Chapter 2 #2
“I’ve missed you so much.”
Mia babbles something incoherent back as she rests her head against my shoulder, completely content.
Leo reaches for her hand and examines the sticky substance. “Did you give my daughter a damn cookie?” he yells through the house.
“Hell yeah, I did.” A voice echoes back, deep and recognizable.
My twin brother.
“I’m actually going to fucking kill you.” Leo storms through the living room and into the kitchen. Still holding Mia, I laugh quietly and follow behind him.
The second I step through the threshold, I’m slammed straight into a memory.
The kitchen is warm and alive. Looking around, I see the same honey oak cabinets—thick, glossy and stubbornly orange, like every suburban catalog from 1995.
The tiled countertops are light blue, a huge contrast that hurts your eyes if you look at them too long.
There is a ceramic rooster clock above the sink that is still ticking away steadily like it has for at least twenty-five years now.
I’m not even sure if the batteries have ever been replaced.
There’s a green and cream floral wallpaper border peeling ever so slightly at the corners.
The same linoleum floor, faded in patches where Mom must have stood the longest—by the stove and in front of the sink, right next to the spot where we dropped a giant jar of marinara sauce when we were ten and Frankie dared me to juggle groceries.
There’s still a faint reddish stain on the surface.
Mom never had luck scrubbing it completely out.
Frankie’s busy finishing setting the table—the same oval, oak dining table from our childhood, slightly wobbly on one leg. Big enough to fit our family, and then some.
I squeeze Mia a little tighter in my arms. My throat feels stiff and I can feel my heart kicking hard against my ribs, like a frantic little bird trying to get out of its cage.
I should feel comfortable in my childhood home, but it mostly feels like the walls are closing inward on me. The weight of a thousand old arguments, unspoken apologies, slammed doors and late-night laughs are pressing down on me all at once.
Blinking quickly, I clench my jaw so tight that a sharp ache shoots down my neck. I force my feet to keep moving forward.
It’s just a kitchen, Emiliana.
Four walls, ugly cabinets, and linoleum floors. But God, does it feel like stepping back into my old skin—one I’m not sure I fit into anymore.
Frankie, who barely looks up at me from the utensils he’s setting down, gives a curt nod in my direction, his expression closed off and obscure. “Em,” he says in a forceful tone.
“Hey, Frankie.”
The tension between us is crackling in the air.
I expected this reaction from him, but it still stings to see the resentment in his eyes.
Being twins meant that we were undeniably close growing up.
Wherever I went, he followed and vice versa.
There was never a moment that I would be somewhere he wasn’t.
We were attached at the hip, quite literally.
But when I left Windhaven, it was as if I took that bond with me, driving a wedge between us.
He resented me for leaving, abandoning him, and running away when times got hard instead of staying and continuing to suffer here like they did.
But that’s what I do, who I am. I run.
I can’t blame him for still resenting me, even after all these years. I resent myself for it too sometimes.
Suddenly, the front door slams open and then back shut again. Cam trudges into the kitchen moments later.
“Hey, Em.”
He greets me with a warm smile, his blue eyes, so much like Mom’s, crinkling at the corners.
His dark brown curls are longer and more disheveled than I remember.
The white chef jacket he’s wearing is stained with God-knows-what and his glasses sit slightly crooked on his face.
Setting down several restaurant to-go containers on the counter, he steps forward to give me a one-arm hug.
“Hi, Cam.” I murmur, squeezing him back before quickly pulling away. “Still putting up with these two?”
His laugh is so deep and foreign that it catches me off guard. It must be the first time I’ve heard him laugh in ages. “Someone has to keep Frankie in line, for sure. And Leo just needs to get laid, then he might actually smile for once. You know how they are.”
“Yeah, like you’re so fucking pleasant to be around either.” Frankie chimes in.
“Anyways, let’s eat,” Leo interjects, ever the peacemaker. He takes Mia from my arms and places her in a highchair at the table.
“I’m starving,” I admit, walking around and taking a seat on the opposite side of the table.
“You need to stop by the restaurant soon, Em. It’s doing pretty well.” Cam winks at me while scooping something from every container onto plates for us. His tone is lightly joking, but I can sense how proud he truly is.
Cam’s restaurant, Table 47, is the most successful restaurant in town and in the entire region, for that matter.
It’s been given countless awards, one of them being the Best Latin Restaurant in New England and Top Cuban Restaurant in the Country.
So him saying it’s ‘doing pretty well’ is Cam being humble and too stubborn to acknowledge his own successes.
“If I don’t get food poisoning from this meal, I’ll make sure to go check it out,” I tease. He slaps the back of my head playfully and sets down a plate in front of me. My mouth instantly waters as I see arroz con pollo, tostones and yuca con mojo all spread out on the dish.
I haven’t had an authentic, Cuban home-cooked meal in years. The first bite feels like a warm hug and I close my eyes for a moment, letting the familiarity of it wash over me.
It tastes just like Mom’s cooking.
It tastes like home. Like late Friday nights at this very same dining table. Like Dad humming Frank Sinatra under his breath. Like Mom leaning her hip into the counter with a glass of red wine, rolling her eyes at the chaos she secretly loved.
I’m once again fighting back the tears in my eyes. I knew coming home was going to be emotional, but holy shit… I am a wreck.
Swallowing hard, I blink down at my plate, pretending like my eyes aren’t burning.
The room spins on without me. Leo and Cam are in one of their classic sparring matches.
“I told you, it’s supposed to be a teaspoon of salt, not a damn handful.” Leo’s brows are drawn, both arms crossed over his broad chest as he glares at Cam from across the table. Cam shoots him a withering look back, throwing his napkin down beside his plate.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe you should’ve been the damn chef in the family.”
