The Quince Project

Chapter Twenty-Three

Back at home, I was still keyed-up from the day’s events. Epic first kiss, check. Applying to Mandy’s internship faster than anticipated, check.

After I hit Send, the application flew off to Soraya with a swoosh.

I sunk back into the kitchen chair. Late-afternoon sunshine spilled through the windows, gilding the room with more shades of gold than our school’s trophy cases.

So what if I couldn’t add today’s personal wins to the case? The urge to celebrate closing in on the internship—and our HEA—surfaced anyway. Begging me not to ignore it.

With Po still out “trying on dresses” with Paulina, and my annoyance levels with Dad—who was working late again—peaking higher than the palm trees outside, I’d have to throw myself a mini-party of one.

I crossed the kitchen. Grabbed Mom’s iPad. Wouldn’t a Star Wars playlist be the perfect soundtrack for hammering out more details on Paulina’s quince?

Probably.

I lowered the tablet. Wouldn’t one of Mom’s playlists work just as well? Maybe better, considering the location?

Before I lost my nerve, I flicked through some of her playlists until I hit one called Best of JLo. I tapped an oldie but a goodie called “Waiting for Tonight” to kick it off.

The kitchen filled with guitar, keyboards, and the Puerto Rican diva’s voice.

To feel your lips on my fingertipstook on a different meaning now.

I couldn’t wait to feel Javi’s mouth pressing on mine.

It took a moment for reality to catch up to the daydream.

As much as I loved mixing business with pleasure, the best course of action was probably to pump the break on “pleasure” until after Paulina’s party.

Today, luck—or magic—had been on my side. I sighed, knowing too well that sooner than later, luck, like fairy-light batteries, ran out.

I sulked back to the kitchen table. Pulled up some of the photos of tuxes I’d bookmarked for Javi’s fitting tomorrow. “Which one of these will help make Paulina’s dress look fairest of all?” I said to myself, enlarging the pic Po texted me of Paulina wearing her front-runner gown.

The fabric covered in black sequins mirrored a star-dusted sky. A sweetheart neckline perfectly showcased her long neck, clasped with her signature Paulina necklace. The high slit on the side and her sleek hair imbued the gown with cape-like vibes.

Darth Vader would be a very proud papi.

Would he feel the same way about these tuxes?

More importantly, what would Mandy think? Now that Soraya was going to hand deliver my application to the fairy godmother herself, the need for “perfection” on this party ratcheted up to “perfect-plus.”

My mouth went dry. I chugged some water. I reached the bottom of the bottle, and ugh—still parched.

Was it the pressure of nailing the quince that pressed heavy on me? Or the song playing?

Once upon a time, it’d been one of Mom’s favorites. And she wasn’t around to hear it.

She wasn’t around to get the inside scoop on my first kiss, either.

Disney movies and rom-coms nourished her soul as much as yucca fries and mamey shakes. More, even. Yet I couldn’t tell her about my starring role in my budding romance.

I scratched at my blouse. Better to feel the burn of my nails against my skin than the emptiness inside my chest.

When that didn’t work, I turned the music off. Snagged the phone off the table. Scrolled through Mandy’s grid. All its brilliance chased the darkness away. “Happily ever afters are our business,” I whispered.

A few seconds of relief before Dad barged in. “I come in peace, kiddo.” He extended a huge box from Folks Pizzeria, lifting the lid a little.

Gasp. A margherita.

“Your favorite,” he said.

The red sauce sparkled. The flour dusted the crust’s charred and chewy parts. No wonder the Evil Queen tempted Snow White with food.

Opening the cardboard sides of the pizza box, Dad took an exaggerated inhale. “Mmmm, this sure smells good. Too bad no one is around to share this with.” He waved the top flap through the air.

The smells of hot bread and cheese wafted over. Pangs of hunger temporarily replaced my indignation. “Fine. Hand it over.”

“Does this mean I’m forgiven for missing dinner the other night?”

