Chapter 25
Hennessy
My food sits untouched while I stab it repeatedly with my fork, like it personally called me fat on Christmas.
The festive lights strung around my parents' dining room mock me with their cheery twinkle.
Everyone else is chattering about my cousin's new baby, but all I can think about is Beckham's hands on my body this morning and how fucking empty I feel sitting here without him.
“Henny, you haven't eaten a bite,” my dad says, his forehead creasing with concern.
I force a smile. “Just not super hungry.”
That's a lie. I'm starving, but not for food. I'm hungry for Beckham's mouth on mine, his weight pressing me into his mattress, the way he growls trouble when I—
“Hennessy,” my abuela's voice cuts through my filthy daydream. “Come help me in the kitchen.”
I follow her, grateful for the escape, though knowing my grandmother, she's about to grill me harder than the carne asada my dad made earlier.
Once we're alone, she turns to me, hands on her hips. No preamble, no bullshit.
“Who is he?”
I nearly choke. “What?”
“The man who has you looking like someone stole your favorite lipstick and also gave you the best orgasm of your life at the same time.”
“?Abuela!” I hiss, mortified but also impressed by her accuracy.
She waves her hand dismissively. “Please. I was young once. You think I don't know that look? You're in love, but something is holding you back.” She narrows her eyes. “Which means you think my son will not approve.”
I lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted from carrying this secret. “It's complicated.”
“It's only complicated because you're making it that way.” She taps my chest with one finger. “Your father loves you more than anything in this world. More than he loves your mother—don't tell her I said that—and more than he loves me. And that's saying something because I am very lovable.”
I can't help but laugh.
“Listen to me, mija. If this man is good to you, if he treats you like the queen you are, Javier will come around. Maybe not right away—men are stupid—but he will.”
“But what if—”
“No 'what ifs.' All this guilt and hiding your love? It's only dragging you down. Making you stab innocent masa instead of enjoying Christmas.” She cups my face in her hands. “Life is too short to waste it worrying about what other people think—even your father.”
“You don't even know who he is,” I mumble.
She shrugs. “I don't need to, but you my girl are carrying around this burden, and it’s going to eat you alive. Like acid reflux, but for your soul.”
I can't help but laugh. “That's your wisdom? Soul acid reflux?”
“Mock me all you want, but I've lived through three husbands and still have perfect skin.” She winks.
“The truth is, happiness is too rare to waste because you're afraid. If this man makes you feel alive, fight for it. Your father will understand because he wants your happiness more than his own comfort.”
Something unclenches in my chest. “What if he doesn't?”
“Then I'll hit him until he does. It won’t take long; he still flinches when I take them off.” She shrugs. “But he will. Because that's who he is.”
The kitchen door swings open, and my mom pokes her head in. Her eyes dart between us, clearly sensing she's interrupted something.
“Sorry, I was just—” She starts to back away.
“No, Marie, come in here,” Abuela says, waving her in impatiently. “We're having girl talk about how annoying my son is being. Join us.”
Mom hesitates but steps in fully, closing the door behind her. “What did Javi do now?”
“Nothing yet,” she says with a knowing look at me. “But he will.”
They're both staring at me now, my mom with concern and Abuela with that persistent twinkle in her eyes that says she's not letting me off the hook. The weight of my secret feels suddenly unbearable, like it's going to burst out of me anyway, so why fight it?
“Fuck,” I mutter, then take a deep breath. “The guy I'm seeing—the one I think I'm in love with is Beckham Kingston.”
Mom's jaw actually drops. Like, cartoonishly drops. “Beckham? Your father's—”
“Enemy, yeah,” I finish for her. “That's the one.”
“Holy shit,” Mom whispers, then immediately claps her hand over her mouth.
My grandmother, meanwhile, starts cackling like I've just told the funniest joke in the world.
“Dios mío! A Kingston!” She's practically wheezing now.
