Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Christmas Eve in my parents’ house smells like heaven and chaos rolled into one.
Tamales steaming in pots big enough to bathe in, cinnamon and clove clinging to the air from the atole Mamá’s been stirring all morning, the faint burn of candles flickering in the Virgen corner by the living room.
Rosa’s got reggaetón blasting from her phone even though Papá keeps saying “Bájale, hija, the neighbors,” and she keeps pretending not to hear him.
It’s good. It’s loud. It’s home.
I’ve been back less than forty-eight hours, and it’s already like I never left.
My guitar case is leaning against the couch with a pile of coats dumped on it, my duffel half unzipped in my old bedroom where Rosa keeps sneaking in to “borrow” my band shirts.
And me? I’m standing at the kitchen counter, rolling tamales with my mamá like I’m sixteen again instead of twenty-two and too restless for my own skin.
“Your folds are sloppy, Rafael,” Mamá says, snapping another corn husk into place like she’s got the devil on a deadline.
“They’re fine,” I argue, but yeah, mine look like they’ve been through an earthquake compared to hers. “They’re going in people’s mouths, not a beauty contest.”
“Mm.” She shakes her head, her lips twitching like she wants to smile but won’t give me the satisfaction. “Ay, Rosa, ven a ver. Your brother thinks ugly tamales taste the same.”
Rosa sidles in, curls bouncing, eyeliner sharp and I’m sure on-trend. “He’s not wrong,” she says, stealing one of the finished ones and darting back out before Mamá can swat her.
I laugh, ducking as Mamá flicks water at me. This is us: teasing, loud, a little messy but stitched tight.
When Papá comes in from working on the truck, wiping his hands on a rag, he grins like the house is finally full.
“Smells good in here,” he says, pressing a kiss to Mamá’s temple.
Then he looks at me, and there’s pride in it, heavy enough that my chest goes tight.
“Mijo, come sit a minute. I got something for you.”
I follow him into the living room, where the tree is crooked but shining, ornaments from years of school projects still hanging alongside the glass ones Mamá babies. Rosa’s sprawled on the rug, texting God knows who, earbuds in one ear only so she doesn’t miss a thing.
Papá sits in his recliner and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So, you know your second cousin Hector, right?”
I snort. “The one who tried to skateboard off the garage roof? Yeah, I remember Hector.”
“Bueno, his boss’s brother owns a bar in LA. Small place, but it’s got a name. Called The Lantern.”
My head snaps up. “Wait. The Lantern in Silver Lake?”
Papá nods, proud of himself. “That’s the one.”
“Holy shit.” I run a hand over my face. Several bands the guys and I look up to cut their teeth there. This could be a chance, a real one, to get noticed.
“Language,” Mamá calls from the kitchen, but Papá ignores her. He’s grinning too hard.
“The owner told Hector he’s always looking for new acts. Said if you can get him a demo before Ano Nuevo, he’ll take a listen. Might even give you a slot.”
For a second, everything in me stalls out. The TV hums low with some Christmas movie, Rosa’s laughing at whatever she’s reading, Mamá’s pots are clanging—but none of it registers. All I hear is demo before New Year’s.
That’s seven days. Seven days to pull together and clean up something good enough that we’ve already recorded to get through the door of a place that could change everything.
“Papá,” I manage, my voice caught somewhere between awe and panic, “are you serious?”
He spreads his hands. “I wouldn’t lie about this, mijo. You’ve been working hard. I see it. We see it. Maybe this is the next step.”
My chest feels too small for the way my heart’s pounding. The Lantern. Not some dingy frat basement or a half-empty coffee shop. The fucking Lantern.
Rosa finally pulls her earbud out, frowning. “Wait. Did you say The Lantern? The place Violet Static played before they got signed?”
“Sí,” Papá says, clearly loving that he knows the answer.
“Holy sh—ugar” she echoes me, then grins. “Bro, if you get in there, you better not forget who hyped your first garage show.”
“You mean the one you bailed on halfway through because you said it was too loud for your sensitive hearing?” I shoot back, though my voice is distracted, my brain already spiraling ahead.
Songs—we’ve got songs. We’ve got raw energy. What we don’t have? A demo polished enough to hold up under real scrutiny.
But Miles… Miles has the software, the ear, the patience to stitch our rough takes into something that sounds like it belongs.
I hug my papá, then yank my phone from my pocket, thumbs flying in our group text as I head to my room.
Me: Guys. Emergency meeting. Lantern open mic. Demo due before New Year’s. We need a fucking killer demo ASAP.
Bubbles pop up instantly.