“No.” Javi’s openness had been the perfect backdrop for practicing expressing things rarely vocalized. Apparently, our convos hadn’t helped me talk only in Parental Past Tense, but in Present Tense. “And you can’t keep missing our dinners.”

Dad looked as shocked as I felt at actually speaking up. I straightened my posture, steeling myself to keep going. “You can’t keep missing our lives.” The words came out hard, yet polished. Like stones used to build castle towers.

After a moment’s hesitation, he rewarded my boldness with a nod. “You’re right.” He slid into the chair next to me, setting the pizza box onto the table with shaky fingers. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I’ve just been so swamped with work.”

I bit my lips, holding back about his constantly blasting off to a galaxy far, far away after work. I didn’t want to overwhelm him. Or myself.

All this talking made me feel as if I’d been poking a bruise. Not excruciating, but not comfortable, either. As Po would say, It’s a marathon, not a horse race. This amount of sprinting was good enough for now.

“I really want to make it up to you.” Dad sounded so serious I actually believed him. “Homework help, a Costco run, more pastelitos for breakfast—anything?”

“Actually, there is something,” I said, reaching for one of the cheesiest slices.

Color returned to his cheeks. Happy that I’d taken his olive branch? Or relief that his citizenship to Dadland hadn’t been revoked? “Should we wait for Po before digging in?” he asked.

Whoa. First, he sounded like a dad, and now he was acting like one?!

My heart squeezed. Its edges didn’t cut my chest as deeply as before. “Hmm. Let me get an ETA first.” I picked up my phone. I flicked away one notification from Callie, two from Javi. Tapped on the dozens of unread ones from Po.

“‘Having dinner at Paulina’s!!!’ String of heart-eye emojis.” Considering Dad clammed up at any mention of mom, I skipped reading the next part aloud.

Her mom’s got a VERY strong personality btw…

My fingers flew across the phone: Strong like Queen Elinor from Brave? Forcing her daughter to follow traditions? Or does she put the “bear” back into overBEARing like Mrs. Ming Lee from Turning Red?

I licked my lips, suddenly hungrier for details about Se?ora Reyes than pizza.

Before hitting Send, I brushed a fingertip against the words her mom’s. Flinched back as if they’d paper cut me. Was it even my place to ask? Especially if I intended to keep some parts of the party strictly professional?

I deleted the text and continued reading aloud Po’s: “‘She’s shocked I haven’t seen Rogue One.’”

“What?” Dad’s eyes widened. “I never screened it for you girls?”

I shook my head and finished Po’s text: “‘It’s her new mission in life to convince me it’s the best Star Wars movie of all time. BUT HOW IF THERE ARE NO EWOKS?!’”

While Dad cracked up, I found the perfect GIF of Ewoks dancing. Followed it up with a bunch of party-popper and confetti-ball emojis.

“It looks like it’s just us,” I said, lifting the slice.

We toasted with the pizza and took synchronized bites. Our groans of delight swirled through the kitchen.

I darted to the fridge to get another bottle of water, anticipating my throat pinching closed. Tasting some of our go-to meals from Before usually triggered this. A visceral reaction to enjoying our best-loved foods when Mom couldn’t.

Weirdly, it hadn’t happened last night when I’d chowed down the PSTs with Po.

Seconds passed. It didn’t happen now, either. Instead, my stomach grumbled louder than the emotions churning it. Made it easier for the old saying to rush back.

Food is meant to be enjoyed and shared.It might’ve come from Mom. Or Po. I honestly couldn’t remember who said it first.

All that mattered was that it helped unlock my jaw. I left the bottle of water in the fridge. Grabbed the ranch dressing and headed back to the table.

“I like this Paulina,” Dad said, his voice muffled by dough. “It’s a good thing you’re hanging out with friends again.”

I slumped into the chair. Sure, Paulina had shared some personal stuff. But only to help me understand what she wanted from her Very Merry Unquince, right?

