Chapter 1
Then
August: Three years and seven months ago
For the past eighteen years of my life, I’d become an expert at reading my parents. Predicting their whims, knowing when to ask for something and when to keep my mouth shut. When to push a topic and when to drop it.
From the way María Castillo’s brows pinched together and the concerned tilt of Juan Castillo’s lower lip, I could tell they regretted this. My parents were seconds away from dragging me onto that plane and back to the scorching, familiar Caribbean heat.
They’d lasted a whole two days longer than I’d expected.
“It’s . . . big.” Despite trying to fit into the English-speaking environment, Mom’s accent was thick. She gaped at the high ceilings, eyes raking over the rising rows of seats in the lecture hall. With one last lingering look at the families around us, she turned to me.
Oh yeah. Big-time concern was written all over her face.
“Don’t worry, Mami.”
I tried not to freak out at the prospect of her freaking out, so I waved her off, pretended like I didn’t wholeheartedly agree with her.
Dad mirrored the sentiment. “Mi vida,” he muttered, trying to swallow his own worries. His hand rested in the small of her back, nudging her out into the hallway. When his eyes found mine, one thing was clear: We were on the same page.
And he was desperate to get Mom there too, trying to convince her of how sure he was I’d find my place here. “Estoy seguro de que nuestra Paulita se integrará—”
But Mom’s head swiveled in his direction so fast, he swallowed his Spanish before she’d even said anything. Her withering glare probably helped.
“Cono, Juan. Por favor. English!” With one glance down the hallway, she made sure no one had heard the accidental Spanish slip.
Not that anyone cared as much as she did.
But if there was one thing my mom couldn’t stand, it was sticking out. If there was another, it would probably be not knowing what her only daughter was doing at any given moment.
Which clearly made the prospect of leaving me in a foreign country more appealing on paper.
Proudly telling cousins, aunts, and uncles that her daughter was going to study in America had been fun, but she did not seem to be a fan of what it would actually entail—leaving me behind, alone, in America.
Her brows furrowed, she chewed on her red-painted bottom lip, and I had about two seconds to convince her that I was supposed to be here.
At Hall Beck University. In the United States. About 1,600 miles from the Dominican Republic. Home.
Harder than it sounded when I wasn’t fully convinced of it myself yet.
“Look,” I began, tentatively nudging her into one of the smaller rooms we’d passed on the orientation tour.
Gone were the rising rows of chairs and the intimidating podium where professors held hour-long lectures.
Entering a simple classroom that would hopefully shake my parents out of their shock-like state, my shoulders sagged with a little bit of relief.
“It’s not so different from Universidad Tecnológica de Santiago. ”
That’s where I’d probably end up if I didn’t sway this situation in my favor. Fast.
Mom shook her head, a disapproving tsk passing through her teeth.
“Don’t lie, Paulita,” she said. Looking at the wall of windows and the tablet on each seat, she was probably right when she said, “This is nothing like UTESA.” She sighed.
“I . . . don’t know. Maybe you should come back with us after all. What do you think, Juan?”
Panic. It zipped through my body, white and hot, as she directed a questioning look at Dad. For the life of me, I could not remember a single instance in which he’d denied my mother a single thing. It didn’t seem like he was about to start now.
I could see him slip. He was probably already calculating the cost of an extra ticket back to Puerto Plata.
“No!” My intervention kept him from so much as a nod that would set their decision in stone.
“Why? Think of how good this school will look on my CV! You’ve already told Aunt .
. . all of the aunts about it. And the cousins!
Can’t forget about the cousins.” All twenty-three of them. “What would they think?”
But her head continued shaking, and I was losing momentum here.
“No.” Her eyes drifted to me again. “I don’t care about that.
” Lie. “We just want what’s best for you, Paula.
I don’t know if that’s here. I mean . . .
have you . . . adjusted?” Concern found its way back into her brown eyes. “Have you made any friends yet?”
I was not surprised by the fact that Mom’s only worry was how well I’d fit in—how popular I’d be.
And I did not feel guilty about the lie that flew out of my mouth either.
“Yes!” I had not. “Of course.” Hadn’t even met my roommates yet. “Is that what you’re worried about, Mami?”
“No.”
Yes. Yes. Yes! She was lying too, and I could work with that.
“Oh,” I swooned, slowly guiding my parents away from the spot where they’d almost made a decision that would’ve jeopardized my entire future. Just in case it would remind them of it. “I’ve met amazing people. They’re all so . . . chatty here!”
“Americans do love to talk,” Dad agreed gruffly. “Loudly too.”
“Really?” Mom wondered. I wasn’t quite sure whether she’d asked me or Dad to elaborate, but I took over. Finally, there was a glimmer of hope. Light at the end of the tunnel. She looked relieved, and I could build on that.
If all I needed to fake was an outstanding social life for the next four years, I’d call that a win.
“Really,” I assured them, throwing all the conviction I could into my gaze. It stayed on them even when we continued making our way out of the room. “We spent all day together yesterday,” I lied as I walked backward. “And—”
I couldn’t build on my lie when I backed into a solid . . . something. Then, startled, felt myself slip.
I prepared to hit the floor face-first. On impact, my parents would realize I wasn’t fit to take care of myself because, well, I’d landed myself in the hospital with a head injury two days into my independence journey, and I’d be forced to agree with them.
