Chapter 20 #2
Cilantro.
Lime.
Fresh tortillas.
It hits something deep in my chest.
Something I didn’t realize was starving.
I push the door open.
A little bell chimes overhead.
Inside, it’s small.
Crowded.
Plastic tablecloths in bright colors.
A TV in the corner playing a Spanish soap opera too loud.
Kids laughing somewhere in the back.
A woman behind the counter calling out orders in rapid Spanish.
For the first time all day—
I exhale.
“Hola, mija,” a waitress says, appearing beside me with a soft smile. “?Mesa para uno?”
Hi, sweetheart. Table for one?
“Sí,” I answer automatically.
Yes.
She grabs a menu, leads me to a small table by the window.
I don’t even look at it.
I already know what I want.
She comes back with a glass of water.
“?Lista?”
Ready?
I nod.
“?Puedo tener enchiladas verdes? Con arroz y frijoles… y un agua de horchata, por favor.”
Can I have green enchiladas? With rice and beans… and a horchata, please.
Her smile widens just a little.
“Claro que sí.”
Of course.
When she walks away, I sit back in the chair.
Let the noise wash over me.
The clatter of plates.
The hum of voices.
Spanish wrapping around me like something familiar.
Like home.
I didn’t realize how much I missed it.
Not just the language.
The feeling.
The lack of pretense.
No one here cares about Stanford.
About athletes.
About rumors.
About T&T.
I drop my bag to the floor.
Slide my laptop onto the table.
Don’t open it.
For once—
I don’t force productivity.
I just sit.
The food comes fast.
A plate set down in front of me, steam rising in soft curls.
Enchiladas verdes.
Corn tortillas folded and filled, smothered in bright green salsa—tomatillo, sharp and tangy—topped with crema, crumbled queso fresco, thin slices of onion.
Rice on the side.
Beans rich and dark.
Warm tortillas wrapped in foil.
My throat tightens.
I pick up the fork.
Cut into one.
The sauce coats everything.
I take a bite.
And—
God.
It’s like something inside me cracks open.
Not loud.
Just—
quietly.
Warm.
Familiar.
Safe.
My eyes sting.
I blink it back.
Take another bite.
Then another.
I didn’t realize how hungry I was.
Not just for food.
For this.
For something that doesn’t feel like a competition.
Or a performance.
Or a battlefield.
“?Está bien?” the waitress asks when she passes.
Is everything good?
I look up at her.
And something soft finally breaks through the steel I’ve been holding all day.
“Sí,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Está… perfecto.”
Yes… it’s perfect.
She smiles.
Starts to walk away.
Then I add—
“Me hace sentir como en casa.”
It makes me feel like home.
That makes her pause.
She turns back.
“?De dónde eres, mija?”
Where are you from, sweetheart?
“De California… pero mi mamá es de México.”
From California… but my mom is from Mexico.
She nods like she understands everything I didn’t say.
“Se nota,” she says gently.
I can tell.
I smile.
Small.
Real.
“Cocina como esto,” I add, gesturing to the plate. “Igualito.”
She cooks like this… exactly like this.
Her smile deepens.
“Entonces sí es casa.”
Then it really is home.
Then she walks away.
Leaves me with my food.
My thoughts.
My breathing finally steady again.
I eat slower after that.
Not rushing.
Savoring.
Letting each bite ground me.
And somewhere between the rice and the last enchilada—
the noise in my head quiets.
Just enough.
Because out there—
on campus—
everything feels like a game I didn’t agree to play.
Rules I didn’t learn.
Moves I didn’t make.
But here?
There are no strategies.
No mothers whispering plans.
No girls positioning themselves.
No boys caught between.
Just food.
Just warmth.
Just me.
I finish the plate.
Every last bite.
When the waitress brings the check, I stop her.
“Gracias,” I say softly.
Thank you.
She nods.
“Con gusto.”
My pleasure.
I hesitate.
Then add—
“De verdad… gracias. Me hacía falta esto.”
Truly… thank you. I really needed this.
Her eyes soften.
“Vuelve cuando quieras, mija.”
Come back whenever you want, sweetheart.
I nod.
But something in my chest twists.
Because I know I can’t stay here.
This isn’t my life anymore.
Stanford is.
The court is.
The pressure is.
The noise.
The choices.
Tristan.
Isa.
Kane.
All of it.
I pay.
Grab my bag.
Step back out into the late afternoon sun.
The world is still loud.
Still messy.
Still unresolved.
But for the first time since this morning—
I don’t feel like I’m drowning in it.
I pull out my phone.
Open the Uber app.
Pause.
Then lock the screen instead.
Because for the next five minutes—
just five—
I stand there on the sidewalk in North Fair Oaks, breathing in grilled meat and exhaust and heat and life—
And let myself just be Stella again.
Not the Ice Princess.
Not the rumor.
Not the girl caught between two boys.
Just a daughter.
A girl who misses her mamá.
A girl who knows what she wants—
even if she doesn’t know how to get it.
The park isn’t big.
