Page 58 of Gravity of Love
And now, years later, she hadn’t lost her powers. Frankie’s attention flicked to Liam the second he stepped inside the café, as if his arrival was broadcast over the intercom system.
Her face lit up like the sun breaking through dark clouds, but only for a split second. Then that sun disappeared, suddenly and completely—dissolving into a blank expression. She whispered something to Yaya, squeezed her grandma’s arm, and slid out of the booth with so much urgency she nearly took out the server who was carrying five plates of food.
Once she recovered from the close-call disaster, she walked towards him with purpose and conviction. His gut sank as he tracked her path, with each step her features became increasingly panic-stricken. She moved fast, like she was trying to outrun something—the server’s balancing act, the energy of a room, or maybe just herself. Liam’s pulse stuttered when she finally reached him. For an eighth of a second, he thought she might throw her arms around him, the way she did when she was seven and he returned from a trip to the ER after splitting his chin on a skateboard ramp. Instead, she stopped cold, inches from his chest. There was a story in the way she squared her shoulders, as if she was bracing for hurricane conditions.
“Hi,” she said, voice tight with surprise and something else—maybe dread. Her eyes frantically scanned over his face, searching for clues.
“Hey,” he spoke softly.
Confusion swam in her large brown eyes as her brow furrowed. “Did you get my messages?”
“No, my phone was dead.”
His response caused all of the color to drain from her already pale face. Not exactly the welcome he’d hoped for.
“What’s wrong?” He reached for her hand, but her entire body went rigid.
Her face and gaze darted quickly behind her. His eyes followed, and the next surprise hit him like a cartoon character slipping on a banana peel. One second, he was standing, the next, he was flat on his ass, metaphorically.
Dr. Edward Tristan Sterling III was walking towards him. The man could have been carved out of marble, all straight lines and engineered features—a force field of perfect grooming and impossible expectations. In a suit tailored within an inch of its thread count, he moved with military efficiency, all deliberate strides and sharp corners, scanning the room with a cool, predatory alertness. His hair was more salt than pepper now, but the white at his temples seemed less a concession to age and more a symbol of his membership in the distinguished gentleman’s club.
Liam had never seen him set foot inside a place like Sue Ann’s Café. The eldest Sterling preferred mahogany-paneled rooms, cigars, and club chairs—not cheery diners full of locals and pastel-colored pastries.
“Son.” The single syllable flatlined the hum of conversation in a three-table radius.
Liam’s hand twitched at his side, unsure whether to wave or salute or just curl into a fist. He glanced at Frankie, whose face had gone motionless. She’d been a kinetic blur before, now she was stop-motion, her features frozen as if she were bracing herself for the next attack.
It turned out, she was.
The bombs of shock didn’t stop dropping at his dad’s arrival, behind him was a man who had been described as a genetic experiment in charisma. His half-brother and perennial wildcard, hair mussed as if he’d just rolled out of bed, wearing a Hugo Boss golf shirt and khakis, strolled up like he owned the place. Tristan took his place beside Frankie in a territorial stance. He wore the sly, practiced grin of a man who was used to gettingexactlywhat he wanted when he wanted it.
It took a second for Liam to register that, for the first time in over a decade, his family had gathered in a space smaller than an airport terminal. He blinked, trying to recalibrate his internal GPS. Walking in, he thought he was going to have a nice dinner with Frankie and Yaya, not get caught in the crosshairs of a Sterling family summit. The scene immediately rewrote itself. Gone was the gentle, sepia-toned nostalgia of a small-town diner. In its place stood two generations of Sterling men, a living diorama of power dynamics and unresolved history.
Liam’s heart jackhammered against his ribs. His body was going into fight or flight, and if it was flight, he wouldn’t be doing it alone. He wanted to drag Frankie to the parking lot and find out what the fuck was going on.
He didn’t get the chance to do that because another blast from the past arrived. This one came in a long floral dress, yellow cardigan, and shoulder-length brown hair. Cora. She looked older than the last time he’d seen her, but her eyes still glowed with maternal warmth and shock at seeing him.
“Liam, honey, is that you?! Oh, my goodness! It’s been too long.” Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she squeezed him—actual, physical contact—and it was only then that he realized he’d stopped breathing at some point in the last three minutes.
When she released him, her hands touched his cheeks. They smelled like lemon zest and peppermint. He’d always loved that about her, how even her hugs smelled clean.
“What a surprise! Thebestsurprise! I had no idea that you were in California!” She turned to Tristan and Frankie. “I don’tknow how you guys did this for us, butthank you! This is the bestgiftever!”
Liam was playing catch-up, but it sounded like she assumedhewas a gift for her and his father. He didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. So when she threaded her arm through his and began walking towards the booth, he found himself walking along beside her. He felt like he was walking to his own execution. They arrived at the table, and Cora orchestrated their seating arrangement with her trademark blend of maternal zeal and peacemaking instinct.
Frankie, in an act of tactical avoidance, ignored her mother’s instructions and slid in beside Tristan, capping one end. Liam took the seat opposite her on the other end, Yaya was beside him, then Cora next to her with his father in the center of the booth.
No sooner had he sat down than Cora turned her attention to Liam as she lifted her hand. “We can get someone over here to take your order.”
“I’ve already eaten,” he lied. He had no interest in food. The impromptu family reunion had caused him to lose his appetite.
As Cora launched into her and his dad’s international ‘meet cute’ in the City of Love, telling the tale with the color and flair of a sitcom recap, Liam glanced around the table, dissecting the constellation of faces and intentions. If he were being honest, his dad and Cora looked happy. Genuinely happy, which took him by surprise. Happy wasn’t an emotion he’d ever used to describe his father. Tristan appeared distracted. Liam wasn’t timing him, but if he had to guesstimate, he would say he checked his phone every thirty seconds. Frankie’s gaze was hyper-focused on the chipped Formica surface of the table as if it were the eighth wonder of the world. Yaya was fully present and in her happy place—a table of family. Her joy was immune and/or ignorant of the emotional landmines they were sitting on.
Liam was so distracted psychoanalyzing the table, he didn’t see the next ambush coming until it was already detonated.
“Liam?” Cora’s voice cut through his introspection, warm but insistent.
“Sorry, what?”
