21. Alejandro #2
We step through the arch and the sanctuary opens—stained glass washing the pews in blue and gold. People turn without turning—eyes soft, curious, approving, assessing. I hear novio here. Serio there. Yeah, that’s right, I’m her serious boyfriend.
We make our way to the front row. Of course it's the front row. Andrea's already there, knee bouncing, hair twisted up like she didn’t have time to pretend she wasn’t worried.
When her eyes find us, they soften and sharpen at the same time.
She stands to let us slide past and murmurs, “Proud of you,” not looking at me, so I understand it’s for both of us.
He sits at the aisle end all pressed, polished, perfect.
Mr. Ayala doesn’t look up when our knees brush the pew.
He doesn’t move when our hands knot together.
He doesn’t need to. His jaw flexes once.
The bulletin in his hand creases down the center, a fault line folding down the white space.
Fury rolls off him, quiet and hot, the kind that never leaves his mouth but burns all the same.
I keep my shoulders square. Bee’s thumb drags one slow line across my knuckle. It helps.
Mass runs its course—hymns, scripture, prayers in two languages—and before long we’re standing, sliding out into the aisle with everyone else.
Drea waits near the door, lips curved in a knowing smile. “See you at Papi’s,” she says quietly before disappearing outside.
The sunlight outside is almost blinding after the cool dim of the sanctuary. I slip my sunglasses on and fall into step beside Bee, still holding her hand. We don’t talk at first, just walk down the steps together, but I can feel the charge in her. Her grip is strong. Her pace is steady.
Halfway across the lot, she exhales through her nose. “You were quiet in there.”
“I was busy not making a scene.” I tip my head toward her, letting the corner of my mouth lift. “Your dad and I locking eyes in the middle of mass wouldn’t have gone over well.”
“That’s true,” she says, but her lips twitch. “Thank you for coming.”
“I’d go anywhere with you, mi reina. Even if it means sitting next to a man who’d like to throw me into traffic.”
That pulls a laugh from her, soft but real, and it slides under my ribs like a warm hand. I open her door, my palm brushing her waist before she sits, and circle to my side.
Once the engine hums to life, I glance at her. “You good?”
“Better with you here.”
I rest my hand on her thigh, thumb tracing small circles. “That’s what I like to hear. You were calm in there. Like you’ve already decided you’re not afraid of him anymore.”
“Maybe I’m just distracted,” she says, eyes on my hand.
I smirk, sliding it just a little higher. “Then let me keep you distracted until we get there.”
“Alejandro…” There’s warning in her voice, but her body doesn’t move away.
“I’m just saying,” I murmur, eyes back on the road, “if your dad knew half the things I thought about you during mass…” I let it trail, satisfied when her breath catches.
“That’s not church talk.”
“No,” I agree. “But I wasn’t exactly praying about the things I want to do to you later either.”
Her head tilts toward me, sunglasses hiding her eyes but not the faint curve of her smile.
We hit a red light. I take the opportunity to catch her hand, bringing it to my mouth. “Bee, before we walk into that house, I want you to remember something. Whatever he says—whatever look he gives—we walk out together. No one changes that.”
She studies me for a moment. “You think you can convince him to tolerate you?”
“I don’t care if he tolerates me. I just need him to know I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not afraid of him.”
Her shoulders ease. “With you and Drea beside me? Yeah. I’m ready.”
“Good girl.” I kiss her knuckles before releasing her hand, my palm sliding back to her thigh.
The drive stretches ahead in a lazy roll of sunlit streets, but the air inside the car hums with something sharper. Every time I shift gears, my fingers press into her leg. Every time she shifts in her seat, I glance over like I can’t help myself.
“You keep looking at me like that,” she says finally, “and we’re going to be late.”
“I’d rather be late,” I reply without hesitation. “I could take a detour. Park somewhere. Remind you who you’re walking into that house with.”
Her head turns just enough that I can see her bite back a smile. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m in love,” I say simply, and for a second, the heat in the car is more about that than anything else.
The house comes into view faster than I want. I pull into the driveway and kill the engine.
She takes two deep breaths before unbuckling. I’m already out of the car and at her side, offering my hand. She takes it.
We stand there for a beat longer than we need to, her eyes on mine.
“You sure?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go.”
Hand in hand, we walk up the path together, steady as stone.
The door gives that same little groan it did last week when I came here alone, but it feels different this time. Maybe because Bee’s hand is laced with mine. Maybe because we’re walking in together, and that hasn’t happened since—ever.
The air inside is cool and familiar, laced with coffee, lemon polish, and the faint comfort of sofrito. I caught it last week too, but then it felt like a wall I couldn’t break through. Now, with Bee beside me, it’s more like the house is letting me in.
We step past the threshold, her shoulder brushing mine.
My grip tightens just enough for her to notice.
I remember standing outside seven days ago, the space between me and her father thick with a silence that said more than words ever could.
I’d left with nothing settled. Just questions.
Just his assumptions hanging in the air like smoke.
But today—she’s here.
My gaze sweeps the living room, the same couch we sat on as teenagers still against the far wall.
Back then it was covered in a blanket her mom crocheted, one she’d pull around her shoulders while we worked on homework, her handwriting looping across loose-leaf paper.
I can still see her half-smile when she caught me watching her instead of reading.
The kitchen pulls at my memory next. I can picture her there, seventeen, hair pulled up, dancing barefoot while “Bomba” by Azul Azul played loudly on the radio. I leaned against the counter, pretending not to be falling madly in love while my chest ached with the effort of not saying what I felt.
She steps farther in, tugging me gently along.
“You okay?” she asks over her shoulder.
“Yeah,” I answer, voice low. “Just remembering.”
Her lips curve like she knows exactly what’s playing in my head, but she doesn’t press.
From the back of the house comes the sound of plates being set down, a muted clink that draws a line straight to the kitchen. Mr. Ayala's staff, no doubt, readying the table for lunch.
Bee squeezes my hand once before leading us toward the dining room. Every step tightens the air in my chest. The last time I walked this way, it was to face her father alone. This time, she’s the one pulling me forward.
We cross into the next room together, just like we promised.