9. Beatriz
Beatriz
Waking up next to him yesterday felt... surreal. Like the version of me that used to dream about that moment finally got her wish. His arm was around me, his skin warm against mine, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It felt like something broken inside me had been stitched back together, like all the ache I’d been carrying finally had somewhere to rest. And maybe that’s why I’m letting him pull me along now, why I’m not fighting harder.
Because even after everything, part of me still aches for that feeling—the kind that only ever came from him.
He kissed me good morning like it was the most natural thing in the world. And somehow, it felt like it was.
Even now, back in my my own home, the memory still lingers—his voice low in my ear, the way he looked at me like I was something worth holding onto. Worth staying for.
I reach for my phone, still smiling without meaning to, and check for messages.
Alejandro
I hope you slept well, mi amor. Try not to fall asleep in church thinking about me. You might end up moaning my name. ;)
I snort, almost burning my throat on my coffee as I take a sip. Ridículo.
Another text lights up the screen before I can even respond.
Alejandro
Also—if your dad gives you a hard time today, remember what I said. You don’t owe him an explanation. Be selfish for once. You deserve to be happy.
That one makes the smile falter.
Because it’s Sunday. Which means church.
Which means lunch at my dad’s. Which means explaining what happened with Martin, and what’s happening with Alejandro, to my father, because I said I was sick last Sunday and skipped.
But it’s time to face the music, even though I’m not ready for his reaction.
I type back.
Beatriz
You’re lucky you’re cute, because I almost spit my coffee out. And… thank you. I’m trying.
I linger on the last part before hitting send. Because I am trying. But sometimes trying doesn’t feel like enough.
Getting ready for church used to be a routine.
A dress, a little makeup, hair pulled back, heels that didn't make me regret everything halfway through communion.
Now it feels... heavier. Like the clothes weigh more.
Like there's something sitting on my chest that won't lift, no matter how nice I look.
I smooth out my dress in the mirror, brush a final swipe of gloss across my lips, and glance toward the photo on my dresser.
The frame’s a little chipped at the corner, but I never replaced it.
It was the last one Mami took before she got sick—her smile soft, eyes warm, head tilted like she was laughing at something I said.
I was only fifteen when she passed. Old enough to remember her voice. Too young to remember everything she tried to teach me.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a second, just looking at her.
"What would you say to me right now?" I whisper, voice low. "Would you tell me to listen to Papi? Would you tell me to run?"
The silence stretches, but somehow I hear her anyway. Not her voice exactly, just… her way. The way she used to rest a hand on my back when I was nervous. The way she looked at me like I could survive anything. She always told me I was strong.
I’m trying to be, Mami.
I blink away the burn in my eyes and stand, grabbing my purse and keys.
Outside, the morning sun filters through the trees, golden and soft. I slide into my car, letting the quiet settle over me as I pull out of the driveway and start the drive to church.
One deep breath. One last look in the rearview mirror at a face that’s trying her best.
Let’s get this over with.
The church doors are open when I pull up, just like always.
Light spills across the stone steps like an invitation I didn’t ask for.
This place hasn’t changed in years—same chipped wooden doors, same slow creak when they finally swing closed once everyone is inside, same faces pretending they haven’t aged.
“?Mira nada más! Our princesa has arrived,” a familiar voice calls out, warm and too loud. “So beautiful. Just like your mamá.”
My smile stretches, polite and practiced. I let her pull me into a hug that smells like baby powder and café con leche. “Gracias,” I murmur, even though my throat’s tight and I can’t quite meet her eyes.
They still see the girl I used to be. Or maybe the girl they wanted me to be. Sweet. Good. Untouched by life.
Inside these walls, I’m not allowed to be anything else.
I move through the foyer slowly, giving out hugs like they’re free samples. “So good to see you.” “How is being a teacher?” “You look so grown.” All the same phrases, looping like they didn’t just ask me this last time.
Drea's already sitting in the front pew, saving my spot like she always does. I slide in beside her without a word. She just gives me a side glance, her brows raised slightly, like she’s already guessing I’m not in the mood. She’s not wrong.