Leo scoffs under his breath and turns away towards Mia, muttering something about culinary tyrants as he scoops another spoonful into her mouth.
Frankie slouches in his chair at the far end of the table, elbow hooked lazily over the back.
His jaw clenches as he flicks a piece of yuca around the plate with his fork.
His dark brows twitch every few seconds, whether from annoyance, boredom or both, I can’t tell.
The scowl deepens between them and gives him away.
He is seconds away from snapping at both Leo and Cam.
I keep quiet, not having it in me to play referee tonight.
Instead, I simply sit there, slowly forking some food into my mouth, letting their bickering roll over me like background noise.
Like a song I don’t mind hearing, but don’t need to sing along with.
There’s something comforting about the noise.
It’s predictable and safe. It's something I'd had for so long, and now gone so long without.
Letting my shoulders relax a fraction, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding since the train had screeched to a stop earlier this evening.
And then—
That godforsaken back door creaks open.
I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
That sound—the scrape of swollen wood against an old, metal threshold, hinges whining under too much history and not enough WD-40—is etched into my memories.
I can go ten years, or a lifetime, and still know it.
There is only one person who has always preferred to enter through the back door on any occasion, instead of using the front door like everyone else.
The air shifts before he even steps inside.
Like the atmosphere itself is bracing for impact.
Like the molecules are scattering in warning.
Alexander Cruz walks through the door like the goddamn universe has been holding a breath for him.
His gait is easy, as if he has all the time in the world and not a single apology to offer. He’s taller and broader than the boy I remember, towering maybe a good six feet four inches now. Life seems to have filled him out in all the right places just to spite me.
His dark hair is messy and thick, as if he half-heartedly ran a hand through it on the way over. Short on the sides and longer on the top, it drops in uneven waves across his forehead.
His features are sharp, cut from angles too precise: chiseled cheekbones, straight nose, stubborn jawline lined with the faintest hint of scuff.
And then, of course, the mustache.
Thick, clean and unapologetically slutty.
The kind of mustache that makes women want to risk everything on a Tuesday night just to see what riding it would feel like.
Alex pulls the back door shut with one hand and shrugs off his cracked brown leather jacket—creases soft and well-loved from noticeable years of wear. He proceeds to toss it onto the counter with the same practiced carelessness he’s always had, making my stomach twist sideways.
His warm-brown skin now exposes the tattoos sprawling from his hands, up his arms to God-knows where else.
Intricate blackwork and traditional style pieces tangle together and disappear under his T-shirt sleeves.
And there, blooming defiantly on the center of his throat, is a red rose—dark and bold, in full-petal bloom just below his jawline.
It’s inked so vividly it almost looks alive when his throat bobs.
A rose that demands you look at it—at him—whether you want to or not.
It has to be a coincidence.
I don’t realize my mouth is hanging open in shock until the fork falls out of my hand and clatters softly against my plate. My fingers twitch before I curl them tightly in my lap to try and contain myself.
His hazel eyes sweep across the room, gold and green and brown tangled together in a mess that shouldn’t make my chest ache like it does.
The same eyes that used to watch me with something almost reverent when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The same ones that burned with mischief when he was about to purposefully say something to push my buttons.
Those gold and green and brown eyes lock onto mine as he smiles a crooked, cocky smile that I’d spent my whole adult life trying to scrub from memory.
Equal parts charm and daring.
Equal parts I know you hate me and you’ve always loved me anyway.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he drawls, his voice a shade or two lower and rougher around the edges now.
Like smooth, aged whiskey.
Like trouble wrapped in silk.
Cam huffs, unfazed. “You’re always late.” He gestures toward the kitchen counter without glancing up from his plate. “Food’s still hot. Grab a plate.”
But Alex isn’t looking at Cam.
He hasn’t looked at anyone else in this house since he walked in.
He’s looking at me. Locked and steady.
A breath catches sharp behind my ribs before I can choke it back.
Dammit, he is beautiful.
Ten years have passed since I last saw him and he looks like a mistake I want to make twice. I know better than that though. I don’t know if I would survive, both physically and mentally, another heartbreak from Alexander Cruz.
His grin twitches wider as he tips his hand toward me, eyes glinting. “Didn’t expect to ever see you back here, Emiliana.”
My name slides off his tongue like a secret. He has never once used my full name in the years I’ve known him.
God help me. Something deep and traitorous inside me clenches hard enough to hurt.
I sit up straighter, folding my arms tight over my chest to cage the feeling in.
“Didn’t realize you had jurisdiction over where I go or where I eat dinner.” My tone is sharp and cool, but it’s purely a mask for the pulse hammering in my throat.
He laughs under his breath, low, rough, and familiar. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess.”
There it is. The nickname that lands like a spark on dry brush. My jaw tenses like a reflex.
Leo clears his throat from beside me. “Sit down, man. Food’s not gonna eat itself.”
Finally, those damn hazel eyes drift away from me. He grabs a plate and slides into the empty chair across from me, the same one he claimed as his when we were kids. No one has ever tried to take it from him since.
Our eyes lock once again, and now that he’s closer, his eyes soften and the boyish face I knew a decade ago resurfaces for a mere second.
The boy who made me fall in love with him and then broke my heart.
The freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose are even more pronounced and I’m reminded how I used to count them when we were kids.
I used to trace my fingers over them when he let me in close enough.
Thirteen. There are thirteen.
I look away, trying to push away the memories that I fought so hard to shove to the back of my mind over the years.
Those damn hazel eyes. Those damn thirteen freckles.
Cam greets him again with a clap on the back.
I swallow it down like poison and lift my fork again.
I can get through this. I’ve survived worse. I didn’t come home to unravel at the seams because Alexander Cruz decided to walk through the door like nothing ever happened between us. Even if, deep down, I was hoping that he would.