Chapter Four
Echo
I almost turn around twice before I even park.
Seaside Café looks like something straight off a friggen postcard.
Whitewashed railings, pale wood decking, covered in tiny tables with those big striped umbrellas.
The entire side of it opens to the ocean, like it’s trying to bring the city and beach together.
Salt hangs in the air thick and warm, mixing with sunscreen, and fried food.
It’s busy with a typical early afternoon crowd. Girls in beach dresses and oversized sunglasses. Guys pretending not to check those same girls out. Servers weaving between tables with trays balanced on one hand like they’ve done it their whole lives.
I park my bike across the street and kill the engine. The rumble dies under me and for a second I just sit there, hands still on the bars, and my helmet on, staring at the deck like it might bite if i get to close.
This is stupid. It’s just lunch.
But I haven’t done “lunch with girls” in years. Maybe ever.
It’s not like back in Miami, my life was some lonely, grease-stained exile like people love to assume.
Yeah, there were garage floors and late-night drives and permanently dirty hands, but I had a life.
I had girls. Real ones. The kind you grow up with.
The kind who’ve seen you cry over stupid boys at fourteen, punch a locker at sixteen, and show up to prom in combat boots because you refused to suffer through heels.
They knew me.
They knew I wasn’t the friend who lived for shopping sprees or makeup hauls, but I wasn’t allergic to it either.
I like winged liner and getting all dolled up when I feel like it.
I like putting on something tight and cute and watching someone’s jaw shift because they didn’t expect it.
It’s just never been my entire personality.
I was the friend you called when your car made a weird noise.
Or when you wanted to blast music and drive too fast down an empty road at midnight.
Sometimes I showed up in ripped jeans smelling like gasoline.
Sometimes I showed up in something fitted with my hair done and gloss fresh.
Either way, they didn’t flinch. They didn’t expect me to be softer, louder or smaller than I already was.
And then my mom got sick.
At first, they were there. Hospital visits.
Coffee runs. Sitting in uncomfortable chairs while machines beeped and nurses rotated in and out.
But what they don’t tell you about cancer, is that sometimes, it drags.
It stretches, and it drains the life from everything.
The patient, and everyone around who’s watching it up close.
After a while, visits turned into texts.
Texts turned into “let me know if you need anything.” Then even that got quiet.
Nobody did anything dramatic. There was no big fall out.
They just… kept living their lives.
Graduations. Trips. New relationships. Promotions.
And I stayed in a room that smelled like antiseptic and tired hope, counting hours between nurse check-ins.
So yeah, I had girls.
I just haven’t had this in a long time. And now that I think about it, I guess “real” is a flexible word. Because when I really needed them, when my moms fight came to an end, and I had to say goodbye, they were nowhere to be found.
I swing my leg over and hop off, my boots hitting the hot pavement.
The sun’s warm against my skin.Traffic keeps rolling past like none of this is a big deal as I pull my helmet off.
My hair drops immediately, thick dark waves tumbling down past my waist like they’ve been waiting for freedom.
It’s heavy, dramatic, and slightly ridiculous when the wind catches it.
I rake my fingers through it once, flipping it back over my shoulders, checking the reflection in my bike’s mirror.
I twist the ends once, fluff it just enough so it doesn’t look like I’ve been speed-testing the highway for fun, even though I absolutely was.
Since I'd never been here before, I wasn’t really sure how to dress, one google search confirmed I definitely didn’t have anything really “Fitting” of this place, so I settled for black high-waisted leggings and a fitted black crop tank that hugs everywhere just right.
Paired with some thin gold hoops, clear gloss and subtle black liner.
Sure, it’s clean, simple. But it shows just enough skin and girly flare to remind people I’m not strictly engines and attitude.
I adjust the small black crossbody pouch strapped across my chest. It’s small, compact, yet big enough to hold my wallet, phone, and keys. Which honestly, is all I need. I’ve never understood girls who carry their entire lives in a bag big enough to smuggle groceries.
Tucking my helmet under my arm, I take one more look at the place, then I head inside before I can talk myself out of it.
I walk through the café and out onto the deck off the side of the building where Bexley had told me they’d be.
The girls are easy to spot.
Cece’s purple hair catches the sunlight first—because obviously it does.
It’s long, sleek, dramatic in a way that says yes, I chose this and yes, I pull it off.
