Chapter 30 #2
Rafael kissed her, utterly unhurried. “Yeah. She’d be shocked at what I make you do when we’re alone.”
The Beat That! card slapped the table like a mic drop.
Claire flopped down. “Frog pose. Thirty seconds.” Socks slid, limbs splayed.
“You’re insane,” Marco complained. Whisky ginger first, then he got down.
“Fifteen push-ups, one-handed,” Bea said to Rafael.
He dropped to the ground and executed the push-ups easily, almost bored.
Claire tossed a Pepero onto his back. “Now you’re just showing off.”
He twisted his arm back and caught it, bit into it like a prize.
The music was loud—2000s throwbacks, nostalgic, impossible not to move to. Every time someone called a dance break, which eighty percent of the time was Claire, Rafael’s hands found Bea’s hips like it was muscle memory.
By eleven thirty, the energy had mellowed.
They were all sprawled on the plush grey couch. The living room lights were off, the city lighting the space instead. From her spot curled into Rafael, Bea could see the CN Tower glowing in full color.
“Maybe Kate had a minor stroke,” Claire suggested, feet on the coffee table, bowl of honeybutter chips in her lap.
Bea shrugged. “It was weird. I mean, we weren’t friends in high school, but we had classes together.”
“Must be hard to peak in high school,” Claire said. “You spend the rest of your life trying to stay that girl.”
They were on their second pot of tea when the fireworks countdown started on TV.
“Just five minutes to midnight!” the announcer shouted.
Marco crunched on a chip, gesturing toward the window. “Still say Toronto deserved a better bridge. Ours is like the discount version of Sydney’s.”
Claire flicked a crumb at him. “Because nobody here wants to pay for pretty steel.”
Rafael leaned back with his cognac, voice dry. “Pretty steel isn’t decoration. A bridge is a crown. A city’s architecture tells its citizens how to feel about themselves.”
Marco snorted. “Here we build whatever the committee approves.”
“In Westhaven, the final decision never comes down to whether something is cheapest. It’s whether it will outlast them. If it doesn’t, it isn’t worth building.”
Marco raised his glass with a dry, “Can you loan us a few of your city planners?”
Bea had been half smiling at Marco and Claire talking shop with her boyfriend, but she wasn’t listening anymore. Her head whipped up.
“Wait. Wait. WAIT.” Her eyes widened. “Claire Bear, have we prepared the grapes?!”
Claire shot up. “THE GRAPES!”
Feet hit hardwood. The girls flew into the kitchen like a SWAT team in fuzzy socks.
Rafael leaned back on the couch, unperturbed. He’d witnessed enough of their moments to know this wasn’t atypical. Marco’s glance toward them was pure forbearance.
Meanwhile the kitchen was in shambles. Grapes were rolling across the counter. A bag ripped. Water hit the colander. Claire yelped as a sharp stem stabbed her finger.
“Babe,” Marco called, “while you’re there can you grab me—”
“SHHH,” Claire snapped. “I’m trying to count to twelve!”
Bea was silently mouthing numbers, fingers damp with grape juice, ponytail askew. “Why are there only eleven here?” she cried.
Rafael stood and sauntered over, safely ensconced on the other side of the island bench.
Bea glared at him, cheeks warm, laughter in her chest. “Stop judging us.”
“I didn’t say anything, little Bea.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Your face is saying plenty, Rafael Griffin. If I can’t find twenty-four grapes for us, my Spanish heritage says we’re doomed.”
“Doomed?” Rafael echoed, arching a brow.
“Doomed to a year of terrible sex and unstable Wi-Fi,” Claire intoned gravely.
“Definitely can’t risk that,” Rafael said solemnly. “Need help?”
“No thanks, we’ve got it,” Bea said.
They returned to the couch just in time, bowls in hand, hearts racing from the impromptu cardio.
On screen, the countdown began. Ten…Nine…Eight… Rafael’s arm slipped around Bea, pulling her in.
Three…Two…One…
Midnight. Muffled bangs lit up the skyline beyond the glass.
Everyone popped a grape. Then another. Bea choked on her fifth. Claire squished one by accident, then tried to scrape up the remains so it still counted. Rafael tossed one high into the air and caught it in his mouth.
Bea’s pulse was in sync with the rhythm of the skyline. “Happy New Year.” She smiled at Rafael, sliding her hand into his.
His other hand came up to bracket one side of her face. “No bad sex for you. Not this year.” His mouth moved in to kiss her. “Not in your lifetime.”
RAFAEL
A plate of half-demolished butter tarts sat between Rafael and Bea’s parents. Three teacups, refilled multiple times.
The whoosh of the shower started down the hall. Their time in Toronto was nearly over; they were flying out in the morning.
The holiday had gone exactly as he knew it would: like they’d been doing this for years, not days.
Rafael leaned forward slightly. “Tio, Imo, when you were in the UR, you asked about my intentions.” He saw the way they both stilled, gazes locking on him. “I plan to marry your daughter.”
Bea’s umma’s eyes were shrewd. “You’ve only been together…weeks, Rafael.”
“She’s just finished school,” her papa said. “There’s no need to rush.”
Rafael understood caution; it was the instinct of people who’d protected Bea her entire life. “I won’t push her faster than she’s ready to go. But she’ll say yes, sooner than you think.” His certainty sat in the room like another presence.
Umma’s mouth thinned, unreadable. “We don’t doubt she cares for you.” Her voice was gentle. “But last year…she nearly accepted another man.”
“Nearly is nothing,” Rafael said. “I understand why you’re wary. But I’m not him. And this isn’t the same.”
Her papa’s brows knit. “She’s a grownup, and she’ll make the choices she thinks are right for her.” It wasn’t denial in his expression, only worry, shaped by love. “But if what you’re asking for is our blessing…we need more time. To know you better.”
Rafael picked up the empty teacup, turned it in his hands, thinking.
“Then let’s make time.” He drew out his phone, placing it face up on the table.
“Every week, I’ll call you. Thirty minutes, an hour—however long you want.
You can ask me anything. About my life. My work. My family. No question’s off-limits.”
Silence stretched. Umma and Papa exchanged a glance, that wordless conversation of people who’d been married decades.
Papa nodded. “That would be acceptable.”
Umma’s lips softened, though her eyes remained watchful. “You’re very sure of her.”
Rafael thought of the voucher booklet he’d carefully packed into his suitcase, her laughter as she’d fed him grapes. The small, warm hand in his when the new-year countdown ended.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”