Mentally, I was already back in the Dominican Republic before I’d even made it to the ground.
I never did.
Instead, I felt a cool hand curl around my wrist, yanking me upright and keeping me there until I managed to find my footing.
I did not face-plant, only stumbled into Dad’s chest when the stranger’s grip around me loosened. And instead of my parents realizing I was in no condition to take care of myself, I heard an ironic and unfamiliar “Eyes up. Or you might hurt someone.”
Followed by Mom’s curious voice. “Do you two know each other?” She sounded . . . excited, and suddenly I did not care who I’d just run into. They would have to do.
I turned just in time to silence him with a look, his lips already parted to give the obvious answer: No.
“Yes!” I blurted, ignoring the confused furrowing of his dark brows. Ignoring how beautifully they contrasted his green eyes. Wincing, I mouthed, Please. Then added, Sorry.
Turning to my parents, I took a step back to stand beside the brunette stranger, his hair a few shades lighter than my own brown curls. “Of course!” I doubled down cheerily. Too cheerily? “This is . . .”
With the way he winced, I might’ve gently nudged my elbow into his side a little too forcefully. But it must’ve conveyed my desperation accurately, because he straightened beside me and extended his hand.
“Henry Pressley. Pleasure to finally meet you.” His eyes only flicked in my direction for a second before he went on. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
How much could I have potentially told him in the two days we’re supposed to have known each other?
I was surprised to hear Dad speak first.
“Pressley?” He repeated the name under his breath, barely loud enough for me to pick up his next words either. Like they weren’t intended for the audience he had. “?Dónde fue que escuché ese nombre?”
Instead of answering where Dad could’ve heard the name before, Mom lovingly rammed her elbow into his ribs at the second Spanish slip of the day.
“Henry!” she cheered a little louder, smile forced and eyes glued to the boy. Probably to distract from Dad’s Spanish and to compensate for his whispering. “No wonder Paula talked so much about you.”
I hadn’t, obviously. And in any other circumstance, I might’ve been embarrassed by the revelation, however false. But Henry’s appearance had made her forget that I hadn’t mentioned anyone until two minutes ago, so it was worth the little color in my cheeks.
“Has she?” His eyes slid to me again before he looked back at my parents. “Only good things, I hope.”
“Of course.” Mom waved him off, again forgetting I hadn’t talked about him at all. She seemed too blinded by the possibility of her daughter actually making a friend. Like she couldn’t believe it.
Awesome.
“Pressley!” Dad blurted, only realizing he hadn’t used his inside voice when his head snapped up. His eyes widened. “Triste—no! Sorry! Sorry.”
It wasn’t clear whether he was apologizing to Henry for the outburst or to Mom for the Spanish.
His gaze darted between the two so quickly, I couldn’t be sure.
At last, they settled on the stranger, and a little calmer, though still rattled, he said, “You’re Felix Pressley’s son. The soccer player.”
The shadow that moved across Henry’s face was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Like it was nothing, he put on a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and said, “That’s right, sir.”
I smiled too, because I knew Dad’s favorite thing about Americans was that they regularly called him sir.
“You a fan?” Henry asked.
I’d never had a particular problem with my family’s bluntness, but when my dad shook his head and said, “Not really,” I wished they had a filter for moments like these. The smile on my face fell.
I expected the same reaction from Henry. But instead of offended gasps, insults thrown, and my little lie revealed, his smile seemed to be genuine. “Yeah.” He snickered, sounding relieved more than anything. “Me neither.”
And then they bonded.
For a solid fifteen minutes, it was obvious to anyone in our vicinity that my dad knew the guy beside me—or his father—better than I did. But as long as Mom had a smile on her face, seemed delighted by the conversation, and wasn’t catching on to my lie, I was happy.
When my parents finally headed outside, the idea of taking me back home with them seemingly forgotten, my sigh was so loud that it carried through the corridor. “You might’ve just accidentally saved my ass, Henry.”
“Well, Paula.” I could hear the grin in his voice.
I didn’t have to look at him, and in fact, my eyes were still glued to the double doors that just closed behind my parents.
“Always happy to help a friend out when she’s .
. .” He trailed off, hoping I’d fill in the blanks. “When she’s what, actually?”
“Oh, you know.” I waved him off halfheartedly, my own smile audible.
“Just trying to convince her parents she has a raging social life two days into college before they change their mind and make her go to school back home.” I realized then that I was speaking about myself in the third person, which was probably weird. Weirder than my explanation.
So I cleared my throat, finally glanced his way, and gave a sheepish shrug when our eyes connected. “No biggie.”
“Of course.” The amusement in his voice made me hopeful that the whole third-person thing hadn’t been as off-putting as I’d feared. “Should’ve guessed that one myself, actually. My bad.”
To really look at him, my head craned upward. He’d tamed his light-brown hair in a casual-enough middle part, white T-shirt tucked into tailored pants and fitting snugly around his biceps. I blinked once.
I’ll be damned. Just my luck; Henry Pressley was irrefutably and undeniably . . . hot. Mind-blowingly gorgeous.
When my eyes snapped back up to his dark-green ones, he raised an eyebrow comically. “For what it’s worth,” he mused, “I think my performance might’ve changed their minds.” He nodded in the direction of their departure, though his gaze stayed fixed on mine. “Hope I’ll see you around?”
And I had a feeling I would.
“Here’s to hoping.”