THE GRAVITY Of US

CHAPTER 5

It’s barely dark when Elijah storms into the apartment.

I’m still on the couch with Myra asleep on my lap and Jonah quietly sketching monsters in his notebook. Lani’s in the kitchen, trying to make noodles with too much water and not enough sense.

Then — bam.

The door hits the wall. “Elijah,” I call out, “watch it.”

He doesn’t answer. Just drops his bag with a loud thud and disappears into the bedroom we share. A moment later, the door slams. Loud enough to rattle the picture of Mom and Dad I still haven’t taken down.

I sigh, easing Myra off me. “Jonah, take your sister.”

He nods, without looking up, and somehow juggles both her weight and his sketchpad as he settles them on the other end of the couch.

I knock on the door once. Then again, harder. “Elijah, open the door.” “No.”

“Elijah—”

“What?”

His voice is sharp.

Too sharp.

I push the door open.

He’s sitting on the bed, shoes still on, eyes red, fists clenched. “You skipped class?” I ask.

He glares. “Why do you care? You’re not my mom.”

That hits.

Harder than I want to admit.

“You’re right,” I say quietly. “I’m not.”

He looks away.

I sit down on the far edge of the bed, staring at the cracked windowpane.

“I know you’re angry,” I say. “I know this isn’t fair. None of it is. You lost them too, Elijah.”

“You don’t get it,” he snaps. “You think because you cook and clean and play parent that you know what this feels like? You dropped out. You gave up everything. For what? To make sure we’re all miserable together?”

My jaw tightens.

I don’t speak.

Because what can I say?

He’s not wrong.

But he’s not right either.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he mutters.

“Neither did I,” I say.

We sit in silence.

Then he whispers, “I hate that I need you.”

I feel it like a punch in the ribs.

But I don’t flinch.

“I hate that too sometimes,” I whisper back.

After he finally falls asleep, I go back to the living room. Lani’s watching cartoons too loud.

Jonah’s still drawing in silence.

Myra stirs, crying for no reason.

I hold her.

I hold all of it.

And I try to remember who I was before the crash.

Before I became a mother at twenty.

Before I fell into this version of myself — tired, invisible, unraveling. I close my eyes.

Just for a second.

And when I open them, there’s a knock at the door.

It’s nearly ten p.m.

I freeze.

Jonah perks up.

The knock comes again.

Three short raps.

Not urgent. But certain.

I put Myra down gently and walk to the door.

There’s no one in the hallway.

Just a small white box on the mat.

No name.

Just a gold ribbon tied perfectly.

I look around.

Nothing.

No sound, no footsteps, just the faint buzz of a TV behind the neighbor’s wall. I bring the box inside and open it on the kitchen table.

Inside — a wrapped sandwich, neatly labeled from a high-end Italian place in Midtown I’ve never been able to afford.

Next to it, a small folded card.

“You forgot to eat. Again. — F.S.” I stare at it.

For a long time.

The handwriting is clean, intentional, printed like someone who doesn't let mess happen in any part of his life.

I don’t know what to make of it. Not really.

I want to laugh.

Or cry.

Or throw the box against the wall.

Instead, I eat.

And maybe it’s the warm bread.

Maybe it’s the perfect cheese.

Maybe it’s the fact that it tastes like a day I didn’t have to earn. But I eat all of it.

Every bite.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel full.

Not just in my stomach.

In the hollow part of me I’ve been pretending isn’t there.

The next morning, there’s another note slipped under the door.

No box this time.

Just an envelope.

Inside — a sleek black card.

Access ID.

Cappuccio Prime internal clearance.

Not a regular employee badge.

One with full-floor access.

And on the back, another message.

“For when you’re ready to stop pretending you don’t belong here.” I hold the card like it might bite.

I don’t know what it means.

But I know one thing:

Felix Santiago has stopped seeing me as background noise.

And that scares me more than anything.

The problem with being noticed is that people start looking at you. And once people are looking at you, they don’t stop.

Especially not when you’re a twenty-year-old dropout with a stained apron, a resume full of nothing, and a boss who smells ambition like blood in the water.

