The Quince Project

Chapter Thirty-One

The alarm didn’t wake me. The scents of coffee and plantains that wafted over the covers did. Another first.

Dad popped through the doorway, stirring a sizzling pan. “Good, you’re awake.” He smiled. It actually reached his eyes. “I gotta head to the office but I’ve left you breakfast in the kitchen.” He half turned toward the hallway before pivoting back. “Oh, and it’s still a mess inside the living room. Be careful. I’ll clean it up later, okay?”

“I’ll help you,” I said, yawning and stretching my arms over the headboard. My limbs felt looser, not like streamers pulled so taut they’d snap at any second.

On the nightstand, my phone buzzed with a new notification. The Talk rescheduled.

Ugh. Those relaxed muscles tightened again.

“What is it?” Dad asked.

I waved my phone at him. “Our little chat’s supposed to start in five minutes.”

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Nope. We had it last night, remember?”

Yeah.

I guess we had.

I pressed my phone’s screen.

No texts from Javi, Paulina, or Po. The only thing that stopped my stomach from sinking further was the one from Callie. At least I still had one person other than Dad in my court.

I saw Hot Goss. Everything okay?

Perfect, my fingers typed reflexively. With a sharp breath, I erased the lie. Just because it was a white one didn’t make it right. No, I sent instead.

I recapped everything, fingertips clacking as if this were a pop quiz I knew every answer to. She responded to every message with emojis. Starting with the open-mouthed one and ending with the exploding head.

Totally the correct responses. Even if they punched hard in the gut. The phone chimed again. I’m so sorry, Cas. I feel like this is my fault!

I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. It would be nice to have her shoulder the blame with me. But Callie had served as only one of the domino tiles in yesterday’s disaster. And as much as I hated to admit it, same with Gianna.

Hot Goss would’ve had nothing to expose if I’d been honest from the start.

Don’t feel bad; it wasn’t your fault, I texted back. The primary color in this messy painting was me.

Does this mean you’ve started on your art-auction piece?she texted.

Oof. Another item on this morning’s agenda I hadn’t started. My gaze drifted past Po’s empty bed to the spot inside my closet underneath the shoeboxes storing my assortment of loafers.

How much dust covered the outsides of the ArtBin housing my art supplies? Did fingers retain muscle memory? Was painting like riding a bike?

The time had come to find out.

The last mouthful of plátano frito melted across my tongue when my phone and Mom’s iPad pinged in unison.

Sweet fried plantain congealed in my stomach at the new event on our family calendar.

Family therapy session.

The only thing I knew about therapy were the bits and pieces Callie told me: It feels like washing a cut.

It burned. It stung. It wasn’t comfortable.

Except, hadn’t I been feeling this, and worse, for far too long?

If Dad believed this could help our wounds scab over, I’d conjure Jedi Knight bravery and give this a shot. Hopefully, Po would, too.

My phone buzzed. Po flashed across the screen. Relief at her calling extinguished the worst of my nerves.

Some things could never be fixed. I finally understood that.

I only prayed our bond wouldn’t fall victim to that reality.

I answered the call. My phone was halfway to my ear when she shrieked, “Did I just step into an alternate universe or did Dad really add this event to our calendar?”

“Trust me—I feel like I just got invited to the Mad Hatter’s tea party. But yeah.” I swallowed to keep my voice even. “He really did.”

A pause on her end of the line.

Should I apologize now? Where would I even begin?

“It’s about time,” she said. “What the hell happened last night?”

“It’s probably better if I show you.” I headed to the living room. Snapped a few pictures of the rubble and sent it to her.

A ping on her end of the line, followed by a gasp. “You threw your first kegger and you didn’t invite me?” she huffed between laughs.

“Yeah, right.” I giggled despite myself. The chuckling stitched a lot, but not all, of the tear between us. “I’m actually going to put parties on ice for a while.”

The quiet on her end of the line confirmed this was the right decision.

It ached to give up something I’d clung to for dear life. Except hurting the people I cared most about pained more.

“I’m sorry, Po.” Air left my lungs; some of the guilt over trying to micromanage her life rode out with it. “You were right about everything.”

When life came crashing down, I became a castle, all right. Built my walls thick. Ruled from the towers with an iron fist.

Yes, it helped me survive. But by going into survival mode, I’d forgotten how to live. Donning fairy godmother robes was more comfortable—and safer—than wearing glass slippers, after all.

“It’s scary to learn how to live again after Mom,” I said. My chest heaved in and out. Light-headed, I braced myself against the wall.

“It’s super scary.” She quieted long enough for our breathing to sync through the line. “But don’t you think we owe it to ourselves to try?”

Memories washed over me. Laughing with Po. World history lessons with Dad. Acai bowls with Callie.

Rehearsing with Paulina and kissing Javi.

Even if I couldn’t do those last two activities again, I wanted more.

I wanted to be part of the world again, not behind the curtains. “Yes. I do,” I said.

“Me too.”

“Hey, are you coming back home tonight?”

She exhaled. “Probably staying at Brandi’s for the entire weekend.”

“Yeah, of course.” I clenched and unclenched a hand, relaxing my fingers. “Take your time. Get some space. And remember to always go with the flow.”

She cracked up. “That’s it! Aliens definitely abducted Dad and my Little Cuchara.”

The rift between us threaded closer. So what if we weren’t completely stitched back? We might not be perfect right now—or ever—but we were going to be okay.

Hefty bag in one hand and dustpan with a whisk broom in the other, I crouched down, sweeping up some of the smaller pieces of glass. Morning sun hit the bigger shards, bouncing light onto the living room’s walls and ceiling.

Pieces of the first Movies at the Beach with Javi rushed back to me. Mostly our conversation about stars shining long after they’d winked out of existence. Every ounce of me wanted to snap a photo of the glittering walls and text it to him as a reminder of that night.

But I was still very much feeling the aftershocks of Po’s words. “If it’s broke, don’t fix it.” My mouth puckered as I picked up one smashed piece of mirror after another. “What’s done is done.” Nope. “Correct” and all, this idiom tasted acidic, too.

The more pieces I chucked into the trash while repeating the sayings, the less they tasted of poison. “If it’s broke, don’t fix it. What’s done is done.” The words started to go down like an antidote for lying to myself, to others.

That Pinocchio life I’d been living was through.

I tiptoed over more glass, reaching for one of the controllers. “Into the trash you go.”

A click when I grabbed its busted middle. “Huh?” I lifted it to my face, examining the controller from all angles.

Yes, there were dings. The joystick stuck out a little funny. But for the most part, it’d survived the impact. Unlike its destroyed twin.

Controller in hand, I bolted to the entertainment console. Turned on the TV and Xbox. I pressed the home button, shoulders tensing. And loosening.

Oh my Sith Lord. It worked.

I pressed each button, trying out Dad’s game. Everything appears to be in order. I turned off the Xbox before I did the truly unforgivable: lose his battle against the Galactic Empire.

I glanced over my shoulder. The mirror, like so many other situations in my life, could never be made whole again. The controller hummed between my palms. Still—

Some things could be fixed.

Instead of striving for perfection, maybe what I needed was practice. Practice sifting through wreckage. Accept what needed to be tossed. And salvage what could be restored.

I stepped back into the mess, tossing more pieces into the Hefty bag. On one of the broken mirror slabs, I glimpsed a smile more lopsided than the controller’s joystick.

I set the trash down to pick up my phone. I texted Callie: I’m going to Disneyland tomorrow. Want to meet up at Downtown Disney for ice cream after?