Just a stretch of green carved between streets that don’t slow down for anyone.
A few benches.
A small garden someone clearly cares about—roses, marigolds, lavender pushing through the heat like they’ve decided to bloom anyway.
There’s a fountain in the center.
Water trickling soft.
Not loud enough to drown anything out.
Just enough to sit with.
I drop onto a bench in the shade, my bag sliding off my shoulder, my body finally still after what feels like days of running in place.
My hands are still shaking.
I don’t know when that started.
Maybe the training room.
Maybe the gym.
Maybe before that.
I don’t know.
I just know I can feel everything now.
Too much.
I pull the lid off the small cup in my hand.
Cuban coffee.
Strong.
Dark.
Sweet enough to almost hurt.
I take a sip.
It hits my tongue sharp and hot, bitter sugar and espresso cutting straight through me.
Good.
I need that.
Something strong enough to match what’s sitting in my chest.
I lean back, close my eyes, and breathe.
In.
Flowers.
Warm earth.
Fresh cut grass.
Out.
Traffic.
Heat.
Noise.
In.
Lavender.
Something citrus.
Sun on skin.
Out.
Everything else.
I try to empty my head.
Try to quiet it.
Try to be here.
Just here.
But it doesn’t last.
It never does.
Because the second I slow down—
everything comes back.
Isa’s voice.
Tristan’s eyes.
Kane’s silence.
The court.
The pressure.
The loneliness.
The way it all sits inside me like something unfinished.
Like something missing.
My throat tightens.
I take another sip of coffee.
Then I pull out my phone.
I stare at it.
Thumb hovering.
I shouldn’t call her.
She’s working.
She’s always working.
But I need—
I don’t even know what I need.
I just hit call.
She picks up on the third ring.
“?Mija?”
Sweetheart?
I close my eyes.
That word alone almost breaks me.
“Hi, mamá.”
There’s a pause.
Just a second.
But she hears it.
“?Qué pasó?”
What happened?
“I…” I swallow. “Nothing. I just— I wanted to hear your voice.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
I can hear something in the background.
Water running.
A bucket shifting.
A scrub brush against tile.
She’s working.
“Estás llorando,” she says softly.
You’re crying.
I press my lips together.
I didn’t even realize—
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She exhales.
That deep, tired sigh I’ve heard my whole life.
“No me mientas, Stella.”
Don’t lie to me, Stella.
My grip tightens on the phone.
“I’m doing everything right, mamá,” I say, my voice cracking despite myself. “Everything you told me. School. Volleyball. Staying focused. Not getting distracted…”
I laugh, but it’s hollow.
“I’m succeeding.”
“Sí,” she says. “Lo sé.”
Yes. I know.
“But I feel…” I stop.
The word sticks.
I try again.
“I feel empty. Still.”
The silence on the other end changes.
Not absence.
Weight.
My mom doesn’t answer right away.
I can hear her set something down.
The brush.
The water.
The sound of work pausing.
Then—
“Escúchame bien, mija.”
Listen to me carefully, sweetheart.
Her voice is different now.
Not just my mother.
Something deeper.
Something I don’t hear often.
“You know you have a different father than your brother and sister.”
My breath catches.
I sit up slowly.
“Yes, mamá.”
I’ve always known that.
But we don’t talk about it.
We never talk about it.
The past is something she keeps locked tight. Just like why her marriage to my step dad didn’t end well and we never see him.
“I never told you the truth,” she says.
Something in my chest tightens.
Hard.
“Why now?” I whisper.
Another pause.
Then—
“Porque ya eres una mujer.”
Because you are a woman now.
The words settle heavy.
And then she starts.
“Cuando era joven… en mis veintes… fui a Valle de Bravo.”
When I was young… in my twenties… I went to Valle de Bravo.
I picture it.
I’ve seen pictures.
A lake.
Mountains.
Rich people’s houses tucked into hills.
Vacation homes.
Beauty.
Money.
“I went with my cousins,” she continues. “We were looking for work. The Americans, they go there… they spend money. I wanted to stay in Mexico, mija.”
Her voice softens.
“It’s my home. My people. My music. I didn’t want the cold. I didn’t want to leave.”
My throat tightens.
“I didn’t know that,” I say quietly.
“No,” she replies. “Because then… I met him.”
Something shifts.
Even through the phone.
Even across miles.
I can feel it.
“He wasn’t Mexican,” she says, her voice dropping into Spanish again. “Era espanol.”
He was Spanish.
A Spaniard.
My breath catches.
“He was building hotels. Big ones. Expensive. He was… important.”
There’s a pause.
“And he saw me.”
Her voice breaks just slightly.
“I thought it was love, mija.”
I close my eyes.
“She says it like she’s back there.
Young.
Hopeful.
“I had your hair,” she says softly. “Tu fuego.”
Your fire.
“And my mamá’s curse.”
My chest tightens.
“What curse?”
She lets out a small, sad laugh.
“El corazón que ama demasiado.”
A heart that loves too much.
That lands.
Deep.