29. Alejandro #2
“I never wanted to take you back home. I wanted every second with you. Still do.”
She smiles that smile that wins wars. I twirl her once and then pull her in close again.
When the tempo kicks up, we switch without talking—little footwork, hips, shoulders, everything in between because it’s us.
The crowd cheers when I drop a clean turn and bring her back.
I’m not saying I practiced in the kitchen, but I’m also not saying I didn’t.
Speeches come next, squeezed in between songs so nobody gets too sentimental for too long. Gael taps a glass and clears his throat.
“I was told to keep this short,” he announces. “So, Alejandro, I have never seen you smile like this. Bee, gracias for making him unbearable in the best way. If he ever forgets to listen, call me. I’ll bench him.”
Laughter. He turns a degree more serious. “You two are the proof that second chances are worth fighting for. Salud.” He lifts his glass of something that’s not wine because he’s trying to be responsible for once.
Andrea's turn. She doesn’t bother with the glass tap.
She just stands and folds her arms, which is somehow louder.
“Beatriz,” she says, voice bright and fierce, “I told you years ago he was it. I’m not saying I was right, but—” She shrugs dramatically.
“I was right. Alejandro, welcome to the family. Officially. Don’t screw it up. That’s all.”
Everyone howls. She blows us a kiss and then goes and sits back down.
Senor Ayala waits. He doesn’t rush to stand. When the music fades between songs, he rises.
“Familia,” he says, and the whole place quiets because he's speaking. He looks at Bee first, then at me. “I raised my daughters to be strong. Sometimes, strength is insisting you know best.” His mouth twitches. “Although in my case, sometimes, strength is admitting when you're wrong.”
He turns to me. “Alejandro, you have been patient with me.” Back to her.
“Beatriz, you have been patient with me.” He adjusts his cuff with his free hand, like he needs his hands to do something while his heart is talking.
“I am proud of the woman you are, mija. And I am grateful for the man you chose.” He lifts his glass.
“May your house be full of laughter, and may you always choose each other.”
It’s not long. He doesn’t make it long. It doesn’t matter. It lands where it's meant to—in our hearts.
Dinner is loud in the best way—clinking forks, good gossip that makes the room feel full of real life.
Bee gets stolen every five minutes by a tía who wants a photo, by the abuelitas who want to touch the lace on her sleeves, by my teammates who line up to hug her like overgrown brothers and tell her for the hundredth time how impossible I was before she came back.
I watch her move through all of it like she was born to it.
Every time she passes by, she drops a hand to my shoulder or my chest like a touchstone.
I catch her wrist and kiss her palm until she laughs and swats me away.
Later, the DJ slides us from salsa into bachata, and the dance floor shifts—closer, slower, mouths-to-ears.
I don’t let her out of my arms for three songs straight.
The lights tilt warmer, and somewhere, Camila is showing two aunties baby pictures that are really just ultrasound photos and everyone is reacting like they can see hair and dimples.
Diego acts like the ring on my hand is a championship ring and keeps making me flash it to people who don’t ask. Niko manages to dip Andrea without getting slapped. Hmm. Progress.
Bee and I slip out to the edge of the courtyard for ten minutes of air. The night’s cooler now, and the twinkle lights echo in the glass doors. She leans into me, back to my chest, both of us looking at our families, at the lives we’ve intermingled.
“Husband,” she says, testing it, and I have to close my eyes for half a second because it hits harder than fiancé ever did.
“Wife,” I say into her hair, and she shivers even though the breeze is mild.
“We did it,” she says.
“We did.” I tip my chin toward the room. “And look—they all survived.”
“For now,” she says, and then laughs when someone inside shouts our names like we won a raffle.
We go back in. More dancing. A tiny cake that actually tastes good.
A quick, messy kiss that earns a chorus of ay, ya, ya.
Bouquet toss that Andrea deliberately dodges and still somehow ends up catching because that’s how her life works.
Someone starts a conga line and my team refuses to be adults.
I don’t stop them. I join at the end with Bee, because this isn’t the night for pretending to be too cool.
By the time the last slow song slides into the room, most guests have kicked off shoes and found chairs.
I pull her in close for it—nothing clever, just chest to chest, her cheek under my jaw, my hand at the back of her neck.
We sway as I let my eyes close because I can now, knowing I won’t miss anything I’m supposed to see. It’s all right here in my arms.
“You happy?” I ask, even though I can feel the answer in how she holds me.
“So happy,” she says. Then quieter, only for me, “Thank you for fighting for me.”
“Sorry I took so long,” I tell her.
She smiles against my throat. “It could have been longer.”
The send-off is a tunnel of lights—sparklers held high, cheers, somebody yelling “beso!” like it’s required.
We kiss under the glow and walk through, hands tight, heads high.
At the car, I open her door and she pauses, looks back at the courtyard— our people, our night, the place where we said yes in front of everyone.
“Ready?” I ask.
She turns to me, eyes bright, and nods. “Home,” she says.
“Home,” I echo. Tomorrow we head off to our honeymoon. Tonight I will worship her on our bed, where I will always treasure her.
We climb in and close the doors on the noise. I take her hand across the console and kiss her knuckles. She watches me like she’s still trying to memorize it all, like there will never be enough time to learn each other even though we have all of it now.
At the end of the drive, when the gate opens and the lights of our place warm the dark, I think of everything that had to happen to get here—the wrong turns, the long winters without snow, the second chance I won’t waste.
I think of both our mothers and our fathers, of a girl who used to press weeds into a math book and a boy who thought trophies could fix a heart.
I park. I don’t let go of her hand.
“Mrs. Soto ,” I say, just to hear it once.
She laughs, that soft, breathless sound that’s mine now. “Mr. Soto,” she returns. "Take me inside.”
“Yes, mi amor.”
We step out, leave the car, and cross the quiet to the door. The night is still bright with everything we promised. I unlock the future and lead her through it.