Elijah was right.

I hate that I need this job.

But I hate even more that it’s the only reason we’re still keeping the lights on.

“What the hell is this?”

That’s the first thing my manager says when I walk in Saturday morning.

No “good morning,” no “how’s your sick little sister,” no “thanks for covering three shifts this week.”

Just that.

She’s standing at the service counter, arms crossed, mouth tight.

She holds up the internal access badge I didn’t use yesterday.

The one Felix left for me.

“Where did this come from?” she asks.

I blink. “It was sent to me.”

“By who?”

“...Mr. Santiago.”

I say it like a question, like maybe I hallucinated the whole thing.

Her eyes flash. “And what exactly did you do to earn an executive access pass?” I feel my face heat. “Nothing. I didn’t ask for it.”

She scoffs. “Sure you didn’t.”

I feel something snap under my ribs.

“I didn’t,” I say again, firmer this time.

“You’ve been pulling stunts since you got here. Talking to board members. Getting into closed meetings. Do you think this is a game?”

“No. I think this is a job I take seriously because I don’t have a backup plan.” The words come out sharper than I intended.

She leans in. “You’re not special, Robin. And whatever favor you think you’ve earned? It won’t protect you from me.”

My jaw clenches.

I say nothing.

Because I need this job more than I need to be right.

I spend the day like I’m walking on glass.

Every order I get wrong feels like a death sentence.

Every sideways glance from the other baristas makes my skin itch.

By noon, the rumors are loud enough that even customers start whispering.

By two, I’m ready to quit.

But I don’t.

Because Myra needs asthma meds.

Because Lani’s shoes are falling apart.

Because Jonah still doesn’t talk in school.

Because Elijah — even when he hates me — is still my responsibility.

So I keep my head down.

I keep my mouth shut.

And when my shift ends, I’m already halfway to the locker room when I see him.

Felix.

Standing at the café entrance like he owns the air I’m trying to breathe.

Of course he does.

He’s wearing a black coat over a charcoal suit, no tie, one hand in his pocket.

He doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t move.

Just waits.

For me.

“Mr. Santiago,” I say, breathless from nerves and surprise.

He glances around. “Can we talk?”

My manager is watching.

So are the interns.

So is everyone.

But I nod.

Because apparently saying no to Felix Santiago isn’t something I’m good at.

We walk side by side through a private hallway I didn’t know existed.

Silent.

Until we reach a small room — some kind of unused media lounge with a sleek table and a mini-fridge stocked with water I can’t pronounce.

He closes the door behind us. Then he turns.

“You didn’t use the badge.”

I fold my arms. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“You didn’t throw it away either.”

I hesitate. “I didn’t want to be seen as someone... who expects things.” “You mean someone who’s earned things?”

I stare at him. “I haven’t earned you watching me.”

“I’m not watching you,” he says.

Liar.

He sees the look on my face and sighs.

Then — the last thing I expect.

“I heard what your manager said to you.”

My heart stutters.

“Were you spying on me?” I ask.

He ignores that.

“She’s small-minded. That’s not your fault.”

I blink.

“You came here to say that?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he walks to the table and places something on it.

A small black envelope.

With my name on it in gold lettering. I stare at it.

Then back at him.

“What is this?”

He straightens. “An invitation.”

“To what?”

He holds my gaze.

“To the annual Cappuccio Prime Winter Gala.”

I almost laugh.

“I’m a barista.”

He steps closer.

“You’re more than that.”

Something in my chest contracts.

I want to yell at him. Or cry. Or tell him to stop giving me things I didn’t ask for. But the words won’t come.

So I just ask, quietly, “Why?”

His voice softens.

“Because the world doesn’t see you yet. But I do.”

That night, I sit on the edge of my mattress while Lani combs glitter into her curls and Jonah quietly sings to Myra. Elijah hasn’t spoken to me all day. I haven’t opened the invitation yet.

But the envelope is still in my pocket. Heavy.

Warm.

Dangerous.

It smells like a door I’m not supposed to walk through. But I want to.

God help me — I want to.