Papi is stone-still at the end of the pew, a statue in a pressed shirt and too much cologne. I don’t bother saying anything. We’ll talk at lunch.
Service moves fast. Maybe because I wanted it to feel long. Maybe because my mind is elsewhere—on the night before, on yesterday morning, on how different things feel now that he’s choosing to stay.
Drea hums along with the final hymn, and I watch her hands fold neatly over her lap, her nails still painted that deep burgundy she always says is “timeless.” Her voice is soft when she leans in and whispers, “Lista?”
Ready?
No. But I nod anyway.
We rise with the rest of the church, stepping into the sunlight again, saying goodbye to everyone along the way. I hop in my car and start to drive, but the closer I get, the heavier my stomach feels.
He never really liked Alejandro, and he was furious the last time I told him we were together. And when Alejandro left, he had told me good riddance, that I was better off. The wording was too much for me to take, much like Alejandro’s note.
The streets in Papi’s neighborhood never change, lined with tall royal palms, their fronds swaying leisurely.
The houses sit proud behind wrought-iron gates, manicured hedges hugging driveways like designer accessories.
It’s that old Miami money kind of rich—classic, sun-warmed, and well-kept, but never loud about it.
His house appears around the curve like it always has—painted cream with clay roof tiles that catch the sunlight just right.
The windows still have those white shutters Mami picked out, the ones she claimed made the place look “coastal and refined.” I never saw the difference, but I never argued. She loved those shutters.
The driveway is shaded by a large oak, roots thick and stubborn, cracking the edges of the concrete in slow rebellion. Alejandro used to trip over them on purpose, dramatic as hell, just to get a laugh out of me. I would roll my eyes and tell him he wasn’t funny, even when I was already mid-giggle.
I park and stare at the front steps, at the terra cotta flowerpots lining them.
I swear those have been there since I was a kid, though the flowers inside change every season.
Still. Same chipped edges. Same faint water stains.
One time we kicked a soccer ball too hard and shattered one—Alejandro panicked and tried to glue it back together before my dad came home.
We got grounded for a week anyway. Totally worth it.
Soccer was his passion even back then, and now look at him, playing for a major league team.
I miss his dad working here.
I spot the side gate next, and the memory sneaks in—us climbing over it after sneaking out one summer night, clothes dusty with mulch, him helping me down by the waist like some cheesy teen movie. We weren’t even dating then. I don’t think we realized yet that we already belonged to each other.
And now here I am again, pulling up this same driveway like nothing’s different, like we didn’t break and scatter and bury the pieces.
The past feels loud here. Too loud. And all I want to do is turn around. But I don’t.
I open the door, grab my purse, and force myself to the front steps, heart pounding like it knows something I don’t. The dread is a heavy brick in my stomach as I open the door and step in.
The scent hits me first—warm, familiar, and powerful enough to fold time in on itself. Arroz, white and fluffy, cooking, filling the air with the smell of rice. Frijoles simmered with onion and garlic, black beans to be exact. Sweet plátanos caramelizing in the pan.
I inhale deeper than I mean to, and my eyes flutter shut.
It always smells like my childhood when I come on Sunday, like scraped knees and scoldings, like being sent to set the table while Mami smashed tostones flat and dropped them back into the skillet, crisp edges popping in oil. It smells like love.
My stomach growls in betrayal, louder than I’d like, and I clutch my purse tighter as I walk through the foyer.
The marble floor is polished to a mirror shine as always.
The grand staircase calls the attention, curving to the right like something out of a telenovela, even though no one uses it but Drea when she’s feeling dramatic in heels.
I glance at the small table by the hallway—the same crystal bowl, full of wrapped candies no one ever eats.
The photo frames have been dusted but haven’t moved in years.
One still holds a picture of Mami holding me on the last birthday she celebrated with me, both of us laughing, her curls frizzing in the Miami humidity.
Another shows Drea and I in front of this very house, wearing matching floral dresses we hated. And tucked in the back, dusty but still visible, is one of me, Drea, and Alejandro as children, all of us too young and completely unaware of what was coming.