Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Devon
Of all the things Christian has ever asked me to do, showing up to his little sister's quinceanera uninvited might just be the cruelest.
I don't even think the asshole told anyone I was the one bringing the cake, which becomes painfully obvious the second I step through the side gate into his mom’s backyard.
The place almost looks like it's been decorated for a wedding. White tents are strung across the yard with pink and gold streamers twisting around the trees. Fairy lights adorn long folding tables stretched across the grass, covered in matching tablecloths and piles of food that make my mouth water instantly. Fuck, I'm hungry. Last time I was here, years ago on the Fourth of July, Christian’s mom fed me more food than I could eat. It’s still one of the best home-cooked meals I've ever tasted.
That was the first night I fucked around with Salem and Xed.
I’d spent the evening with them under each of my arms while we watched fireworks, but my eyes had been on Christian the entire evening, wishing he'd give me some attention.
Other than a few disinterested sentences between us here and there, he'd mostly ignored me for Taylor. And Taylor ignored him for Huck.
Round and round the cycle goes.
Music pumps from speakers near the back door, drawing me out of my thoughts.
There are people everywhere. Kids run barefoot through the grass while adults mingle, dressed to the nines with drinks in hand.
I'm pretty sure the girl with the huge puffy dress in the middle of the dance floor is Christian's sister.
Then there's me—slouching in my only pair of jeans and Christian’s leather jacket, looking like a fucking douche canoe with a giant-ass pink box in my arms.
Fuck you, Christian. You absolute dick.
He'd texted me the bakery’s location earlier and said he'd only be an hour or so late. They left hella early this morning, apparently, because he wanted to make it back in time, but I don't think he'll be here soon enough—especially because I've already been noticed.
A teenage girl scrutinizes me from the gift table, dark curls running down her back. Another one of Christian’s sisters, I think. As soon as she starts toward me, my palms start to sweat.
“?Y tú quién eres?” she asks, not unkindly, and I try to remember what little Spanish I know.
“I, uh, soy… un amigo de Christian.” Internally, I cringe at how bad my accent is. “He asked me to bring the… el pastelito.”
That's cake in Spanish, right? I think that's what Christian calls me.
Her lips purse together. “Christian?”
“Yeah,” I nod quickly. “Uh. El hermano?”
She snorts and glances over my shoulder, like she’s expecting him to materialize. Which he does not, of course, so the girl just rolls her eyes before taking the heavy box from my arms. “Food's over there. Make a plate and go sit down.”
Embarrassment floods my cheeks, but I mask it with a smile as best I can and thank her. The uncomfortable feeling only worsens when people start singing, dancing, and taking photos. Don't get me wrong, I've always been the outsider my entire life, but now I viscerally feel it.
I don't belong in places like this. My version of a “happy” family gathering was when I got through dinner without one of my grandparents citing scripture at me.
Even better if they left me alone at the table to finish my meal.
There are so many relatives here, aunts and uncles and cousins—a whole community.
It's overwhelming. They don't even want me here. What the fuck am I doing?
Just as I decide to bolt, Christian be damned, someone speaks from beside me.
“I should have worn what you did, man.”
I stiffen on instinct, but the sight of Christian’s younger brother relaxes me. At least, I'm pretty sure it's him. I only met him once, the last time I was here, and for the life of me, I can't remember the kid's name.
“Huh?” I mumble, taking in his clean suit and perfectly coiffed hair. He definitely belongs to Christian. I can see it in the hazel eyes and cut of his jawline.
The kid gestures at me. “Jeans. Comfy clothes. This monkey suit pinches my chest hairs.”
“Pfft.” Another guy approaches with a smile on his face, close in age to the brother. “What, all three of them?”
“Shut up, primo. At least I can grow a mustache.”
“Who's this?” The guy asks, eyeing me up and down.
“Christian’s boyfriend.”
I choke on my own spit as I inhale sharply. “His what?”
Both boys burst into laughter, but it's not… mocking, or condescending. Just happy.
“I'm just fucking with you,” Christian’s brother says, offering a hand. “Name's Carlos. Not sure you remember me.”
“Kind of.” I shake his hand, still reeling from the comment they made.
“Thomás,” the other guy says, giving me a fist-bump. “You hate my tía's cooking or something?”
When he gestures to all the food I was staring at, I shake my head quickly. “No, I'm just… nervous as fuck. I don't know what I'm doing here.”
Why did I stay instead of hightailing it the fuck back home?
Carlos chuckles. “Don't be scared, we're cool. Any friend of my brother's is a friend of ours.”
