37. Gabriela
Chapter 37
Gabriela
I ’ve always been the kind of person who focuses on what I can control. Life throws curveballs at me, and after everything with Joaquín and the chaos of high school drama, I learned early on that keeping a grip on the basics—work, taking care of Mireya, and finishing college—was the key to surviving it all.
There are days when that feels like enough. I wake up early, work through a stack of bills that need to be paid and assignments, cook Mireya’s meals, and keep the house running. It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine. And I’m surviving.
Still, there are days—like today—when things seem to happen that make me stop and take notice, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
This morning, for instance, I wake up to the sound of a lawnmower buzzing just outside my window.
I rub my eyes and glance at the clock. It’s seven forty-five in the morning. Too early for landscaping—my neighbors suck so hard.
I stretch and yawn, my bare feet cold against the carpet as I shuffle across my room. Mireya’s still asleep in her room, curled up under the blankets like she hasn’t a care in the world. It’s one of those moments when the house feels still, quiet, like everything outside could be forgotten.
But not today.
I peek through the blinds. To my surprise, Joaquín is in the yard, in faded jeans and an old t-shirt, pushing the mower across the front lawn. His broad back is to me, but I can see the way he’s concentrating on the task, the slow, methodical movement of his body.
I haven’t asked him to do this. I haven’t asked him to do anything, except work on himself. But there he is, cutting the grass, washing my car, fixing things that aren’t even broken—things I haven’t noticed needed fixing. It’s strange how he seems to show up at exactly the right times, doing things I never expected.
I don’t know what to make of him anymore.
Maybe he is changing.
I lean against the doorframe, just watching him for a moment. He is everything I find attractive in a guy and I get lost in watching him work so hard. Maybe I should go out and thank him. Maybe I should tell him to stop doing things for me, but it feels like such a stupid thing to say. He’s doing it for us.
After a minute, I exhale and walk toward the door, knowing I’m not going to ignore him forever. It’ll be easier if I could, but I’m addicted to him.
“Joaquín!” I call as I step onto the porch. My voice sounds rough, like I’ve just woken up—because I have. He looks up from his truck, and when his eyes find mine, a small, almost guilty smile spreads across his face. He pushes the mower the rest of the way into the bed and closes the tailgate.
“Hey, Gabriela,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Morning.”
He looks at me like he’s not sure whether I’m going to tell him to leave or invite him in. It’s hard to keep that distance between us now, but I’m trying. I’m so damn tired of fighting the love I have for him. I’m at a point where he could touch my arm and I’d drag him inside and beg for him to keep touching me.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, nodding toward the yard, the car, everything. It feels awkward to be standing here while he works so hard on something I didn’t ask for. I hate I can’t just thank him without feeling this strange mix of gratitude and frustration.
“I know,” he says with a shrug. His voice is calm, almost too easy. “But it seemed like something you might appreciate. I figured I’d save you the trouble.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I didn’t realize it was that bad,” I say, gesturing to the car.
His smile softens a little, and he shrugs again. “It wasn’t. But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take care of it. Can’t have my girls riding around with a dirty windshield during the rainy season.”
His girls.
Fuck, I’m going to crack. I know it.
A part of me wants to protest, wants to say I don’t need him, that I’m fine on my own. But another part of me, the part that’s tired of being so strong all the time, just... appreciates it. Even if I’m still not sure where we stand.
“Okay,” I finally say, folding my arms across my chest, trying to sound casual. “But I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I know,” he replies, his voice soft, but there’s no hesitation. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t need to. It’s just a fact, and we both know it. “Let me take care of the things that I can. I want to take care of you, Gabriela. You and Mireya.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. I don’t know if I even can respond. My mind keeps flashing back to everything that’s happened—the tension between us, the way things have been left unresolved, the way we haven’t addressed the past.
“Okay,” I finally say, swallowing whatever discomfort I’m feeling. “Thanks, I guess.”
Then, in a surprising move, Joaquín takes a step toward me, a small but purposeful gesture. His voice drops a little quieter than usual.
Oh, God. Is he going to touch me? I don’t know if I have the strength to not fling myself into his arms if he does.
“Also,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “I was wondering if you’d hand over the keys to the car. I thought I could do a quick oil change and a tune-up. It won’t take long.”
I blink at him, caught off guard by the offer. “You don’t have to do all of that,” I say, though I can already hear how ridiculous I sound. He’s doing it whether I say yes or no.
“I want you safe,” he says, eyes meeting mine. “And I’m already here, and it’ll only take an hour. I figured it’d be one less thing you have to worry about.”
I hesitate. I want to refuse. I want to say I’m fine handling it myself. But I also know that, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not just about the car. It’s about everything else—the unspoken way Joaquín’s been trying to fix things, to make up for all the shit that’s gone down. And for whatever reason, today, I can’t say no.
I turn to the mail table and grab the keys from the dish. “Okay. I appreciate it,” I say, handing them over. My voice softens a little, and for the first time in a long while, it feels like I’m saying something other than just okay.
Okay, I forgive you.
Okay, let’s finally talk.
Okay, touch me and tell me you love me.
“No problem,” Joaquín says, taking the keys from me, his fingers brushing mine in the process. He gives me one of those rare smiles, the kind that feels like it might mean something more but doesn’t say it out loud. “I’ll be done soon.”
As he walks back to the car, I linger on the porch for a few moments, watching him work. It’s odd, the way he seems to be everywhere, doing everything I haven’t asked him to do. Fixing things, taking care of things—like he’s trying to prove something.
It dawns on me. Actions. He is showing me he is changing.
* * *
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I put the bills I was going through down. I pull it out and see a text from Joaquín. He only left an hour ago, so I wonder what he could have to say now.
I just wanted to let you know I started seeing a therapist. I’m trying to deal with everything that went down between my parents in a healthier way.
I stare at the message for a moment, unsure how to react. He’s finally facing the things that have hurt us and that have hurt him. I’m not sure if it’s a good sign or just another attempt to make up for past mistakes, but it’s a sign of something. A step in the right direction, maybe.
I don’t think twice before typing back.
I’m glad to hear that, Joaquín. But I think you need to think about where you’re living, too. Maybe being with your dad isn’t helping. He drinks, and from what Thiago has told Cora, he says things that aren’t fair to you. It’s hard to heal when you’re in that environment.
I hit send, then hold my breath, wondering if I’ve overstepped. But I mean it. Joaquín can’t keep pretending that living with a man who blames him for everything that’s gone wrong in their lives isn’t a problem.
A few minutes pass before his response comes through.
I know. It’s hard. But I’m trying to figure it out. I’ll think about what you said. Thanks for being honest with me.