Chapter 10
Adriana
Present Day…
The vibrations of the train jolt me awake, flipping my stomach like I’m on the edge of falling.
A low groan drags out of me before I can stop it.
The sun is brutal, spilling through the window in a blinding sheet of white that burns straight into my eyes.
Oh today’s gonna be hot! My pink nightgown clings to my skin, the heat pressing down like a personal attack.
Today is Thursday, which makes it over a week since I arrived in Altura.
Surprisingly, Lenny hasn’t reached out and neither have I.
Maybe that’s for the best. There’s too much to do around here anyway.
My hands stay busy so my mind doesn’t wander.
The first game is this Saturday, our street against Garner’s.
I need to stay focused, so we don’t lose.
But I also need to come up with a way to help bring in more attention to Altura, especially now that everyone is on edge with all the investors walking around.
From outside, the block buzzes with morning hustle.
Nothing stops the grind in a city that never sleeps.
I sit upright, bringing my knees to my chest, soaking it all in.
How loud everything is. How alive it feels.
The noises only seem to grow, the longer I listen, and that’s when his voice cuts through everything. Rich and husky—full of worry.
“No, we can’t just sell. Asi no*,” he argues.
I quickly scramble out of bed and peek through the curtains, spotting him by the store’s front door.
Some of the older neighbors gather around him, all holding the same thick yellow envelope.
Yael drags a hand down his face, trying his best to focus as they drown him with questions.
He looks flustered, and still, he continues to answer each question while also translating.
I hurry to get dressed, sliding into jean shorts and a plain white tank top.
The gathering moves inside the laundromat beside my family’s bodega, and I scatter to finish.
Ignoring my grumbling stomach, I race down the stairs, past the kitchen and straight outside.
Yael’s voice once again cuts through the chatter, steady but strained.
This time, they all argue.
“Yo quiero vender, mijo.* I’m tired,” Mr. Raul says, while running a hand over his shiny bald spot.
I stay by the door, hiding around the chaos, admiring him from afar and realizing that he became someone I no longer recognize, not in a bad way, but in the best kind of way.
So responsible, caring, and now fighting for something he never cared for. What changed?
“You see all the developers walking around. We aren’t winning this.
” A woman voices her concerns about the increasing pressure, the higher prices, and with taxes.
Her business is drowning, making it impossible for her to stay open much longer.
Each word that spills from her lips makes Yael’s shoulders tense, then his eyes find mine—snapping that live wire that feeds us in place.
Butterflies flutter inside my stomach, making me queasy, and with that, I look away, allowing him to continue with his argument, that holding out is the best we can do.
“Altura is our legacy,” he mutters. He sounds so defeated despite the brave face he's putting on. I can’t help but pity him, and the position he’s in, but I guess I agree with him.
Altura is full of culture, family, music…
It’s alive in a way most places aren’t. Still untouched by chain restaurants and corporations.
Only for us to give up and let that become the future of a place that shines so bright.
After a good thirty minutes of back and forth, the meeting finally breaks.
The crowd scatters and I walk towards the small table in the back and pour myself a cup of coffee, taking in the small triangle piece of bread that sits in an almost perfect tower.
White bread with cut corners and that familiar orange spread.
I can hear Yael behind me, my breathing becomes shallow, the hair on the back of my nape rises at his proximity. The scent of him envelopes me like a gentle hug, and I almost discard the cup in my hand, just to lean into him.
“You did good.” I finally break the comfortable silence between us. “I didn't think you cared so much about Altura.”
“Things change…”
Bringing the cup to my lips, I take a small sip of the warm liquid, savoring the nutmeg and cinnamon tones that linger on my taste buds.
“It’s a mistake to sell, give up on everything they work so hard to obtain.
This city, this block is made out of immigrants who came here with nothing but a hope and dream. The least we can do is fight. Hold on.”
Pressure builds behind my eyes, my chest swells with pride, and slowly, I turn to face him. “Fighting is everything everyone knows. They’re tired.”