The tightness in my chest eases a little.
“So how is my cousin, anyway?” Thomás asks. “Where is his bitch ass?”
Shrugging, I blow out a heavy breath. “He had some stunt work come up, but he'll be here soon. I think he's okay. Been drinking a lot.”
Not that I'm one to talk, but it's true.
Carlos's brows furrow slightly. “So long as it's not vodka, he's fine.”
Going still, I open my mouth to tell him that it is, in fact, vodka, when a young boy appears at his side with a soccer ball under his arm. He tugs on Carlos’s sleeve, and the two share a conversation in Spanish.
“Wanna play?” Carlos asks, gesturing to the boy who runs off kicking the ball.
“Uh, sure…”
Abandoning the food, which I really wanted to eat, I follow him and Thomás over to a large field behind the house.
It’s wide and uneven, grass chewed up in long tracks.
A few portable ramps sit near the fence line, along with dirt mounds and an above-ground pool filled with mismatched foam pieces.
I remember this place from that Fourth of July all those years ago.
Christian and Taylor practice their stunts here.
“So,” Carlos says, gesturing to a group of kids kicking the ball in the middle of the field. “These are all my little cousins. Well, most of them. You saw a few dancing with my sisters. And that's my tío, Ruben.”
He gestures to an older man playing soccer with the kids, and I glance back over my shoulder toward the party. “No dad around?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Mom left him when we were all little. It was just her, Christian, and us.”
“Oh.” With a frown, I return my attention back to Carlos. “How old were you?”
“Like… I don't know, seven? The girls were babies.”
So that would have made Christian what? Eleven? Twelve?
My chest tightens in a way I don’t like.
“Damn,” I mutter, watching his uncle scoop up one of the kids and spin her around. “I'm sorry.”
Carlos shrugs nonchalantly, but there's something careful in his expression. “S'okay. We had Christian when mom needed to work longer shifts. He made sure homework got done and dinner happened. Nobody died, so, yeah. We had it pretty good.”
The ball rolls toward us, and one of the kids sprints after it, tripping over his own feet before face-planting into the dirt.
Ruben—the uncle—is there in a heartbeat, hauling the kid up to brush him off like it’s nothing.
When he notices us, he calls out to Thomás in Spanish, then turns to me. “You play?”
Feeling a little awkward, I shove my hands into my pockets and shake my head. “Not since, uh, summer camp when I was a teenager. I don't remember much.”
To be honest, sports were the only thing I liked. Being surrounded by all of the other kids felt safer than being isolated with a certain counselor.
“It's okay, I'll teach you.” The man waves us over, and before I can come up with a polite excuse to decline, he tosses the ball toward me. It hits my shin and rolls a few feet away.
“See?” he laughs. “You’re a natural.”
A couple of the kids giggle, one of them darting in to steal the ball. Instinct kicks in like muscle memory as I chase after them, an involuntary grin on my face. Carlos and Thomás jump in as well.
For a while, it’s just noise and motion. Dirt under my shoes, the sting of cold air in my lungs and the night sky stretching out above us. I miss an easy block, and a little girl darts away triumphantly with a toothy smile.
Is this the kind of life I could have lived if I'd been raised… differently? Is this what Logan had? Family get-togethers and playtime with our younger brothers?
Thomás jogs past me, stealing the ball back with an exaggerated spin that makes me stumble. I go down on one knee hard, sending an ache up my hip, but… I’m laughing—genuinely laughing while one of the kids helps me to my feet.
No one's yelling at the kids for being kids, like my grandparents used to do. Ruben just calls out encouragement, and Carlos throws me a thumbs-up when I miraculously score a goal.
This is what Christian grew up with. Family, love, support. Maybe a mother who worked a lot and had a child raising children, but… I don't think she was absent, despite all of that. Not from what I can tell.
I swallow hard, eyes tracking the ball when it sails across the field again. The music swells behind us, and somewhere near the house, people cheer as the dancing and singing continue. The stars are clear overhead, scattered across the sky as they twinkle down on us. Ever watching.
I’ve spent most of my life convinced they only saw the worst of me. Every bad choice, every dirty secret. Every time I let someone use me because it meant they wanted me around—even if only for a moment.
I always thought the stars were keeping score.
But standing here now, surrounded by strangers who welcomed me simply because they love Christian, I’m starting to wonder if that’s not true.
Maybe the stars haven’t been waiting for me to fail at all.
Maybe… just maybe, they’ve been my support system this entire time. Quietly watching until I learned the hard way that I can’t keep blaming the sky for the choices I've made on the ground.