Chapter 8: Alice Benette
992 Words
I don’t know what I expected from a rustic dinner in a barn, but certainly not this: warm lights strung like constellations across wooden beams, the smell of grilled corn and roasted meat drifting through the air, and a band of five older gentlemen in flannel playing country versions of ABBA songs.
Honestly? It’s adorable.
Everyone’s already gathered, chatting, laughing, eating. Some kids run in circles chasing each other with paper horses. And then there’s me—standing at the entrance like a lost city girl wondering if “barn chic” is a dress code I somehow missed.
“Alice! My dear, over here!”
Of course. Rosa. The sweetest, most dangerous old lady I’ve ever met.
She and her two partners in crime—Maria and Odete—are sitting at a big round table near the buffet. They wave at me as if I’d disappear if they blinked.
I take a breath and walk toward them, hoping that tonight, just once, I’ll be allowed to eat in peace.
I should’ve known better.
Because as soon as I sit down, they start throwing questions at me like they’re in an interrogation room.
“So, Alice, you ever been married?”
“What do you think of small-town life?”
“You want children?”
“Do you like horses?”
I nearly choke on my lemonade.
“I… uh… I like horses when they behave.”
Rosa cackles. “Well, good luck with that around here.”
I open my mouth to respond, but suddenly, a chair scrapes beside me. Heavy boots. The faint smell of soap and leather.
Marco.
Oh God.
He sits down right next to me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, nods politely to the trio of grannies, and starts filling his plate as if he hadn’t spent the afternoon yelling at me over a chicken named Fiona.
Rosa beams at him. “We were just talking about husbands!”
“Fantastic,” he mutters.
I can’t help it—I smile. A tiny one. Barely visible. But he notices.
“What?” he grumbles.
“Nothing,” I say sweetly. “Just surprised you’re sitting with people tonight instead of hiding with the horses.”
“I wasn’t hiding. I was working.”
“Oh yes, I saw how hard you were working when you yelled at me for saving your runaway chicken.”
“That chicken wasn’t runaway. She lives here.”
“She was in a bush.”
“She lives here too.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. “She was distressed.”
“She was eating berries.”
“We all cope differently, Marco.”
Before he can respond, the grannies explode in laughter.
Maria wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “God, you two remind me so much of me and my late husband. Always bickering. Always pretending it wasn’t flirting.”
I nearly spit out my drink. “We’re not flirting!”
Marco stiffens. “Definitely not.”
But the table shakes with cackling.
“Ah, young people,” Odete sighs with fake nostalgia. “So blind.”
I’m about to defend myself again—and possibly throw a roll at someone—when Rosa pats my hand.
“Dear, you know Marco is my grandson, right?”
My jaw drops.
“What? Really? You're his grandmother?”
She nods proudly.
I blink at Marco. Then at Rosa. Then back at Marco.
“How is that even possible?” I blurt.
“What do you mean, ‘how is that possible’?” Marco asks, insulted.
“It’s just… Rosa is so sweet. And funny. And warm. And you’re—”
“Careful,” he warns.
I grin widely. “—you’re… not.”
Rosa laughs so hard her glasses fog up.
“Oh honey,” she wheezes, patting my hand. “You have no idea how much he needs someone to tell him that.”
Marco rubs a hand across his face like he’s reconsidering his life choices.
Maria leans in, conspiratorial. “He didn’t use to be like this.”
“Don’t start,” he mutters.
But they ignore him completely—as though he’s decorative furniture.
“When he was younger,” Maria says, “he was sweet as honey. Always helping everyone. Always smiling.”
Rosa sighs deeply. “But then he got married. And then… he got widowed.”
The atmosphere shifts instantly.
I freeze.
Marco goes still, fork hovering mid-air.
“He shut down after Luna,” Odete says softly. “Closed himself off. Works too much. Talks too little. Doesn’t let anyone get close.”
My heart squeezes painfully.
Marco stands abruptly. “I’m not talking about this.”
Rosa tries to grab his sleeve gently. “Marc—”
But he steps back out of reach, jaw tight.
“I’m going to check on the horses,” he announces, voice flat, controlled.
Before anyone can say a word, he turns around and walks out of the barn, leaving behind his untouched plate and a silence heavy enough to crush.
I stare at the empty doorway, feeling… something. Something complicated.
Guilt. Sadness. Curiosity. And something annoyingly warm I refuse to name.
Rosa sighs. “We shouldn’t have said anything.”
“He’s been hurting for a long time,” Maria murmurs.
Odete nods. “But maybe he just needs someone stubborn enough to push back.”
I poke at my mashed potatoes, pretending not to understand the implication.
“I’m not… pushing anything,” I mutter.
Rosa gives me a soft smile. “Sometimes, dear, the people who annoy us the most are the ones who pull us back to life.”
I swallow hard.
Because that thought feels truer than I want it to.
And because the image of Marco walking alone into the night sticks in my mind like a thorn I can’t quite reach.
- Writer
