Chapter 1 #2
The second the words “I need to tell you something” came out of my mouth, Dallas shut her laptop and looked up at me. The look in her eyes told me that she knew whatever I was about to say was going to knock the wind out of her.
I traced the handle of the cup with my thumb over and over again, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat. The speech I had prepared and rehearsed multiple times went out the window and the only words that came out of my mouth were, “I’m moving back to Windhaven.” Straight to the point.
Dallas immediately bursted out laughing, not believing the words I had said. “Like hell you are.”
“I’m serious, Dal.”
She stops mid-laugh and stares at me, blinking once. Twice. “What? No way. Estás loca.”
I sucked in a breath. “I—I’ve been thinking about it for a while. My health isn’t getting better and I don’t want to do this alone. Cam, Leo, and Frankie are there. I need to be closer to them.”
She shook her head quickly, like she was trying to make sense of what I was saying. “What the hell do you mean ‘alone’? I’m here. I’ve always been here. We’ve built our lives here, Em. You can’t just leave.”
“I have to.” My voice was softer, but also more firm. “I need to be with my family, D. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. And I just… I don’t want to be a burden to you.”
Her head jerked back like I had slapped her. “A burden?” She rose an octave, sharp with disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me, Emiliana? You’re my best friend. I would drop literally everything if you needed me to. You know that.”
“I do know that,” I said, my chest tightening with guilt.
Even though it felt like I was making a mistake, I kept going.
“And that’s exactly why I have to go. You’re at the peak of your career.
You have deadlines, meetings, events, tours.
Your whole life is here. And I can’t be the reason you put it all on hold. ”
She continued to shake her head, but her eyes glistened now. I knew Dallas would never let me or anyone else see her cry, but I also knew her well enough to know when she was trying her hardest to fight back tears.
“You’ve already done so much for me. It’s easier for me to pack up my life and career than it is for you to build your schedule around my fucked up heart,” I added.
“I don’t understand. There are more hospitals and better doctors here in Manhattan. We can even check in the Bronx or in Brooklyn or in Jersey. There has to be another option, Em!”
I exhaled a humorless laugh. “Unfortunately, Cam already found the best doctor in the country for my condition. He is in Champlain, right outside of Windhaven. This is the best option for me.”
Her face crumpled at my words, but I knew she understood.
She let out a shaky breath. “I hate this.”
“Me too.”
After a couple seconds of silence, she looked up at me and said, “Then you go and you fight like hell. You can’t fucking die, Emiliana.
” She made her way over to where I was and wrapped her arms around me.
“I’ll try to come visit you in between tour stops.
” She pauses and then continues, “and when you come back to the city, we can do karaoke again. I promise to let you pick the song.”
Remembering her words makes me smile. The idea of Dallas singing anything other than her usual “Como La Flor” is laughable.
I don’t necessarily know if there will be an after, but the promise of something normal on the other side of all this uncertainty is enough to settle me, at least for a little while.
The train jerks slightly, snapping me back to reality.
Immediately, my phone starts ringing on full volume as “Salt Shaker” by the Ying Yang Twins fills the quiet of the train car, earning me yet another death stare from the old lady.
I mouth the words “I’m so sorry” as I frantically try to lower the volume and answer the call, silently vowing for the tenth time to change that ringtone.
“Did you leave already?” Cam’s voice hits my ear like a bullet train—no hello, no small talk, just straight to business. I wouldn’t expect anything less from Camilo Diaz.
All three of my brothers are heavily guarded and seemingly angry creatures, but Cam might take the cake as angriest of all. I would say his career as a chef—with the constant high stress and intense pressure environment—simply intensifies his incredibly dark personality.
“Yes, Cam,” I sigh, shifting again in my seat to get more comfortable, which is impossible at this point because of the combination of denim cutting off my circulation and Amtrak apparently thinking padding is optional.
“How much longer?” He seems half-distracted with the loud kitchen sounds clattering in the background—metal plans clanging and the muted echo of someone calling out behind him.
“Relax, Gordon Ramsey. I’ll be there in like…” I glance at the time displayed on the phone screen before holding it back up to my ear. “Seven hours. Give or take.”
