he see them anyway?”

Her eyes fill.

“Yes,” she whispers. “And I wasn’t there to explain it.” I don’t know what to say.

So I tell her the truth.

“I lost my mother six months ago. In a car accident. I think about the last thing we said every single day. And the truth is... even when it hurts, even when it’s messy — having the chance to say anything at all is still better than silence.”

She nods, slowly.

And I know, in that moment, I’m going to tell Felix. Whether he listens or not — that’s on him.

But I’m going to try.

That night, as I’m washing dishes and Elijah is complaining about Wi-Fi and Myra is crying over a dropped cookie, my phone buzzes again.

Felix Santiago.

I don’t hesitate.

I answer.

“I’ll meet her,” he says.

That’s all.

No greeting.

No explanation.

Just that.

But somehow, it feels like the start of something. Not forgiveness.

Not even peace.

But maybe — a breach in the dam.

And maybe that’s enough.

For now.

I don’t see him for three days.

Not at work.

Not in the lobby.

Not in that top-floor, glass-tomb office.

For three days, it’s just back to grind.

Lattes. Whipped cream. Lukewarm tips.

Elijah’s scowl. Lani’s noise. Jonah’s silences. Myra’s tears when the laundry eats her favorite pajamas.

And in the middle of it all, a strange quiet sits in my chest like I’m waiting for something to happen.

But nothing does.

Not until Friday.

It starts with a latte.

Just like everything else in my life these days.

I’m in the middle of my shift, hair frizzed from the steam wand, apron stained with someone’s matcha disaster, when one of the upper-floor interns comes down with a Post-it in her hand.

“He said to give this to you directly,” she says, eyes narrowed like I might be harboring a secret identity.

I take the note.

One line, block print:

Conference Room 7B – 1:00PM. Don’t be late. — F.S.

No hello.

No please.

Just an instruction.

Of course.

I get there two minutes early. The lights are off.

The blinds drawn.

My heart tap-dances against my ribs while I wait.

I’m about to leave when the door opens behind me.

It’s him.

No security.

No assistant.

No tie.

Just Felix Santiago in a dark charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled and eyes that haven’t slept in 48 hours.

“Close the door,” he says.

I do.

He walks past me, tosses a file on the table.

Then something strange happens.

He sighs.

Like a real one.

Like the kind that sounds like giving up.

“She told me about the diner,” he says, sitting down. “She didn’t say anything bad,” I offer carefully.

“She didn’t have to.”

He looks at me.

And for once, there’s no corporate wall, no CEO mask.

Just a man who looks very, very tired.

“I didn’t ask to be in this,” I say quietly.

“I know.”

“You dragged me in anyway.”

He looks down at his hands. “Yes.”

I wait.

He doesn’t say more.

So I fill the space.

“She’s sick. She’s scared. She’s human. And I know she hurt you, but maybe... maybe she regrets it.”

He leans back, eyes on the ceiling like he’s trying not to explode.

“She left me with a monster,” he says. “And she knew what he was. She left anyway.” I nod.

“I’m not here to fix it,” I say. “I’m not here to forgive her for you. But I met her. And I see the hurt in you. And maybe... maybe some damage is worth facing even when it’s too late to undo.”

He watches me.

Like I’m something unfamiliar.

Not a barista. Not a pawn. Not even a threat.

Just a person who saw something he didn’t want anyone to see. Then he says, “I was wrong about you.”

It’s so quiet, I almost think I imagined it.

But I didn’t.

He said it.

Like it hurt.

Like it mattered.

He doesn’t ask for a response. He just gets up.

Walks to the window.

Stays there.

I stand too, unsure if I’m dismissed or forgotten. Then he speaks again.

“Do you ever wish your life had gone differently?” The question pierces something in me.

“Yes,” I say.

He nods.

Like he already knew that.

Then he turns, finally meeting my eyes.

And for the first time, there’s no war in them. Just this fragile, open stillness.

“Thank you,” he says.

Just two words.

But they settle on me like warmth.

Like a small, strange spark in the cold.

Later that night, I’m home again. Feet sore. Mind buzzing.

Myra draws a picture of all five of us holding hands.

Lani adds stars.

Jonah doesn’t speak, but he sits beside me and leans his head on my arm.

Elijah slams a door.

It’s nothing new.

But I sit there on the couch with crayon on my jeans and dishes still dirty and something weird humming beneath my ribs.

Something I haven’t felt in months. Hope?

No.

Not quite.

But maybe... the start of it.