Drew: Bro, wtf. Lantern?? As in THE Lantern??
Miles: No way. Are you screwing with us?
Me: Dead serious. Hector’s boss’s brother. Long story. Doesn’t matter. What matters: This is our shot.
Eli: Then let’s not waste it. Miles, please tell me you’ve got your laptop.
Miles: Of course. I’ve got everything we’ve got recorded. I’ll clean it, layer it, tighten the mess where you guys rushed the tempo. We can make it sound studio sharp.
Me: Fuck yes. Okay, I’ll pull together the setlist. Three songs. The best ones.
Drew: More like the only ones worth playing in public.
Me: Shut up and tune your guitar, smartass.
Miles: Give me until the weekend. I can mix on my end, then we’ll do a final listen together. We’ll make this work.
I lean back, pulse hammering. We may not be in the same zip code right now, not even close, but suddenly it feels like we’re all crammed into the college studio again, amps buzzing, sweat and stubborn belief filling the air.
Drew spams the chat with fire emojis. Miles throws in a GIF of somebody fainting. My stomach’s a riot, like every nerve ending decided to have its own mosh pit.
I stare at the phone for a long second before my fingers move again, almost on their own. Not to the group this time. To him.
Because even though I’ve been home less than two days, even though I should be soaking in my family, my brain’s been orbiting Ollie like it can’t break free.
We’ve been texting nonstop—small stuff, dumb stuff, him sending me a picture of snow outside his parents’ house in Wisconsin with the caption trade you for the sun, me sending back a shot of Rosa in a Santa hat holding a tamale like a trophy. It’s easy. It’s addictive.
But this? This feels bigger. And I want his voice in it.
My thumb hovers, the screen reflecting back my own restless face. Group text was instinct. But this call? That’s deliberate. That’s me choosing him, like I can’t not.
I press his name. The dial tone hums in my ear, my heart kicking faster than it ever does before a gig.
The line clicks, and then his voice is there, low and warm, a little distracted but still unmistakably him.
“Hey.”
God, it hits harder than I expect, like a chord vibrating straight through my ribs. He sounds tired, maybe, but glad.
“Hey yourself,” I say, leaning back on my bed, trying to sound casual when my pulse is anything but. “I catch you at a bad time?”
“Not really,” he says. There’s movement in the background, fabric brushing, the muted sound of voices echoing like he’s in a big house. “I was just getting ready. We’re headed to the governor’s Christmas party.”
I blink and sit up straighter. “Of course you are.” My laugh is sharp, because it’s either that or let the weight of how different our nights look crush me.
I’m in sweats, smelling like masa, tamale dough still under my fingernails.
He’s buttoning up a shirt in some chandeliered room, about to shake hands with politicians.
He must hear the edge in my laugh, because he huffs his own, softer. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat. You’ve got tamales and your family. I’ve got an overpriced tux and an evening of speeches.”
“Yeah, but you’ve also got the governor.”
“Don’t remind me,” he mutters, then adds, “Lawrence’ll be there, though.”
“Who?” I try hard to fight the edge of jealousy creeping into my thoughts at the mention of a guy I’ve never heard of.
“Her son. He’s a couple of years younger than me. He helps keep me sane at these things. We sit in the corner and make faces during the speeches. He’s one of the few people who gets it.”
I picture it and feel better: Ollie in a pressed suit, face stoic for the cameras, then cracking a private grin with some kid who’s the only person he can let down his guard with in that world. It does something to me—softens and tightens at once.
“Still,” I say, quieter now, “whole different planet, man.”
“Maybe.” Then, like he can’t help himself: “What about you? What’s up?”
And here it is. I let the silence stretch a second, building it up the way I would before a chorus.
“My cousin’s boss’s brother,” I say, and he chuckles immediately.
“This already sounds sketchy.”
“Shut up. Listen.” My grin feels unstoppable. “The guy owns a bar in LA. The Lantern.”
There’s a pause, like he’s searching his memory. Then he says, “I’ve heard of it.”
“Everybody has. That place is a launchpad. Rusted Fuse, Violet Static, Reckless Youth—half the bands you see on posters started there. They’ve got an open mic that’s basically an audition if the right person’s in the room.”
“Rafe.” His voice sharpens with interest.
“Yeah. Exactly.” I rub the back of my neck, trying to bleed off energy. “He wants a demo before New Year’s. If he likes it, we’re in. We could have a slot.”
For a second, all I hear is his breath on the line, steady but heavier, like he’s actually letting himself imagine it with me.
“That’s… huge,” he says finally. “Bigger than huge.”