Chapter 31
Carlos
Sunday lunch at Fernando and Diana’s apartment has always been my favorite part of the week.
The kitchen smells like Diana’s sofrito—garlic, tomatoes, and peppers simmering on the stove.
Carmen is in her high chair, cheerfully smashing pieces of bread into paste.
Izan is sprawled under the table, hoping for scraps.
It should feel like home. Like peace.
Instead, I feel like I’m watching it all from behind glass.
“Dad?” Fernando waves a hand in front of my face. “You with us?”
“Sorry. What?”
“I asked how the presentation tour went. You finished in Seville on Thursday, right?”
“Yes. Thursday.”
“And?” Diana prompts from the stove. “How was it?”
“Good. It went well. The tour was a success.”
Fernando and Diana exchange a look—the kind of look married couples develop, entire conversations happening without words.
“That’s it?” Fernando asks. “Two months of traveling across Europe and all you have to say is ‘it went well’?”
I pick up my wineglass, realize it’s empty, set it back down. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Something about the presentations? The cities? Jade?” Fernando’s watching me carefully.
My chest tightens at the sound of her name. “Jade?”
“How was working with her?”
“Fine. She’s very good at her job.”
Another loaded look between Fernando and Diana. Carmencita bangs her spoon on her tray, oblivious to the tension.
Diana wipes her hands on a towel and comes to sit at the table. “Carlos, you’ve been staring at that empty wineglass for five minutes. Something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Dad.” Fernando’s voice is gentle. “We’re not blind. You’ve barely said two words since you got here. And you keep checking your phone.”
I hadn’t realized I was doing that. Jade texted me earlier—a photo of her and her friends on the terrace of the hotel. She looked happy. Relaxed. Like she belonged there with them.
It’s a reminder that Jade is an independent person, someone who’s been traveling the world, making friends, living life to the fullest without anything holding her back. What does she need me for?
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I’m just tired from the tour.”
“Bullshit,” Diana says mildly, and I blink at her in surprise. She rarely swears. Diana turns to me, her expression kind but firm. “What happened with Jade?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Carlos.” She reaches across the table, covers my hand with hers. “I’ve known you for eight years. I’ve never seen you like this. So either something happened, or something almost happened, or—” Her eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Something did happen.”
I pull my hand back, stand up, walk to the window. The Madrid evening is beautiful—golden light painting the buildings, people strolling below, life continuing as it always does.
“She’s leaving,” I say quietly. “She flies back from Monaco tomorrow. Then she has to pack and be back in Austin before August. Two weeks.”
“And you don’t want her to go,” Fernando says. It’s not a question.
“It doesn’t matter what I want. Her assignment here is finished. Her life is in Austin.”
“Is it?” Diana asks.
I turn to look at them.
“Or is that just what you’re telling yourself so you don’t have to take a risk?”
“Diana—”
“Dad, you’ve been living half a life for eleven years.” His voice is gentle but honest. “We love you. We’re grateful for everything you do for us—the babysitting, the Saturday dinners, the way you drop everything when we need help. But we don’t need you to sacrifice yourself for us.”
“I’m not sacrificing—”
“You are.” Diana glances at my son. “You’re using us as an excuse. Using your ‘settled life’ as armor. And I understand why—losing Marisol was devastating. But she wouldn’t want this for you.”
My throat tightens. “You didn’t know her.”
Carmen screeches, taking offense to my tone, and I soften.
“Aye, I’m sorry.”
Diana pats the table across from her, and I obey, sitting on Carmen’s other side.
“You’re right. But I know you. And I know Fernando.
And I know that you’ve been going through the motions for years, and then you went on this tour and came back .
. . different. Lighter. Like you’d remembered how to actually live.
” She pauses. “That was Jade, wasn’t it? ”
I don’t answer, but I don’t need to.
“Does she know how you feel?” Fernando asks.
“It doesn’t matter. She’s leaving.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Fernando—”
“Dad.” Fernando cuts me off, his voice with a hint of reprimanding that makes me feel the full effect of this role reversal. My son, looking out for my best interests. “Are you really going to let her leave without saying anything?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not? You like her. She clearly likes you if you spent two months together and, uh . . . something happened. So what’s stopping you?”
“My life is here,” I say, hearing the desperation in my own voice. “You’re here. Carmen is here. My work, my home, everything I know—”
“And you’re miserable,” Fernando says bluntly. “Dad, we can see it. You’re trying to pretend everything’s fine, but it’s not. You look like someone took something precious from you.”
“She’s leaving in two weeks—”
“So stop her!” Fernando’s voice rises slightly, startling Carmen, who starts to fuss. He lowers his voice, turning his eyes to his daughter and extending a finger for her to grab. “Dad, when was the last time you were actually happy? Not content, not settled—happy?”
I think about Jade laughing at something I said in Zurich. About her hand finding mine under the table in Seville. About waking up with her in my arms in my apartment, feeling like I’d found something I didn’t know I was missing.