She’s in a cropped white tank and high-waisted denim shorts, legs crossed like she’s posing without trying.
Relaxed, but in that deliberate way. Like she’s chill because she decided to be, though there’s a definite fuck around and find out vibe radiating off her, and honestly? I kind of love it.
Across from her is Bexley. Brunette hair smooth and glossy over one shoulder, cream tank, tailored shorts, and layered gold chains at her collarbone.
The letters T and S rest there casually—subtle, except not at all.
She’s dating not one, but both of my brothers, no pressure.
She looks soft at first glance. Put together.
Effortless in a way that makes you wonder if she wakes up like that or if there’s a hidden glam squad involved.
But her eyes are steady and observant. Calm in that grounded way that makes you feel like she’s already taken your measure and decided you’re welcome at the table.
Which, considering the circumstances, feels like a small miracle.
Lena’s just as blonde and sun-kissed in person as she is in the pictures I’ve definitely never stalked.
She’s wearing a loose white blouse hanging open just enough to show a tie-dye bikini top underneath, cut-offs, and thick leopard-print sunglasses perched on her head like she lives here full time.
It’s giving beachy boho badass in a way that looks effortless.
I could probably pull it off if I tried. I just… don’t try.
They all look up when I step closer, and shockingly, they smile.
Not the tight, polite, “we’re being civil” kind of smile. Real ones. Which honestly throws me off more than if they’d just stared.
“Echo!” Cece practically yells the second she spots me, already halfway out of her chair before I’ve even made it to the table. “Míraaaala, she actually came!”
She’s grinning like I just showed up to her birthday party and not a casual lunch that could’ve easily be turned into an interrogation.
I let out a small laugh despite myself. “Yeah. Hi.”
She closes the distance fast, but pauses just enough to make sure I’m not about to bolt.
“Can I?” she asks, already half-reaching like the answer’s obviously yes.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
She hugs me tight. No hesitation or weird half-arm side hug. Full contact. She smells like mango and vanilla and something warm I can’t place, like she bottled up summer and decided to wear it.
It’s the kind of hug that hits you in the chest. The kind that makes your shoulders drop before you realize they were tense. All that low-grade anxiety I walked in with about them secretly hating me? Gone. Just… gone.
“I’m Cece,” she says as she pulls back, hands still on my shoulders like she’s doing a quick quality check. “I’ve heard so many things about you.”
“That’s… mildly terrifying,” I deadpan.
She laughs, loud and unapologetic. “Relax, mija. We’re not scary.”
Lena takes a slow sip of her drink, eyes sliding toward Cece over the rim. “Revel would strongly disagree.”
Cece doesn’t even look at her. “Revel is dramatic.”
“Mm,” Lena hums. “More like Revel is seriously fucking obsessed.”
Cece finally turns her head, slow and deliberate. “Yeah well, if he thinks I’m falling for his tricks, he is delusional.”
Bex stands next, her energy is a bit quieter but steady and welcoming. She steps into my space gently, like she’s also aware this could go either way and honestly, I’m so thankful I’m not alone in being nervous.
“I’m really glad you came,” she says, hugging me. Her hug is different, in a good way. Softer, and more grounded. “I know this probably feels like a lot.”
It does. More than I expected.
“Yeah,” I admit, shrugging like it’s no big deal even though my chest feels weirdly tight. “I guess it kind of does.”
Lena stands next, all sun-kissed and effortless, giving me a quick hug that’s warm without being overwhelming.
“I’m Lena,” she says. “And I promise, despite what you may have heard, we’re normal.”
“Well,” I smirk, “that remains to be seen.”
They laugh, and thank god, it’s not that tight, polite kind people use when they’re trying to be nice. It’s real. Easy. Like I just tossed the ball and they volleyed it right back without thinking too hard about it.
Okay.
Good.
I sit, setting my helmet carefully on the empty chair beside me. My fingers linger on it for a second longer than necessary, like it’s some kind of emotional support object and not just expensive head protection.
Get it together, Echo.
I’m trying not to overthink the fact that I just willingly walked into a table full of women who know exactly who I am. Who know the drama. The history. The part where I showed up and detonated everyone’s emotional stability.
And yet, they’re smiling at me like I didn’t just stroll into their lives with a plot twist.