He nods, and his eyes move towards the windows, settling on Cruz Market. “When Abuela died, I realized she worked so hard to keep us afloat.” He points to the bodega. “That’s her legacy, that is why I can’t hand it over. No matter how badly everyone wants me to.”
“She left the bodega to you?” The question slips from my tongue before I have time to bite it down.
“Yes.”
I open my mouth to reply but slam it shut when I notice the look of concern on his face. His plump lip sucked between his teeth, as he’s deep in thought. He exhales, rubbing his jaw like he’s trying to work through a plan.
“It’s bad, Adriana. The committee’s split. Half want to sell, the rest are scared. The repairs alone…” He shakes his head. “We’re bleeding money, and with all the chain restaurants opening all around us, things are rough.”
“How about we monetize the tournament?” I suggest—it's silly but the idea tumbles out before I can second guess it.
If it works, it will be a huge win for everyone.
An event that will bring people wanting to enjoy a good match, and the streets are decorated with murals that make a gallery envious of such art.
Yael raises a brow before he slowly dips his chin, silently encouraging me to keep on.
“This is big, so we need to think bigger. Think vendors, flyers, live music.” The excitement has the words rolling without a chance of stopping. “I could sing. Turn it into a festival, something that reminds people why Altura matters. Support the local artists. We can do so much.”
He studies me for a long moment, then smiles. “You always were the brain.”
“And you,” I tease, “the pinky.”
Yael chuckles at that, the dimple on his cheeks deepening. “Yeah, the pinky.”
The humor in his gaze fades, replaced by that quiet look he gets when he’s thinking too hard. He glances towards the domino table near the window, still scattered from the morning’s meeting.
“Play with me,” he says.
I arch a brow. “It’s too early for you to want to lose?”
He smirks. “Maybe I just let you win all that time,” he teases me with a tone that has warmth pouring over me, making me too aware of him. I wrap my arms around myself, and paint on a smile, one that doesn't reach my eyes.
“Sure thing,” I add. “You were always delusional.”
We head to the table, sitting across from each other, my eyes fixed on his large and veiny hands—calloused from all the hard labor. And yet, he shuffles the fichas with ease, making delicate circles. The sound of clicking feels like a heartbeat between us.
Once he deals, the game begins.
The air around us grows hotter, the soft wind dances around us like a warm breath of life. We think quietly, casting small stolen glances through our lashes, pretending like neither of us notices. He plays first, cautious but confident when opening the game with his favorite number—a two.
Double at that.
“Rule number one,” I murmur, almost to myself. “Always open strong.” Our voices merge into one answer. The words slamming me backwards—into a memory—of the first time he won. The memory comes in strong, blurring with the present.
His hands brush against mine, as he learns the rhythm.
“If I win, I want a kiss,” he states, before dropping his gaze to his hand. I look down at mine, feeling my heart beat wildly against my ribs. My hand is a disaster, all mismatched numbers, no doubles… I’m gonna lose.
Yael’s laughter fills the space between us, and I blink, trying to shake off the memory, but it clings.
It all floods through my mind, making me giddy as I remember the way he leaned in, the way his voice dropped as he recited the rules back to me.
Match the ends, keep your doubles, and block your opponent before they block you.
I blink, and I’m in the present.
Following the same rhythm, he plays fast and confident, reading the board as easily as he could read me. I try to focus, but it’s impossible with this heat, this tension so thick that I can taste it. My fingers move in a pattern, selecting and placing.
Plucking and slamming.
“If I win,” he says, in a low tone. “I want your help.”
A quick glance at the board shows me that I’m not winning this block, he’s about to block it given the single ficha between his fingers.
“That’s not fair,” I chide, lifting my chin to meet his heated gaze. “You’re about to win.”
“I am, but I haven’t made my move.” With a shrug, he adds, “So I still have grounds for a bet.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “No, that's cheating.”
“It’s for a good cause, c’mon, Ciela. Help me.”
The nickname hits me like cold water stealing my breath. I clear my throat, unable to find words, and nod instead. A silent agreement that feels heavier than it should. He smiles, then drops his tile.
“Capicú.”
* Así no - Not like that
* Yo quiero vender, mijo. - I want to sell, son.