“The tour,” I admit quietly. “I was happy during the tour.”
“Because of her.” Diana isn’t asking, but I answer anyway.
“Yes.”
Diana leans back. “Carlos, we’re not going anywhere. We’ll still be here for Saturday dinners. You’ll still be Carmen’s abuelo. But we don’t need you to make your entire life about us. We want you to be happy.”
“I am happy—”
“No,” Fernando says firmly. “You’re safe. There’s a difference.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
“And honestly?” Diana adds. “We’re worried about you. You’ve been alone for so long. And now you finally found someone who makes you feel alive again, and you’re just . . . letting her go?”
“What am I supposed to do? Beg her to stay? Upend her entire life?”
“Why not?” Fernando shrugs. “She might say yes.”
“Or she might say no. And then what?”
“Then at least you tried,” Diana says gently. “At least you fought for something you wanted instead of just accepting what you think you deserve.”
“Which is what? Being alone?”
“Being safe,” Fernando says. “You think being alone is safer than being hurt. But Dad—you’re already hurt. You’ve been hurt for eleven years. Maybe it’s time to risk being happy instead.”
Later, I’m home alone with Izan. Fernando and Diana sent me away with leftovers and concerned looks I pretend not to see.
The apartment feels too quiet. Too empty.
I sit on the couch—the same couch where Jade woke up from her nightmare and I couldn’t help but kiss her—and pull out my phone. The photo she sent earlier is still there. Her friends laughing in the background, the Monaco coastline visible through the window.
I get up, restless, and find myself in front of the bookshelf in my bedroom where I keep Marisol’s photo. She’s laughing in it, caught mid-motion at Fernando’s birthday. Beautiful. Alive. Gone.
I pick up the frame, trace my finger over her face.
“I think I’m falling in love,” I say to the photo. To her memory. To the empty apartment. “And I don’t know what to do.”
She doesn’t answer, obviously. But I can almost hear what she would say—what she said when she was dying, weak but fierce: Carlos, promise me you’ll live. Not just exist. Live.
I’d promised. And then I’d spent eleven years doing the opposite.
I think about the tour. About standing on stages across Europe, about translating Jade’s passion, about watching her grow from terrified to confident. About the way she challenged me, pushed me, made me question everything I thought I knew about what I wanted from life.
About the way she looked at me in Seville—like I was someone worth choosing.
I was happy during the tour. Not content, not settled—happy.
Because of her.
And now she’s leaving this week, and I’m just . . . letting it happen. Accepting it. Like I accepted being alone for eleven years. Like I’ve accepted a half-life because it felt safer than risking my heart again.
“What am I doing?” I ask aloud.
Izan lifts his head from his paws, tail giving a tentative wag.
“I’m being a coward,” I tell him. “That’s what I’m doing.”
I had told myself it was self-knowledge. That I understood how I worked—that I needed real closeness before I felt anything, that I wasn’t built for easy attraction, that this was simply the shape of me. And for years that felt like wisdom. Like a boundary, not a wall.
But at some point—I don’t know exactly when—the self-knowledge became an excuse. I don’t feel things for strangers because I wouldn’t let anyone get close enough to stop being a stranger. A boundary I’d chosen turned into armor I’d stopped noticing I was wearing.
The difference, I think, is this: a boundary is something you know about yourself. Armor is something you hide behind.
I know myself. I know I need time, and closeness, and trust built slowly. That’s real. That’s still true.
But I also spent decades making sure no one got close enough for any of it to matter. That part isn’t self-knowledge. That’s fear with better posture.
I think about Jade in Monaco right now, with her friends. Probably laughing, drinking wine, being the vibrant, alive person she is. Making her own choices about her future.
Choices that might not include me.
Unless I give her a reason to choose differently.
The thought terrifies me. What if she says no? What if I tell her how I feel and she leaves anyway? What if I give her my heart and she breaks it?
But what if she says yes?
What if I fight for this—for us—and she meets me halfway?
What if I’m brave enough to risk being happy instead of just safe?
“I need to tell her,” I say to Izan. To Marisol’s photo. To myself. “I need to tell her right now.”
But she’s in Monaco. Tomorrow she flies back. She has two weeks to catch Lola up on all of their projects and pack her things and then she’ll be gone.
Logically, I know I have time left with her. But it doesn’t feel like enough. My heart races, telling me I don’t have time to wait. Don’t have time to carefully plan what to say or how to say it.
I need to go to her.
Do I?
I take a moment to temper myself. Jade is having—hopefully—the perfect last weekend with her friends. This weekend is not about me and her.
But I don’t want to waste another minute of my time with her, so I better have a plan.
What should I say? “Don’t go to Austin, stay in Madrid for me”? That’s not fair. Her life is in Austin. Her career, her friends before they all moved, everything she’s built.
But I think about what Fernando said: You’re just letting her go?
And I realize I can’t. I can’t let her leave without telling her.