Part 1: The Small Discoveries
They talked for two hours.
Charlotte learned that Mateo hated cilantro, loved Coltrane, and had a recurring nightmare about gallery openings where all his paintings were blank.
Mateo learned that Charlotte couldn't cook at all, was addicted to true crime podcasts, and had once stolen a book from her father's library just to prove she could.
"What book?"
"'The Great Gatsby.' I was sixteen and suddenly understood my entire world was East Egg."
"Did you give it back?"
"Nope. Still have it. One of three books I own now."
"Three?"
"I left with what I could carry. Gatsby, 'A Tale of Two Cities,' and a Rumi collection someone gave me at a fundraiser."
"We need to build you a library."
"We?"
Mateo blinked. "I mean—if you want—I didn't assume—"
"I like the sound of 'we.'"
Around 11:30, Rosa brought the check. Outside, they stood on the sidewalk, neither wanting to leave.
"Can I ask you something?" Charlotte said.
"Anything."
"Your studio. The work you've been doing. I'd really like to see it."
"Yes. Tomorrow afternoon? Around two?"
"Perfect."
They stood there another moment.
"Charlotte?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I kiss you?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
This kiss was softer than the one on the gallery steps. Exploratory. Sweet. Tasting like coffee and possibility.
When they pulled apart, Charlotte said, "Okay. Now I really have to go, or I'll kiss you again and we'll be here all day."
"Would that be so bad?"
"Terrible. We're taking it slow, remember?"
She started toward her car, then turned back. "Hey, Mateo?"
"Yeah?"
"There's this girl, Maria. She painted the piece I bought. She's seventeen, incredibly talented, trying to figure out if being an artist is possible. Would you be willing to meet her? Just to talk?"
Mateo felt warmth spread through his chest. "I'd love to."
"Thank you. Really."
She got in her car and drove away. Mateo stood on the sidewalk, unable to stop smiling.
Part 2: The Call
Charlotte's POV — 6:47 PM
Charlotte was organizing her closet when her phone rang. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Charlotte."
She froze. "Mother."
"You've been avoiding my calls."
"I changed my number."
"I noticed. I had to get this one from the phone company. Do you know how humiliating that was?"
Charlotte sat down on her bed. "What do you want?"
"What do I want? Charlotte, you disappeared. You rejected Thomas publicly, embarrassed our entire family, and now you're living in some... apartment in Culver City like a college student."
"It's my life."
"It's a disaster." Her mother's voice was sharp. "And now I'm hearing you're seeing that artist again. The one from three years ago."
Of course. Of course someone had seen them.
"His name is Mateo."
"I don't care what his name is. Charlotte, this is exactly the kind of reckless behavior that—"
"That what? That proves I'm my own person?"
"That proves you're making decisions based on rebellion, not reality." Her mother's tone shifted, became almost pleading. "Sweetheart, I understand you're angry with us. But you can't sustain this. What happens when your savings run out? When you realize you've thrown away your entire life for—"
"For what? For someone who actually sees me?"
"For someone who can't provide for you! Charlotte, be realistic. You think love is enough? It's not. Trust me. Your father and I—"
"Were a business arrangement. I know."
Silence. Then, coldly: "That's unfair."
"Is it?"
"Your father and I built a life together. A stable life. Security. Family. That matters more than some... fleeting passion."
Charlotte felt something harden in her chest. "Is that what you're calling it? Fleeting passion?"
"What else would you call it? You barely know this man. Three years ago you met him once, and now suddenly he's worth destroying your future over?"
"I'm not destroying anything. I'm building something new."
"On what foundation? Charlotte, you have no money, no real job, no plan. You're playing at independence, but eventually reality will set in. And when it does—"
"When it does, I'll handle it. By myself."
"Don't be naive. You think you're the first young woman to rebel against her family? To choose some unsuitable man because he makes you feel alive?" Her mother's voice was bitter now. "I've seen this story play out a hundred times. It ends with you crawling back, asking for help, having wasted years you can't get back."
"Maybe. But at least they'll be my years to waste."
"Charlotte—"
"No. You had your say. Now I have mine." Charlotte stood up, pacing her small apartment. "I spent thirty-two years being exactly what you wanted. The perfect daughter. The right schools, the right friends, the right charity boards. I was so good at it I almost married someone I didn't love just to keep playing the part."
"Thomas was a good match—"
"Thomas was your match. Not mine." Charlotte's voice cracked. "I don't know if Mateo and I will work out. Maybe we won't. Maybe I'll fail at all of this. But at least I'll know I tried. At least I'll know who I actually am."
Her mother was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was controlled. "I see. So that's your final decision."
"It is."
"Then I hope, for your sake, that you're right about him. Because Charlotte—when this falls apart, and it will, don't expect us to pick up the pieces."
The line went dead.
Charlotte stood there, phone in hand, shaking.
That was it. No reconciliation. No understanding. Just the same ultimatum, phrased differently.
Her mother had called not to apologize, but to give her one last chance to come back.
And Charlotte had said no.
She sat on her bed, looking around her tiny apartment. Four hundred square feet. A leaking sink. Three dishes. Three books.
And for the first time in her life, it felt like hers.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unsaved number, but she recognized it: Sophie.
Heard you're coming to the studio tomorrow. Mateo's been cleaning for three hours. Bring wine, he deserves it. - Sophie
Charlotte smiled despite the tightness in her chest.
Tomorrow. She'd see where Mateo created his art. Where he turned truth into something beautiful.
And maybe she'd learn how to do the same with her own life.