11. Alejandro Sixteen-Years-Old #2
“It was more for me than you. I can't see you dancing like that... it's embarrassing,” I joke, teasing her like always, because I can’t say what I would really like to. Because I'm a coward.
I like being where you are. I like being the person who gets to make you feel like this.
"Whatever. Jerk!" She playfully shoves my arm and I rub it, pretending it hurt.
She straightens and the room quiets with the song change. Something softer filters in from the speaker, low and sweet, an ad or a radio switch. She exhales, eyes bouncing from my face to the floor and back. “You want water?”
“Sure.”
She walks to the kitchen and I follow, because I’ve learned not to leave her in the quiet if I can help it. She hands me a glass and leans on the counter, tapping the beat of whatever the radio chooses next.
“How’s your dad?” she asks.
“Good. He says your mango tree is dramatic.”
She snorts. “My dad says that about everything that grows. If he can’t control it, it’s dramatic.”
I don’t answer. I’m not good at talking about fathers in this house. Not yet. She seems to hear the thought anyway because she bumps her shoulder against my arm.
“Knowing you, you've been working all day beside him,” she says. “You could’ve gone home instead of coming inside.”
“I wanted to see you,” I say. “To check on you.” It comes out quieter than I planned. Truer, too.
Her eyes flicker. Not away—just down, like she’s tucking it somewhere safe. “I’m okay,” she says. “Today I’m okay.”
I nod. “Tomorrow if you’re not, I’m still here.”
She looks up fast at that. “I know.”
We carry the water back to the living room. Bee sinks onto the couch and crosses her ankles while I sit at the other end. We don’t touch, but the air between us fills with things that feel a lot like touching. Her foot brushes mine once and stays.
“Are you going out with your dad later?” she asks.
“Probably. He wants to finish the bed along the driveway.”
She makes a face. “I hate that bed. It’s so… neat.”
“That bed pays for my cleats,” I say. “Respect the bed.”
She laughs again, then bites her lip. “You’re going to try out this summer, right? For the bigger league?”
“I think so.”
“You should,” she says immediately. “You’re good.”
“You haven’t watched me in a while.”
“I’ve watched you enough to know,” she says, dropping her chin, stubborn in a way that makes me want to shake her and kiss her in the same breath. “You’re good.”
I look at her. Her hair’s slipped out of the knot she tried to make. A strand sticks to her cheek. I want to tuck it behind her ear and keep my hand there. My chest does that squeeze again, the one that’s been happening more lately, especially since January.
She clears her throat. “Sorry. I’ve been… talking a lot.”
“I like it.”
She angles her face toward mine, as if she’s checking for a lie and can’t find one. The radio stumbles into an ad, then a weather report, then nothing for half a second. In that half second, the room shifts. We both feel it.
I stand because if I don’t, I’ll say something I can’t pull back. I hold out a hand like an idiot. “Come on. One more dance.”
“Dance to silence?” she asks, mouth curved.
“Better than dancing to that car dealership commercial.”
She takes my hand, slides off the couch, and lets me draw her close. The station finds another slow song. I don’t know the name. I don’t care. We sway soft, her cheek inches from mine, her hand warm and small in my palm.
“You’re better at this than I am,” she murmurs.
“Lie,” I say, and she smiles against my jaw. I can feel it.
We don’t talk for a minute. It’s not awkward. It’s good. Her breath evens. Her body loosens. She rests more of her weight on me than she means to.
“I miss her,” she says quietly. The words land between us like an eight-ton weight.
“I know. I miss her too.” I don’t say anything else. I’ve learned that saying more sometimes takes away. I keep us moving, small steps so I don’t step on her toes, hand steady at her back so she remembers she can lean.
She nods against me and inhales deep. After a minute, she pulls back and swipes under her eyes, embarrassed by two tears that slipped. “I'm sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I hate crying.”
“I don’t.” I shrug. “Means you’re alive.”
“Wow,” she says, a laugh breaking through. “New wisdom. Should I write that down?”
“Yes. Give me a pen. I’ll charge for it.”
She shoves my shoulder and we both step back, grinning. The song ends, and Bee walks to the speaker to turn it down.
“You want to watch planes?” she asks suddenly.
“Right now?”
She nods. “They fly low at dusk. It’s nice.”
“Let’s go.”
We grab our shoes and slip out the back so we don’t call attention to where we’re going or why. The grass is soft underfoot with the sky bleeding into orange in the distance. And all I can think about are my father's words.
Don’t rush roots. Give them room. Give them time to grow.
I look at the girl I’ve known since we traded stickers and candy and secrets, feeling something settle in my chest that wasn’t there yesterday but will be there tomorrow.
Okay. I’ll do it right.
I’ll listen more than I talk. I’ll make space without making distance. I’ll be the place she can lean when she needs it, and the push when she asks for it. I’ll be patient. I’ll show up. I’ll tend to her day after day.
I’ll grow the roots and make her fall in love with me.