26. Beatriz
Beatriz
The clubhouse path is lined with string lights that look like someone pinned stars along the dunes.
The ocean’s a steady hush beyond, and the air smells like lime, charcoal, and salt.
Someone’s blasting a salsa playlist off a portable speaker; the first notes of “La Vida Es Un Carnaval” float warm and familiar.
I tighten my fingers around Alejandro’s, and he glances down at me with that grin that still does ridiculous things to my insides.
We step into our little patch of beach—clubhouse access. It’s not a rented hall or anything fancy. It’s better. It’s ours.
A long folding table sits under a canopy, already covered with bright paper plates and foil pans.
Two grills hiss; one is crowned with skewers of chicken and bell peppers, the other working overtime with tostones crackling in hot oil.
A big bowl of pico de gallo flashes red and green beside a tray of elote dusted with cotija cheese.
There’s a plastic tub stuffed with ice, sodas, juices, and a pitcher of sangria that looks dangerous in the best way.
Someone’s lined up a few rum cocktails too, and I decide immediately that I deserve one later.
“Party,” Andrea announces, flinging her arms out like a magician revealing a trick. She rushes up and squeezes me hard, then shoves Alejandro on the shoulder because apparently that’s how you greet a future brother-in-law. “You two took forever.”
“We brought the good chips,” Alejandro protests, lifting a bag like it’s a trophy.
Niko appears behind her, stealing the chips midair. “He also brought a new face,” he says, pointing shamelessly at Alejandro’s smile. “What happened to Senor Serious? I can see all his teeth.”
Alejandro shrugs. “He retired,” he says, not even pretending to fight it. “Got replaced by a guy who has someone to love.”
“Por Dios,” Andrea mutters, but she’s smiling, and when she turns to go 'help' with the coolers, Niko goes with her, easy as a shadow.
“Look who made it,” Carlos shouts from the grill, lifting a pair of tongs in greeting. Gael’s next to him, apron tied tight. Diego’s pretending to supervise and failing because he keeps dancing with the tongs to Celia’s voice.
“Stop shaking the chicken,” Gael warns. “You’re not marinating air.”
Diego puts the tongs down carefully. “Yes, chef.”
Alejandro drops my hand only to take the heavy cooler my father is moving. “Déjeme, senor,” he says, and my father lets him, eyes darting to me for half a second before they settle on the grill again.
I watch Alejandro carry that ridiculous cooler like it weighs nothing and think, I love this man. Not because he can lift things—though, okay, that’s not a bad thing—but because he always, always notices what needs doing and does it. No speech. No showing off. He just helps.
Camila slides in beside me with a small, secret smile. “You look happy,” she says, not in question, but as a very simple fact.
“I am,” I say, and I don’t even try to play it cool. I’m wearing a sundress that loves the breeze, and I feel light. “You look extra glowy.”
Camila’s eyes dart to Gael, then back to me, and her smile tilts into something impossible to hide. “Because I am,” she whispers, brimming. “Went to the doctor this morning. I’m pregnant.”
Oh. My hands fly to my mouth, then to her shoulders, and I might actually squeal. “Camila.”
“I know,” she says, eyes shining. “I wanted to tell you in person.”
We bounce in place like two teenagers who just got accepted into the same dream school.
I hug her again, and when we pull back, I wipe under my eyes even though I swear I wasn’t crying.
“I’m so happy for you,” I say, and I mean it with every part of me.
“He’s going to be ridiculous. In love. Useless. Completely gone.”
“Gael?” she says, pretending offense. “He’s already useless. But yes.”
We laugh. I hand her a soda, and she taps it to mine. When I look up, I catch Alejandro at the edge of the canopy with my father; they’re adjusting the grill grate together, saying little, moving like they’ve actually learned how to share space.
The sight makes something warm loosen in my chest. I picture—just for a second, so quick it feels like a skipped heartbeat—a child with Alejandro’s eyes and my hair, sprinting down this same strip of sand, laughing at nothing, running toward us.
It’s fast and bright and terrifying and sweet.
I tuck the thought away for later, when I can explore it better without imploding.
Music pulses louder; and someone passes a plate into my hands piled with arroz con pollo, a skewer with peppers that look like they actually grew under a sun, two golden tostones, and corn that’s already kissed my fingers with butter.
Alejandro appears at my elbow and steals my tostone with an apology that is absolutely not an apology. “You’re supposed to get your own,” I tell him, nudging him with my hip.