“Jesus, Em. You know I could’ve booked you a direct flight instead, right?
” His voice is clipped and annoyed. I picture the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder as he paces around, double-checking inventory in a walk-in fridge or perfectly prepping a plate on the pass, cleaning any smudges around the rim, only accepting perfection.
“I could’ve done it myself,” I mutter. “But this is better. More quality time for me and my thoughts.”
“That actually sounds like a terrible idea,” he deadpans.
I snort out a small laugh. “Yeah, well… you’re not wrong. It may have been a mistake.”
He lets out a long, deep sigh, heavy enough to power this train. “I just don’t get why you’d choose the most exhausting and least efficient option of travel when you’re already—” He cuts himself off, but I know where he was headed.
When you’re already not doing great. When your body is fighting you every step of the way. When you could collapse or die at any moment.
“I just wanted to, okay?” I respond quickly, irritated at the thought of suddenly being treated like something delicate and fragile.
There’s a bead of silence on his end and when he speaks again, it’s calmer. “I just—if something happens on that train, I’m not there. And that doesn’t sit well with me.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I’m not completely confident of that, obviously, but I can hear the tension radiating through the phone—the weight of responsibility he always carries like a damn badge—so I try to sound as convincing as possible.
He’s already juggling the restaurant, our family, our shared grief, and now me…
again. The last thing I want is to be one more thing on his plate—on anyone’s plate.
“You better be,” he grunts.
There is a muffling sound on the phone. “—No, I said medium rare, not whatever the hell that is. Fucking fix it.”
A pause. A sigh. Then back to me.
“Sorry. Kitchen’s on fire. Figuratively. At least for now.”
“Comforting.”
“Anyway, I can’t get you tonight. I’m buried here and not sure what time I’ll be done. Leo’s gonna pick you up.”
“Leo?” I blink, surprised at the sudden change of plans. “What, he drew the short straw?”
“He offered.”
I glance at my reflection in the train window and grimace. “Tell him I owe him.”
“You don’t owe anyone anything. We’re just glad to have you home.”
Home. That word hits me square in the chest. I chew on it for a moment, swallowing down the lump rising in my throat.
“Alright, I’ll text you when I’m close.”
“Do that. And Em?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t overthink everything the entire trip, okay? You don’t need to solve the meaning of life or think about every decision you’ve made up to this very moment. Just… try to rest.”
I force out a fake smile, as if he can see me through the phone. “I’ll try.”
“See you soon.”
He hangs up without another word and I am left staring out the window as the scenery blurs past, cold glass pressed to my forehead and thoughts swirling like storm clouds in my head.
Rest? As if that’s something I even remember how to do.
I don’t think I’ve rested since before Mom died.
Since the day of her passing, there has always been something for me to do, some demon for me to fight.
Whether it was to plan her funeral, move to a new state, finish college, or paint new collections for art shows.
I’ve been non-stop for the past decade, trying to fill the void that opened the day she died.
Trying to keep my hands and mind busy so the grief would hurt a little less.
And now I’m moving back to the place I ran away from, with nothing but my unresolved grief and a broken heart, literally.
I look down at my phone and pull up our family text thread.
For a moment, I get the urge to type “You know what, forget it. I’ll just stay and die in New York.
” But after about five seconds of consideration, I reach the conclusion that may be too dramatic, even for me.
Shaking my head, I exit out of the thread, lock my phone and look out the window again.
The train shudders, wheels screeching as we barrel past another nowhere town.
Outside the window, gray dissolves to green, and suddenly it’s exclusively fields, trees, and old, crumbling barns.
You know, the kind of picturesque countryside that people from the city slap on a Pinterest board and call “cottagecore” without realizing how much cow manure is actually involved.
Seven hours.
Seven hours of sitting still in the world's most uncomfortable chair with nothing but my thoughts.
Maybe I did make a mistake and should’ve just taken the hour and a half hour direct flight instead of this literal nightmare.
I jam my earbuds in and scroll through my playlists. Indie folk? Too sad. Pop? Too fake-happy. Alternative rock? Tempting, but I don’t want to scare the old lady even more. I land on some bluesy instrumental and let it hum in the background while digging the sketchbook out of my bag.