5. Alejandro #2
When neither of them moves, I drag a chair over, planting myself next to her with my arm draped around the back of her seat.
I hold his gaze, letting the challenge settle in the air between us.
His green eyes flicker, but instead of stepping up, he just clears his throat and glances at her, his lips curling.
“This is what you were up to last night? Or should I say who?”
Beatriz stiffens beside me, but the insult is aimed right at her. My jaw tightens. “She’s an adult. She can sleep with whoever she wants.”
But Beatriz is silent, motionless. It’s like she’s been hollowed out, stripped of that fire that used to flash in her eyes at the slightest hint of disrespect.
I remember when she would have been the first to get in his face, tearing him down without hesitation.
Now, she just stares blankly, her lips pressed tight.
“Not when she has a fiancé,” he snaps, his gaze sharp as it shifts back to me.
I scoff, unable to hold back. “Funny, coming from the guy who couldn’t keep it in his pants.”
His eyes darken, and a flash of anger—maybe even panic—flares there. He wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t expecting her to know. His lips part, probably with some pathetic excuse ready to fall out, but I cut him off before he has the chance.
“Save it. You’re a piece of trash, and you need to go before I make you.” I lean forward, muscles taut, ready for anything he tries to pull. My fists itch for a fight, and I know if this turns into one, I’ll end up benched for the next few games. But right now, the risk barely registers.
Around us, a few people are whispering, heads tilting in our direction, a mix of recognition and intrigue flashing in their eyes.
Phones come out, fingers flying over screens as my name starts to circulate.
A girl in the corner gets up, heading toward us with stars in her eyes, and I know it’s time to get out of here.
I stand, my hand slipping around Bee’s to pull her up.
“Don’t let me see you talking to her again.
Your relationship is over. You never deserved her in the first place.
” Without giving him a second glance, I lead her outside, anger simmering just below the surface.
I yank the car door open, holding it for her. “Get in.”
My tone comes out sharper than I intend, and for a second, she hesitates. Her shoulders are tense, and I can practically feel the weight of her confusion and doubt. I slide in the driver seat, my mind a storm of frustration and hurt.
Is this why she said she was sorry? Sorry that I’m not who she remembers, that she’d rather be with someone who treats her like nothing?
The car is silent, her breaths shallow and quick in the quiet space.
When I glance over, she flinches, her gaze dropping, like she’s expecting something worse than words.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to look away, my fingers digging into the steering wheel as I try to keep the anger in check.
After a moment, she buckles up and I take off, driving aimlessly, needing to put space between us and that place.
“Mind telling me what’s going on, Bee? Because it looked like he didn’t know he was your ex-boyfriend.”
Her response is barely above a whisper. “Fiancé.”
It hits me like a punch to the gut, the word hanging in the air, cold and heavy. Fiancé?
He had said it, but I didn't believe it, or maybe I didn’t care to give it voice.
I slam on the brakes, jolting both of us forward as I pull onto the shoulder. A chorus of honks erupt around us, but I don’t care. I turn to her, refusing to let it go until she explains. “I’m sorry— what? Don’t you mean ex -fiancé?”
Her gaze drops, a faint flush creeping over her cheeks as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s too damn beautiful, even with that look of guilt shadowing her features.
“I... never officially ended it.”
“That’s not what you made it sound like last night.” My voice is sharper than I intend, the frustration boiling over.
“Sorry,” she mutters, and the word is barely audible, like she’s struggling just to say it.
My grip on the wheel tightens. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
She looks away, her hands clenched in her lap, and I pull back into the flow of traffic, the silence thick and tense. We drive for a few minutes, the only sounds being her shallow breaths and the hum of the engine.
“What do you want me to say, Alejandro?” she finally asks, voice strained. “I didn’t exactly stick around to talk after I found him with her.” Her fingers tighten, knuckles white, and for a split second, I see a glimpse of the fire that used to be there.
“Call him,” I demand. “Text him, I don’t care. End it now, Bee. Now .”
Her gaze snaps to me, fire flaring in her eyes. There it is. “Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?”