“I did,” he says, mouth full. “I got yours.”
“Rude.”
He leans in, lips by my ear. “I’ll get you three later.”
“Bribery?”
“Strategy.”
He kisses my cheek in a quick curve and moves to help Gael flip the skewers. Niko throws an oven mitt at him for no reason except he wants to start something. Andrea sidles up with a plate and knocks her shoulder into mine.
“Nervous?” she asks, eyes flicking to Papi, then back to me.
“About what?” I play dumb.
“You know,” she says. “Being celebrated. All these people smiling at you like they bought stock in your joy.”
I breathe out a laugh. “It feels… big,” I admit. “And good. I’m trying to memorize everything.”
“Good,” she says, then pretends to whisper. “Also, hypothetically, if someone were flirting with me, do I flirt back?”
I follow her eyes without being obvious. Niko’s cutting up limes with entirely too much focus. “Hypothetically?”
“Don’t be annoying.”
“I think you know the answer.”
She pops a grape tomato from her skewer and eats it, slow. “Hypothetically, he’s funny,” she says. “And tall. And he keeps looking at my mouth.”
“Then hypothetically,” I say, “stop torturing him and go ask him to dance.”
She tries so hard not to smile and fails. “Later,” she says, and floats away like she didn’t just admit something to me and herself.
The light slips toward a soft gold, an early evening that makes everything look warm.
“Darte un Beso" drifts from the speaker next, and for some reason, the whole party collectively decides it’s time to dance. Alejandro offers me his hand, and we start to dance. It always starts with salsa, because it has to. Ale’s better than me at leading and he doesn't let me forget it.
We make a small square of sand our dance floor.
It’s loose and joyful and slightly ridiculous because Diego keeps cutting in and spinning me like I’m a top until Alejandro claims me back with a mock glare.
Laughter piles in; even Papi’s mouth does something that could almost be a smile if you love him enough to know that’s what it is.
And then the playlist shifts—salsa yielding to bachata—and the whole shape of the evening changes.
Bachata pulls you closer whether you’re ready or not.
We fall into it naturally, my hands hooking at the back of Alejandro’s neck, his palms bracketed at my waist, our steps sliding. I rest my forehead on his because that’s what my body wants, and he inhales like he can't breathe without my scent.
“Happy?” he murmurs.
“Completely.”
Across the way, Niko offers Andrea his hand with a flourish that is both ridiculous and effective. She gives him a face like she’s considering denying him but ultimately takes it, letting him draw her in. They fall into the rhythm and forget to make jokes for a whole song.
When the track ends, laughter cracks open again, everyone stumbling back to food and drinks. My father stands by the grill for a long second before he calls out, “Un momento.” His voice carries without trying, the sound skimming across the sand and coming to rest at our feet.
That hush lands. He waits for all the turning toward him, then lifts the plastic cup in his hand like it’s crystal. “Familia,” he says, eyeing us each in turn. “Amigos.”
I take Alejandro’s hand and braid our fingers tighter, because part of me is always bracing for impact when Papi speaks. He looks at both of us and then at everyone else, as if asking them to be witnesses, too.
“My daughter,” he says, and the way he starts makes my throat pinch. “You and Andrea have always been the light in this family. But you were born with strong feet and a soft heart. I did not always know how to honor both.”
He shifts the cup to his other hand and clears his throat.
“I have said before that I wanted the best for you. But sometimes—” he pauses, searching for it.
I can see him working to say the right thing and not just the easiest thing.
“Sometimes, mija, strength is not holding a line no matter what comes. Sometimes strength is letting go and trusting what brings you joy. You showed me that.”
I blink fast to keep everything from spilling.
“To Alejandro,” he adds, turning his body in a way he never used to.
“You are responsible with your talent. You are respectful with your words.” That small, almost invisible nod again, the one that means more because he doesn’t offer it to just anyone.
“Take care of my daughter. Listen more than you speak. Build a home she is excited to walk into at the end of every day.”
Alejandro’s voice is steady when he answers, “Sí, senor. I will.”
Papi shifts back to me. “And you,” he says, softer. “You have my blessing. Your mother would be very proud.”
That’s the part that undoes me. I don’t cry loudly.
I don’t drop to the sand in a dramatic heap.
I just feel a kind of relief run through me that makes my whole body warmer, like a window was cracked somewhere I couldn’t reach and fresh air finally found me.
I catch Alejandro’s hand and squeeze until he squeezes back.