When Our Worlds Collided

03: [Mama's Boy Blues]

Plans had changed.

Originally, Michael said they'd visit his mom at her home, but hours before the meetup, Lily had received a text:

"Change of plans. Mum prefers somewhere more fitting. I made a reservation at that place she loves."

Of course, he meant a fancy uptown restaurant—polished wood floors, golden lights, and waiters who whispered.

Lily had texted Ortega immediately:
"Can you believe this? She's worried her living room isn't glamorous enough to meet me?"

Ortega replied with a string of "oh Lord" emojis and a virtual pat on the back, reminding Lily to stay calm.

Now, sitting across from Michael's mother, Lily understood exactly why the venue had changed. The woman was elegance dipped in sarcasm. Hair done up like royalty, lips lined with judgment, eyes scanning Lily like a misfiled report.

"And what do you do again, dear?" she asked, sipping her wine.

"I'm a journalist," Lily replied, her smile tight. "I work with one of the top firms in Chicago."

The woman's lashes fluttered in faux interest. "How interesting. I suppose someone has to write those dramatic little columns."

Michael didn't say a word. He just sat there-statuesque, unmoving, as if trying to disappear into the fabric of the booth.

Lily smiled, politely ignoring the dig. She wasn't about to insult the queen in her castle. But when the woman excused herself, brushing imaginary lint from her designer jacket before she left, the silence at the table became unbearable.

Michael finally spoke. "Sorry, she's just... like that."

Lily didn't reply. Instead, she reached for the little tray of complimentary shots, downed two-even though Michael knew she could barely handle one.

"Lily, don't-"

"No," she cut him off. "You had the chance to say something. To defend me. But you just sat there like her favorite flower pot."

He sighed. "It's not that simple-"

"It is," she snapped, standing. "If you can't stand up to your mom for me, how the hell do you expect to stand with me?"

That was the end.

She didn't wait for dessert.

It was already evening when Lily teetered out of the restaurant in her red mini dress and heels, half-dizzy from the alcohol and anger. She walked down the street, muttering to herself, shaking her head.

"How does a man go from husband material to apron-string puppet in one night?" she scoffed, chuckling bitterly. "You can't make this stuff up."

Cornel Atkins had gone for an evening drive. After spending time on the rooftop, he'd stopped briefly to grab a takeaway from a quiet little joint he liked—minimalist, old-school. He barely stayed five minutes.

The sky was already deep blue as he eased his car into the highway. A tune from the '90s played low through his speakers-something soulful, something raw. He was an old soul like that.

Then—

Screech!

His car skidded, tires kissing the curb just in time to avoid the woman who'd stumbled into the road.

Red dress. High heels. Half-dazed.

Cornel's heart slammed against his ribs as he slammed the brakes. He leaned forward, eyes wide. She was talking to herself—angrily, emotionally, hands flailing.

On instinct, he rolled the window down.

"Excuse me," he called out, voice steady but concerned, "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Lily turned sharply at the voice, blinking like the streetlight had just come alive and started talking. The car was sleek-luxury kind sleek—and the man behind the wheel wore a look of both worry and bewilderment.

"Trying to get myself killed?" she echoed, staggering a little in her heels. "No, just trying to walk away from a life that's clearly not mine."

Cornel stepped out of the car, closing the door gently behind him. The night breeze tousled his hair. His presence was calm, grounded, almost too put-together for this kind of chaos.

"You're drunk," he said softly, taking a few steps closer but not too close. "And on a street where no one's really looking out for you. That's a dangerous mix."

She squinted, trying to get a proper look at him. "Who are you, my conscience? A walking fortune cookie?"

He almost smiled. "No. Just a guy who didn't want to accidentally run you over."

That made her laugh—genuinely this time. It was the kind of laugh that came from deep exhaustion, not joy.

"Thanks for that," she said, hugging her arms to herself. "I've had a really crap night."

Cornel nodded. "Want a ride home? Or at least somewhere safe?"

She paused. Every instinct should've told her to say no, but something about him—his stillness, maybe—felt safer than standing out here arguing with passing headlights and her bad choices.

She tilted her head. "Do I look like someone who just accepts rides from strangers?"

"You don't," Cornel said. "But you also don't look like someone who deserves to cry in heels."

Her lips parted slightly. Touché.

"Alright," she mumbled, almost to herself. "But if you turn out to be a weirdo, I swear-"

"I'll leave the car running," he said with a hint of humor.

He opened the passenger door and she got in, slumping back into the plush leather seat.

Cornel pulled away slowly, eyes on the road but mind on the curious red-dress stranger beside him.

"Got a name?" he asked.

"Lily," she murmured. "I'm a journalist."

He nodded slowly, eyes flicking to her. "Of course you are."

Everyone has always been-to him.

"Where do you live?" Cornel asked gently, hands steady on the wheel.

Lily shifted in her seat, her head lolling slightly before she blinked and reached for her bag. "Uh... yeah, gimme a sec." She fumbled for her phone and read off the address—somewhere uptown, a decent area, though it suddenly felt too far from the life she thought she was building.

Cornel nodded and set the GPS. The car purred beneath them as the city's lights smeared softly against the windows. There was something soothing about the rhythm of the road and the hum of the engine—something Lily didn't know she needed until now.

"Nice car," she murmured, voice loose with drowsiness. "Real fancy."

He glanced at her, then back to the road. "It gets me around."

"You're handsome, you know that?" she added, squinting at him through bleary eyes.

Cornel huffed a soft laugh, not flattered, just amused. "Thanks."

"No, like... stupidly handsome," she said with a lazy smile. "Luxurious car, quiet face, probably reads classic books... You're like a dream my friend Ortega would conjure up if she wasn't boycotting love."

Cornel raised an eyebrow slightly. "Ortega?"

She chuckled. "My best friend. Strong. Brilliant. Devastatingly heartbroken... poor little thing's sworn off men. You two would've been a match made in... I dunno, some poetic novel or whatever."

He didn't reply, just kept his eyes on the road, the corner of his lips curled slightly in interest-or maybe amusement. He wasn't sure.

But Lily? She was done talking. Her words dissolved into a sad hiss, like the last flame of a candle giving in.