Everyone has baggage, but it's certainly not Selina's job to carry it for them.
*****
Radio talk show host Selina Locke was just looking for a peaceful summer in sunny Barcelona, but...
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NO ONE UTTERS A WORD. Everyone sitting at the table has their mouth agape, eyes darting between Selina and Remus; she's fuming, dripping orange juice from the tips of her fingers and the end of her tank top, while his facial expression is a mix of shock and pride—after all, it takes skill to hold that amount of orange juice in one's mouth before spitting it all over someone else.
Selina looks around her, searching for some kind of emotional support, but fails. Cameron remains expressionless as he stands beside her, putting mannequins to shame, while Cory looks like he's seconds away from exploding. His hair, several shades darker than his brother's, has been slicked back with gel, but a rebel strand falls in front of his eyes, so dark they almost look black.
There are certain similarities between the two brothers, but Cory's facial features are stronger, with sharper angles, as if genetics had firmly pressed the bold key on its metaphorical keyboard while determining his genotype and phenotype, whereas it did it a lot more softly when it came to Remus'.
"Selina," Remus blabbers, standing up from his seat so quickly his chair falls back, and reaches across the table to grab a handful of paper napkins. She refuses to buckle. "Jesus, I'm so sorry."
"This is why no one ever lets you out of your room," Cory states, resuming his coffee drinking activities. There's no sugar or milk near him, so Selina thinks it's safe to assume he, much like her, takes it black. Remus turns to him, eyes open wide with panic, and Cameron says nothing, even though Selina wishes he'd speak up. "Aren't you going to do anything about it?"
"I—"
A woman with bronze skin, sitting to Cory's left, stands up and walks up to Remus, taking the paper napkins. "Let me." Selina exhales through her mouth as she walks around the table, recognizing her after a few moments. She's Roya Mokri, a blogger from New York, who has a weird tendency of reaching out to everyone Selina wants to interview and stealing them first; they had never met in person, though, and it's a strange coincidence they're meeting here in Barcelona, out of all places, but there's no bad blood. "My apologies. Like Cory said, this is exactly why we don't usually let him out of the room in the morning. He hasn't had his coffee yet."
"It's okay," Selina mutters, as Roya gently pats the paper napkins against her. It's doing more harm than good, however, allowing the orange juice to spread to larger areas. "I'll go home and change."
"Nonsense," Roya scolds. Much like Cameron, she has managed to keep a straight face throughout the entire event, and Selina remembers how Roya's friends jokingly call her Roya-Bot on social media just to taunt her. "We'll find you something new to wear. After all, you must be a band's guest."
