Work Text:
The hallways were narrow, almost intimidating. Probably because Carmela was the only person north of 25 in and around them. A couple of resident students who lived a few doors down from Meadow's dorm were hanging around outside. Carmela gave a light smile and they gave an equally light nod to her.
Reaching her destination, Carmela knocked once, then let herself into Meadow’s dorm room, the familiar smell of garlic and basil wafting from the foil container in her hands. She’d spent the morning in the kitchen back home—eggplant parmigiana, still warm, a little container of homemade tiramisu on the side. No Zabar’s today. Real food. Italian food. The kind Meadow pretended she didn’t miss, and was then practically begging for whenever she was home.
The door swung open, almost as if it had caught a gush of wind that wasn't there.
Meadow was on her bed, straddling Caitlin, kissing her hard—slow, open-mouthed, hands sliding under Caitlin’s tank top.
Carmela stood in silent observation.
Meadow broke away first. “Mom?”
Caitlin yelped, scrambling off, tugging her shirt down. “Mrs. Soprano—hi—sorry—”
Carmela set the food on the desk with a soft clunk. Her voice stayed even. “Caitlin. Sweetheart." She had no idea why she had just called her 'sweetheart'. She barely knew her, had only met her once, when Meadow had moved in here. "Out. Now."
Caitlin bolted, mumbling apologies as the door clicked shut behind her. She didn't seem as jittery as Carmela had remembered her from before and how Meadow constantly talked about her as. Carmela did, however, overhear a 'oh god' from the hallway after the door was closed.
Meadow stayed where she was, legs crossed. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and laughed. “You’re early.”
“Looks like I got here just in time,” Carmela said, the temperature in the room seeming to rise.
“Whatever.” Meadow shrugged, emphatic. "So. What do you think about having a bisexual daughter? Sorry. I shouldn't ask that. Probably. You need more time to process it, right?"
Carmela exhaled through her nose, arms folded. “You told me Caitlin was in Oklahoma.”
“Plans changed.” Meadow grinned, not looking at her mother. “Surprise. By the way...bi the way...get it?”
Meadow wasn't convinced by her own pun, nor was Carmela.
"Anyway. She isn't my first. Hunter...you will remember her. Last year, we made out at the house. In my bedroom. Didn't go very far, but that's when I knew...we knew."
Carmela glanced at the rumpled sheets. “Your father—”
“Exactly.” Meadow’s tone sharpened, even through the adrenaline. “Dad finds out I’m kissing girls and he’ll have a stroke. Finds out I’m kissing anyone who isn’t some nice Italian boy he approves of, same thing. So we don’t tell him. Ever. Okay?”
Carmela studied her daughter—the defiance, the stubborn set of her jaw. She felt the familiar ache: love mixed with fear, the need to protect something already slipping away.
“Fine,” she said quietly. She didn't feel fine.
Meadow nodded.
“We don’t tell him. But you watch yourself, Meadow. Doors unlocked—people take advantage. And as reactionary as you might think I am, there are probably worse people around here.”
Meadow rolled her eyes, softly. “I’m fine, Mom. I’m happy.”
Carmela nodded once. “I brought food, as you can see. It's still hot.”
She turned for the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. Outside, Caitlin hovered in the hallway, arms wrapped tight around herself, looking like she might bolt. The jitteriness that Meadow had referred to so many times over the phone was evident.
Carmela met the girl’s nervous eyes for a long second. No words. Just a small, unreadable nod. That was apparently the main form of communication around here.
Then she walked past, heels clicking, headed home, keeping quiet.