“Someone who cares about you,” I snap back, the words raw, stripped down to something I didn’t mean to reveal.
“Oh, you care about me? So much so you leave with nothing but a note after we—” Her voice falters, bitterness flashing in her eyes as she swallows the memory.
I should have left before anything happened that night, but I was selfish and I wanted her to have that part of me. I wanted our first time to be together, even if it would be our only time.
“I care, Bee. I always have.” My eyes stay fixed on the road, refusing to stray her way. If I look at her now, I’ll end up saying more than I should, letting slip the things I’ve locked up tight for so long.
“Sure.” Her tone is flat, dripping with doubt. Why would she believe me? I’ve given her every reason not to. But she needs to know, to understand how much she means to me.
I take the right on Nineteenth without asking, roll past the row of palms, and pull into the lot by the garden.
Bee goes still beside me, fingers knotting together in her lap.
She doesn’t look at me when I kill the engine.
She watches the gate. Breathes in. Breathes out.
Then, with her voice flat, “Why are we here?”
“You used to like it,” I say.
“That was a long time ago.” Her jaw works once. “Alejandro, just—what are we doing?”
“Talking,” I say, and get out before I can second-guess it.
I circle to her side and open the door. She hesitates, then slides out.
I don’t take her hand. I want to, but I don’t.
We walk under the bougainvillea arch. Late light makes everything soft—wide leaves, low water, the small stones along the path.
Her sandals scuff once. She keeps pace, shoulders squared like she’s bracing for something she can’t see yet.
At the bridge, I stop where the creek runs slow.
We stand at the rail and watch two ripples pass as a kid laughs in the distance and then it’s quiet again.
I turn her to face the water, pressing against her back, pinning her in place.
She smells like vanilla and something sweeter, her skin soft under my fingertips as I grip her hips, holding her close.
“Look at yourself, Bee,” I whisper close, my breath warm against her skin.
I guide her gaze to the creek’s surface, our reflections shifting on the water. “What do you see?”
She stares at me, then down. Our reflections shift side by side. She looks tired and stubborn and beautiful, and I hate that I’m the reason the first two exist.
She’s silent, either unwilling to yield or simply lost for words. Her mouth parts slightly, but she holds back. I lean in, letting my lips brush the shell of her ear. “You know what I see?”
I pause, searching for the right words, wanting her to feel the weight of them. “When I look at you, I see the most beautiful woman in the world,” I murmur, “but behind those eyes… so much pain, so much uncertainty.”
She looks away. “Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t try to sweet talk me and expect me to forget how you broke my heart.”
“Okay.” I breathe once, letting her go and taking a step back. “You want details. Fine. You deserve details.”
Her eyes flick to mine, wary but listening.
“I see a girl who learned to be strong because life demanded it,” I say.
“A girl who carried everyone when nobody thought to ask if she needed to be carried. I see the woman she grew into—who keeps showing up for her sister, for her father, even when it’s hard.
I see someone who didn’t deserve to be left with a note.
I see the line I crossed and the trust I broke.
” I grip the rail so I don’t reach for her.
“I’m sorry, Bee. Not the easy kind of sorry you toss out to patch a fight.
The kind that wakes you in the middle of the night and doesn’t let you go back to sleep. ”
Her lips part. She blinks fast, then looks down again at the water, like she needs a place to set the words that just hit her.
“I can’t take that morning back,” I say quietly. “If I could, I would. I’d take every minute of that day and redo it until it stopped hurting. But life doesn’t work that way.”
“You think I don’t know that?” she says, voice sharp, not loud. “I woke up and you were gone, Alejandro. Not gone like late for practice. Gone like vanished. Like I imagined the entire thing.”
“I know,” I say. The admission is a weight I’ve carried alone for years. Saying it to her makes my chest ache and ease at the same time. “I made a choice and it cut you open. That’s on me.”
“Why are we here, Ale?” She gestures at the green, at the bridge, at the water that keeps moving even though we don’t. “To apologize again? What good is that?”
“To tell the truth without touching you,” I say. “So you know I’m not trying to confuse you.”
