Coming Up For Air | ✓

17 | sweater weather

Stella's being watched.

It's not quite as much the odd sensation of thinking she's being watched as it is fact. Ever since she stepped—or well, rather skipped—into the kitchen on this wonderful Saturday morning a while ago, neither Angelina nor Geoffrey have taken their eyes off her.

How Geoffrey hasn't managed to burn one single pancake yet, Stella's not sure.

At first, she worried she might have overdone it with her perfume, the lingering notes of the sweet peach scent seeming to follow in a cloud wherever she goes. Then, she'd been afraid maybe her beaming smile had been too bright, only the birds chirping happily outside rivaling her good mood.

Now though, sat across from Angelina by the kitchen island—the fresh, bitter aroma of coffee tickling her nose, Stella's beginning to think maybe someone died.

Her gaze flickers from the dark liquid swimming around her cup to the carton of milk stood atop the island. It's in her hand before she's even begun to reach for it.

Her lips pull into a small automatic—yet strained—smile as she pours some milk into her cup. "Thanks."

Geoffrey and Angelina flash her identical encouraging smiles.

Yeah. Okay. Someone definitely died.

Finally, Angelina clears her throat—reaching out to turn the volume of the radio, and the morning show host reading the news, down.

"I think you should know," She says, delicately tapping her manicured fingers against the island counter. She exchanges a look with Geoffrey over the sizzling pan as fresh pancake batter hits the hot iron—the sweet aroma enveloping the room—, before she lets her gaze return to Stella. "Jake told us what happened yesterday."

Stella almost spits her coffee out, throat wired tight as she chokes on a series of coughs instead.

He did what?

Cup held tightly in her palms, cheeks flushing—her gaze flickers from the lipstick-stained rim of the pink coffee cup to Angelina. Sympathy lines the woman's features as she gathers her black hair into her hand, moving it to fall over her left shoulder.

"Of course, we don't have to speak about it—if you don't want to," Angelina continues, drawing in a deep circle of air as if gathering herself. She reaches across the kitchen island, covering Stella's hand with her own. "I cannot even imagine how difficult it must've been for you Stella, I'm sorry."

Stella's brows draw together, another beat of silence—the deep voice of the man on the radio a faint murmur in the background—before, finally, realization dawns on her.

Oh. That yesterday.

Carefully, she slips her hand out from underneath Angelina's and swallows in an attempt to rid herself of the small lump having appeared in her throat, unsure what to say.

As if reading her mind, Angelina shoots her a gentle smile. "Again, you do whatever you need to do—but if you want to talk, or not talk, about it: I'm here," Her gaze lifts to Geoffrey, who manages a nod in agreement while flipping a pancake. "We both are."

Stella does her best to ignore the faint heaviness resting upon her chest as she brings the cup of coffee to her lips. "Thank you."

Catching on to Stella's unwillingness to wander down the aforementioned path—at least for the moment, Angelina pops a blueberry into her mouth and folds her arms over one another instead, resting them atop the counter.

"So," She flickers her gaze to her husband. "What's on today's agenda?"

"Not much," Geoffrey flips another pancake. "We did manage to promise Ella we'd make an appearance at her soccer tournament, around noon."