Chapter 22
twenty-two
VANESSA
A vibrator.
Penelope, in all her chaotic brilliance, had bought me a vibrator for my twenty-eighth birthday—and made me open it in front of my entire family. I looked at her pointedly while my parents looked like they wanted to dissolve into the nearest hedge.
“What? You obviously need it,” Penelope said, deadpan.
My cousins burst out laughing, and my sister had actual tears running down her face. It was exactly why she always made sure to invite Pen to family functions. Everyone else suddenly became fascinated by the texture of their napkins.
“I don’t doubt that I need it, Pen, but maybe you could’ve given it to me in private.”
“Yeah, that sounds a whole lot less fun,” she countered.
I didn't even try to argue. Penelope was bulletproof. Morgan and Pen had been friends for years and even she hadn’t been able to crack her armor.
Another gift was passed to me. It was in a store-bought box with little burgers printed all over it. I glanced up at my dad, and my heart sank. His eyes were already watery. When I opened the box, the world stopped spinning.
Inside was a single frame. It was a photo of me taking my very first step after the surgeries on my leg. My mom had taken it at the physical therapy center. My dad was right there in the frame, his hand hovering inches from mine in case I fell.
Tears pricked my eyes. My mom swiped at hers, trying to keep it together. My dad had always been the sensitive one, but seeing my sister Valeria crying, too, made me realize that my accident had affected them more than they ever let on.
“What is it?” Penelope shouted. “Nipple clamps?”
A few awkward chuckles broke out, but most of the table looked confused.
“It’s a picture,” I said, my finger tracing the glass. It had been ten years, but looking at that photo felt like yesterday.
“Just a picture?” Morgan asked, her eyes darting between me and my family, clocking the heavy emotion written across our faces.
“It’s the day mija took her first step in physical therapy after the car accident,” my dad said, his voice hitching.
The bomb detonated.
Silence followed—the kind that rang in your ears. I felt Morgan, Penelope, and Elliott turn toward me like spotlights.
“Accident?” Morgan’s voice cut through the air like glass.
Normally, your best friends are the people you tell everything to—the ugly, the shameful, the painful.
But I had never told them this. At first, it was because their parents had just died in a wreck, and why add more grief to their pile?
Later, it was because I was just so damn tired.
Tired of being the girl in the hospital.
Tired of the pity. So I’d lied. I’d told them I was in Arizona with my aunt.
I cleared my throat, choking on the weight of the secret. “It’s... it’s not a big deal.”
The table erupted into movement. Relatives started clearing plates, desperate to escape the tension.
“Not a big deal?!” Morgan’s voice cracked, louder than I’d ever heard it.
“Vanessa, if you were in physical therapy, that means you went through hell—and you didn't tell us?” Her arms crossed tight over her chest, her tone sharp. “We would’ve been there. Every single day. You know that, right? But you didn’t even give us the chance. ”
“I didn’t want to burden you—” I started, but my voice faltered.
“Burden us?” Morgan’s eyes were wild, red from crying. “Van, we lost our parents. It nearly broke us. But you? You shut us out. You decided we couldn't handle your pain. Do you even know what that feels like? To know you were suffering and we weren't even allowed to try to help?”
Elliott’s voice dropped low, rough and steady. It landed just as hard as Morgan's scream. “We thought we knew everything about you. And all this time, we didn’t.”
I felt like a child caught in a lie that had grown too big to manage. “I was in a car accident,” I whispered.
“When?” Elliott demanded. His voice was firm. Angry.
“It’s not important,” I mumbled.
“When?” Morgan repeated, ice in her voice.
I looked at her, begging with my eyes, but she was already piecing it together. Her face transformed as the truth slammed into her. “The last time I saw you drive was…” She gasped, a jagged, sobbing sound. “Oh my God.”
She bolted from the table.
I stood up. “Morgan, please—”
She waved me off, running into the house. Penelope followed without a word, and Elliott rose too, his gaze lingering on me for one devastating second before he trailed after them. I collapsed back into my seat, my jaw hanging.
“Mija, is there anything I can do?” My mom was beside me instantly. My dad looked devastated. “I’m so sorry, mija. I didn't know.”
“It’s okay,” I told them, though nothing felt okay. “I should’ve told them.”
I followed the sound of voices into the house. My tía was cleaning up the cake mess, but she just tilted her head toward the hallway.
“I just don’t understand why she didn't tell us,” Morgan’s voice drifted out of my bedroom.
When I stepped inside, they all fell silent. Their gazes dropped—instinctively, painfully—to the scar running the length of my left leg.
“You could’ve told us,” Penelope said flatly. Her face was full of a cold disappointment that hurt worse than her anger.
“It was never the right time.”
“When?” Elliott demanded again. I made the mistake of looking at him. His eyes were raw. “When, Vanessa? When did this happen?”
I could barely get the words out. “The night of your parents’ funeral.”
A single tear slipped down my cheek.
“Good Lord, Vanessa,” Penelope muttered, turning away.
“Jesus,” Elliott breathed, leaning his back against the wall as if his legs couldn't hold him.
Morgan stared at me, broken. “I don’t understand. You were with us all day.”
“I left while you were asleep,” I said. I didn't tell them about the call from my dad. Not about the fight. I’d dissected that night too many times already.
The next hour was an interrogation. Morgan was desperate to make sense of the timeline, while Penelope threw in sharp, biting questions. Elliott said nothing. He just watched me. By the time they finally left, I felt wrung out, as if I’d been working in triple-digit heat all day.
When I finally stepped out of my room, my mom was waiting. “What can I do? You want pastel?”
I shook my head. My stomach was a tangled knot.
“Give it time, mija,” she said, smoothing my hair. “They’ll come around. You never have to ask to stay here.”
I kissed her cheek and stumbled back to my room. It hit me then: I had always expected too much from my friends. Too much forgiveness for the way I’d handled my own trauma.
Inside, my sister was waiting.
“I thought everyone left,” I said.
“I figured you’d need company,” she replied, grabbing my hand. “We can watch trash TV, telenovelas, crime shows. Your choice. I’m already making popcorn.”
I smiled faintly. “I’m glad nothing I do can scare you off.”
“That’s the point of sisters,” she said. “Can I say something?”
“Yep.”
“I get why they’re mad. I get why you lied. But Van... they love you. They would’ve been at that hospital every single day. Just like we were.”
I nodded, tears spilling over. “I thought I was protecting them.”
“No, you were being a martyr. Like always.”
That did me in. “When did you get so smart?”
“I watched what my sister did, then did the opposite,” she teased. It finally pulled a real laugh from me.
“I need your help with something,” I whispered.
She tied her hair up, smirking. “Okay. Whose house are we breaking into?”