“Vegas are always drawn to the forbidden, aren't we?
Your father married the college dean's daughter—” she points at my mom, “—and now you're with his biggest rival!”
“Abuela!” I hiss, though I can't help the smile tugging at my lips.
“Javier's blood pressure is going to skyrocket!” She's still laughing, wiping tears from her eyes. “They'll hear his screams in Mexico!”
Mom leans against the counter, processing. “How long has this been going on?”
“It just…happened,” I admit.
“These things don't just happen, mija,” Abuela says, finally getting her laughter under control. “Chemistry like that builds until it explodes. Like Mentos in Diet Coke.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, but she's not wrong.
Mom's brow furrows. “Is he…good to you?” The protective edge in her voice makes my heart clench.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Better than good. He's...” I search for words that won't make my mother disown me. “He respects me. Sees me. Not as Dad's daughter, but as me.”
Mom's expression softens. “And you love him?”
“I think I do.” I swallow hard. “I know it's crazy and Dad will lose his shit, but—”
“I will lose my shit about what?”
The kitchen door swings open, and there's my father, filling the doorframe with his broad shoulders and thunderous expression. All three of us freeze like teenagers caught with vodka in their water bottles.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My dad's eyes narrow as he looks between us. “What are you three plotting in here?”
Abuela and Mom exchange a look before both turn to me. My grandmother’s hand finds my shoulder, squeezing gently.
“If you want to tell him now, it's okay,” she says softly. “And if you don't, that's also okay.”
I could cry from the understanding in her eyes. My mom slides closer, taking my hand and squeezing it.
“It's okay, honey,” she whispers. “We're right here.”
My dad's confusion is morphing into suspicion. “Tell me what? What the hell is going on?”
I take a deep breath, knowing this moment was inevitable from the first time I felt Beckham's lips on mine. The secret was always going to come out. Maybe it's better this way—ripping off the Band-Aid surrounded by the women who love me most.
“Dad, my boyfriend,” My voice comes out steadier than I expected. “I'm dating Beckham Kingston.”
For two heartbeats, there's complete silence. Then, my father's face transforms through a series of expressions—confusion, disbelief, and finally volcanic rage.
“BECKHAM KINGSTON?” His voice booms through the kitchen, probably rattling the Christmas ornaments in the next room. “Are you fucking kidding me, Hennessy? I told him to stay the fuck away from you years ago!”
“Dad—”
“How long has this been going on?” He's pacing now, running his hands through his hair. “That manipulative son of a bitch. I knew he was low, but going after my daughter? I'll fucking kill him.”
Abuela tries to interject, but Dad's on a roll.
“I'll take his other knee out,” he snarls, referencing the career-ending injury Beckham suffered years ago. “I swear to God, Hennessy, of all the men in a thirty-mile radius—”
“Javier!” Mom attempts to cut in.
“This stops today. You're not seeing him again.” He slams his fist on the counter. “
“I'm twenty-three years old,” I snap, finding my voice. “You don't get to tell me who I can and can't see.”
“As long as it's a fucking Kingston, I absolutely do!”
We're both shouting now, our voices bouncing off the kitchen tiles. Abuela watches with arms crossed.
“He's using you, Hennessy!” Dad's face flushes dark red as he jabs a finger in my direction. “This is his sick revenge. He couldn't beat me on the ice, so now he's fucking my daughter to get back at me.”
“No, he's not!” I slam my palm against the counter, the sting barely registering through my anger. “You don't know a goddamn thing about us.”
“I know Kingston. I know exactly what kind of man he is.”
“No, you don't,” I say, my voice dropping lower, deadlier. “You know who he was on the ice over twenty years ago. You don't know who he is to me.”
Dad scoffs, the sound like sandpaper against my already raw nerves. “Please enlighten me. What kind of man dates another man’s daughter in secret?”