She flinches a little at that, like I hit something too close to bone. “It's still confusing.”
“I know,” I say again.
A dragonfly skims the surface and zips away as we stand there. Bee’s breathing evens out, then rocks. She presses her thumb into the railing like she’s grounding herself.
“Do you ever think about it?” she whispers. “About what we would’ve been if you hadn’t left?”
“Every day.” It comes out before I can dress it up.
She swallows. “Me too.” Then, fast, like she regrets admitting it, “Which is stupid, because imaging what ifs and trusting again are not the same thing.”
“They aren’t,” I say. “I’m not asking you to trust me because we used to be good. I’m asking you to watch who I am now.”
Silence again. She studies our reflections as if they might argue with me for her.
“You say you’re different,” she says at last. “But you feel the same when you’re this close. And that scares me.” She lifts her chin, eyes finally meeting mine. “You left me once and it took me years to breathe right again. I’m not sure I can survive the same mistake twice.”
“I won’t ask you to risk yourself like that,” I say, and I mean it. “All I can promise is I won’t disappear again. I’ll show up where you can see me. No vanishing. If you tell me you want space, I’ll give you space. If you tell me to wait, I’ll wait.”
Her mouth trembles and firms. “You say it like it’s simple.”
“It isn’t simple,” I say. “It’s just true.”
She stares past me, toward the path where the bamboo shades the stone. “Back then,” she says, voice softer, “you made me feel safe. Like I didn’t have to question if you loved me. But when you left, it was like the rug got ripped out from under me—I didn’t know what to believe anymore.”
“I’m not proud of that,” I say. “If I could put that version of me in front of you now, I’d tell him to be brave in the right direction. I’d tell him to fight smarter. To choose the hard thing that keeps you, not the hard thing that loses you.”
Her eyes gloss. She looks away fast so the tears won’t fall. “You don’t get credit for understanding that now.”
“I’m not looking for credit,” I say. “I’m looking for a chance.”
Bee’s shoulders drop a fraction. “What does that even mean? A chance to what?”
“To do this right,” I say. “To take you out. To listen. To answer questions I should’ve answered a long time ago.
To sit next to you at lunch and not talk if you don’t want to talk.
To bring you coffee and not make it a move.
To be someone you can lean on again, whether or not you ever call it love. ”
She laughs through her nose, small and disbelieving. “Coffee isn’t neutral with you.”
“Then water,” I say. “I can do water.”
Something like a smile tries to find her mouth. It doesn’t make it. She sets her palms on the rail and leans, thinking. When she speaks again, it’s not about me. “I miss feeling light. I miss laughing without second-guessing what was coming next. I miss believing every word you told me."
It’s a knife and a map at once.
“I know,” I say. “I want to give you that again, if you'll let me.”
She looks at me like she’s testing the shape of that promise. “And if I ask you questions you don’t want to answer?”
“I’ll answer anyway,” I say. “Or I’ll tell you straight that I can’t, and why. No lies.”
Her throat works. She nods once, small. “Okay.”
“Okay… yes?” I ask, careful.
“Okay, I heard you,” she says. “Okay, I’m not running right this second.
” She pulls a slow breath. “But I need time, Alejandro. I need to go slow. I need to feel like I’m the one choosing and not getting pulled by…
all of this.” She gestures between us, helpless and honest. “Because it’s still here, and I hate that it’s still here. ”
“I don’t,” I say, because it's true. I'm glad to know that I'm not the only one still in love, even after all these years. She shoots me a look that says watch it, so I soften. “But I respect that you do.”
A breeze moves through the bamboo and makes a leaf tap the handrail. She flinches, then relaxes like her nerves are finally stepping down.
“Do you want to sit?” I ask. “We don’t have to talk. We can just… be here.”
She thinks about it. “No,” she says finally. “Not today.”
“Okay.”
She takes one more long look at the water. Our reflections blur as a turtle breaks the surface, then vanish and reform. Something in her face shifts with it—still wary, but less guarded.
“Can you take me home, please?” she asks, voice steady now.