“She’s more Po’s friend. I’m simply helping her plan the Star Wars party I told you about. She loved the idea for the paso doble, by the way, so thanks.” I dipped my head in gratitude.

“If you need access to more of my Star Wars knowledge, it’s yours. Pro bono.”

“That’s exactly what I need your help on.”

While he beamed, I cracked my knuckles. Stretched my fingers the way I used to before sitting down to paint. The tendons and ligaments in my hands relaxed a little.

As did everything else. Achy chest included.

I turned the laptop toward him. “This is the front-runner for Paulina’s dress. And these”—I took a bite of pizza then pointed it at three tux contenders—“are the top picks for her chambelán. His name is Javi.” I hoped he didn’t hear the swoon spilling from my voice, or if he did, that he attributed it to the mouthwateringness of the food. “I mean, he’s going to look hot no matter what.”

Dad’s eyebrows drew so close together they almost touched.

I dipped the slice in some dressing, stuffing my mouth before anything else plopped out. I swallowed. Loudly. “Um, what I meant to say is, I’m not feeling these anymore. I want”—need—“the outfits to scream galaxy far, far away. This all-black option here comes close, but I don’t know. It’s not perfect.”

“Firstly, if your friend’s going for a glam Darth Vader look, you nailed it, kiddo.”

The slap of his high five reverberated on my palm. Party planning really brought people together. After the wave of happiness came a surge of hope.

If he and Soraya thought I was cut out for this, then (fingers crossed) Mandy would.

“Secondly…” He pulled the laptop closer, fingers clacking against the keys. “Whenever you see Lord Vader, a stormtrooper is never far behind.” He turned the laptop back toward me.

An image of a stormtrooper beamed between the pic of Paulina and the collage of tuxes.

“See these sleek, white body plates?” He trailed them with an edge of pizza crust. “It’s armor seamlessly attached to a black body glove.”

If being evil meant looking this good, conscript me to the Dark Side ASAP. He went all Wookieepedia again, droning on about the use and function of the armor and helmets.

My attention zeroed in on how much this streamlined, white outfit with black accents would pop next to Paulina’s gown, and vice versa.

Like Po would say: Light can’t exist without shadows. Plus—I scooted to the edge of the chair because—stormtroopers wore utility bags?

This had to be a sign.

Reaching for the backpack slung over the chair, I dug out my day planner and pencil. Flipping to some of the empty pages in the back, I sketched the black pants from one suit. Paired them with the white jacket from another. Shadowed in the lapels. Added the black bow tie from the third option. In place of a utility bag, I drew a black cummerbund. Doodled a hidden Mickey on it.

B Spoke probably didn’t have smiling Mickey appliqués to patch onto their rentals. I could rummage through Po’s old trading pins and find a tiny one to stick to the cummerbund. That way Javi could still bring an extra smile with him to the party.

“Ta-da.” I showed off my rough design like it was the Mona Lisa. “How does this look?”

A spark ignited in his eyes, burning away more of the haze usually clouding them. “Like Trooper Javi’s going to this quince in style.”

Images of Javi wearing the outfit jumbled in my head and short-circuited the wires responsible for tethering my good sense. “He’s going to be the hottest chambelán OC’s ever seen.”

Oh Sith Lord. Not again. Part work, part excuse to keep my flaming face away from Dad, I texted Paulina a picture of my sketch.

The phone buzzed in my hands.

Not a response from Paulina, or an email from PP Celebrations that the AT-AT sculptures were a go. It was a new event on the family calendar.

The Talk rescheduled.

Well, at least he’d remembered to get it back in the books. “Ugh,” I groaned, then surprised myself by how quickly grumbles could turn into belly laughs.

Dad laughed with me. The corners of his eyes crinkled. Except not in the way they did after gaming all night, or working all day. He simply looked like himself again.

Our laughter spilled out the archway, down the hallway. I hoped that whether from the framed portraits or somewhere out in a galaxy not so far away, Mom was watching.