“The kind who tried to say no,” I fire back. “The kind who pushed me away because of who my father was.” I step closer to him, refusing to back down. “He's a good man, Dad. And for the record, I pursued him. Relentlessly. He was the one with all the fucking moral qualms about it.”
Dad's eyes widen in disbelief. “You pursued—”
“Yes! I wanted him. I still want him. And if you'd get your head out of your ass for five seconds, you might see that he makes me happy.”
The kitchen falls silent except for our heavy breathing. Mom and Abuela besides me, offering me strength.
“Javier.” Mom's voice cuts through the tension, cold as ice. “Take a fucking walk.”
Dad's head snaps toward her. “What?”
“You heard me.” She steps forward, shoulders squared. “Take a walk. Cool off. Because I didn't marry an asshole who screams at his daughter on Christmas, and I'm not about to start tolerating one now.”
The shock on Dad's face would be comical if I weren't still trembling with adrenaline.
“Marie—”
“Now, Javier.” Mom's voice leaves no room for argument. “Before you say something you can't take back.”
For a moment, I think he might keep fighting. Then his shoulders slump. Without another word, he turns and stalks out of the kitchen. Seconds later, we hear the front door open and slam shut.
The silence that follows feels like the aftermath of a storm. I let out a shaky breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, leaning back against the counter for support.
Mom comes over and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “He'll come around. Eventually.”
“Or I'll make him,” Abuela adds, nodding firmly. “One way or another.”
I can't help the wet laugh that escapes me. “I should have told him sooner. Fuck, I knew it would be a problem, but I’m not sorry about Beckham.”
She pats my back. “Of course you're not. And you shouldn't be. Your father forgets what it's like to be young and in love.”
I pull back, wiping at my eyes. “I should call Beck. Dad might try to find him.”
I don't even think about it. My fingers are already dialing his number, muscle memory taking over while my heart hammers against my ribs.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey, troublemaker.”
Just his voice—that deep, gravelly rumble—steadies me for a moment before reality crashes back.
“Beckham.” My voice cracks. “My dad knows.”
There's a pause, just long enough for me to hear him take a breath. “Alright.”
I blink, pulling the phone away to stare at it before pressing it back to my ear. “Alright? That's all you have to fucking say? My dad just threatened to take out your other knee, and you say 'alright'?”
“What do you want me to say, Hennessy?” His voice is calm, controlled in that way that used to drive me crazy before I understood what it meant. “He was going to find out eventually.”
“And you're not freaking out about that?”
“No.” The certainty in his voice catches me off guard. “I'm not hiding you. Whatever your dad does is on him.”
Mom and Abuela are watching me with identical expressions of curiosity. I turn away slightly, lowering my voice.
“Beckham, you don't understand. He's really fucking pissed.”
“I don't care.” The steel in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. “I'm not fucking giving you up, baby. Not for him, not for anyone.”
My breath catches. In the background, I can hear the sounds of him moving around his apartment.
“He could make your life hell,” I argue, even as warmth blooms in my chest at his words.
“Let him try.” He snorts. “You think I haven't dealt with worse? Your dad's been a pain in my ass for decades. I've handled it this long because I didn't have anything worth fighting him for. Now I do. I love you too much to—”
He stops abruptly. The silence stretches between us, heavy with the weight of what he just said.
“Shit,” he mutters. “That's not how I wanted that to come out.”
My heart is suddenly in my throat. “You love me?”
Another pause. I can practically see him running his hand through his hair, that thing he does when he's frustrated with himself.
“Yeah.” His voice is rougher now. “I do. Not exactly how I wanted to tell you. Blurting it out over the phone while your dad is plotting my murder isn’t screaming love.”
I laugh, the sound watery and bright. “Say it again.”
“I love you, Hennessy.” No hesitation this time.
“I'm coming over,” I decide, already looking around for my purse when my mom hands it to me, tears lining her eyes because she heard him.
“I’m gonna go,” and both women in my life laugh and practically push me out the fucking door.