Chapter Seventeen. Julian
SEVENTEEN
JULIAN
Julian shoved the apartment door open harder than intended, the slam echoing through the empty space.
He stepped inside, breathing unevenly, pulse still thrumming with leftover rage and shame from his confrontation with Angel.
He just needed a minute—just a minute to calm down, recenter, and prepare himself for the Midnight Vigil.
But as soon as he looked up, that hope vanished.
Omar, Rocky, Flaca, and Luca sat in tense silence in the living room, their gazes snapping toward Julian as he entered. The quiet intensity of their stares hit Julian like ice water.
“Yo, Jules,” Omar began, voice flat and controlled, “Wanna explain why you weren’t where you said you were?”
Julian froze and blinked, trying to collect himself. “What? I was at Yadriel’s—”
“No, you weren’t,” Rocky cut in, voice sharp, sleek ponytail whipping as she turned to face him. “We checked your location. We went there looking for you, and you were gone.”
Julian’s heart lurched. “You … followed me? Into the cemetery?”
“We wanted to make sure you were okay,” Flaca said quietly, disappointment clouding her features. “But turns out, you were just lying again.”
“I wasn’t lying,” Julian started weakly. “I was just—”
“You promised.” Luca finally spoke up—not with anger but a deep sadness that cut even deeper.
“I know you have to keep some things secret, and I get that. Really, Jules, I do. But you keep ditching us, and it feels like you’re leaving us behind.
” Luca hesitated, his hand unconsciously moving to his chest.
Julian’s eyes caught on it immediately—the Marca Hueca was larger now, and darker, too, shadows swirling ominously beneath Luca’s fingertips. Julian felt his pulse quicken, panic intertwining with guilt as Luca’s eyes filled with exhaustion and quiet hurt.
“You promised you’d do better, but it’s only getting worse,” Luca said.
Julian wanted desperately to explain, to reassure Luca, but he couldn’t explain everything that was going on in front of Omar, Rocky, and Flaca.
“You’re always sorry,” Omar snapped. “You say you’ll do better, but you keep doing the same thing.”
“You probably forgot Carlos’s Christmas party tonight, too, didn’t you?” Rocky added.
Julian swallowed hard. He had forgotten. Completely.
“I—I can’t tonight,” Julian said. He hated himself for forgetting, for getting so distracted. “Yadriel’s family invited me to this special thing—”
“Again?!” Omar exploded, incredulous. “You ditch us for everything! You showed up late to decorate the apartment, left us to do chores on our own, and now Carlos’s party? We’ve been your family way before Yadriel showed up!”
“It’s not like that!” Julian snapped back defensively. His heart raced again, guilt twisting into frustration. “You don’t get it! This is important, okay?!”
The room went very, very still. Somewhere in the building, a pipe rattled.
Flaca looked away, shaking her head silently. Luca just stared at the floor, clearly drained.
“You’re right, we don’t get it,” Omar said bitterly. “Because you never tell us anything.”
“I can’t tell you everything!” Julian’s voice rose, frustration turning into anger. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with right now!”
“Because you won’t let us!” Rocky yelled. “How can we help you if you keep lying to us?!”
“I wouldn’t have to lie if you guys stopped breathing down my neck all the damn time!” Julian shouted back.
His words echoed through the tense silence. Luca recoiled visibly, flinching like Julian had physically struck him. The smaller boy’s breathing grew shaky, hurt pooling in his eyes.
Julian froze. “Luca, I didn’t mean it—”
Luca shook his head, voice small and wounded. “Just stop, Julian. Please.”
Rocky stood abruptly, grabbing her jacket. “Come on, Luca. Let’s go.”
Flaca followed, pausing only to give Julian a sad, disappointed look before walking out.
Omar lingered for a second, his expression colder than Julian had ever seen it. “Enjoy whatever’s so much more important, Jules,” he said, voice low and clipped, completely shut down. Then he was gone.
Luca moved slowly past Julian, not meeting his eyes. Julian reached out instinctively, but Luca flinched away again, shoulders hunched. The apartment door closed softly behind him.
The silence left was catastrophic.
Julian stood motionless, heart hammering, shame consuming him. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the wave of self-loathing.
He’d done it again. Made things worse. Hurt the people he loved most.
But the Midnight Vigil was starting soon. He had to pull it together.
Julian stood outside the church at the edge of the cemetery, tugging his flannel tighter around him like it might hold him together. The cold bit his fingers. The St. Jude necklace beneath his shirt felt heavier than usual.
The fight with his friends still echoed. Luca’s voice. Omar’s bitterness. Rocky’s anger. Angel’s absence.
Angel was supposed to be here. Lita had invited her. She should have been standing here, too, candle in hand, like the rest of them.
But she wasn’t. And that absence buzzed in Julian’s head like static.
He hadn’t told Yadriel or Maritza what had happened with his friends. He couldn’t. Not yet. He needed to make it through this first. Just one quiet hour of silence and candlelight, of honoring the dead instead of breaking things.
Dozens of candles lit the gravel paths and headstones in soft, flickering halos. The air was thick with the scents of melted wax, incense, and fresh flowers. Distant strains of solemn music drifted through the night—low, haunting strings that echoed off the gravestones and nichos.
Brujx families were gathering in clusters, dressed in traditional lace or embroidered cloth, some in tailored suits or formal dresses passed down through generations.
Everywhere he looked, people were holding candles, adjusting ribbons on ofrendas, whispering prayers.
The yellow church’s glowing windows cast long shadows, golden light spilling from the doorway where Lady Death’s altar stood at the heart of it all.
Julian paused, breath fogging in the December cold. The vigil was supposed to be sacred. Healing. But all he could feel was the hollow ache in his chest.
His Marca Hueca throbbed, deep and cold. His lungs felt too tight. He was unraveling. And no one could see it.
Julian blinked hard, steeling himself as he stepped fully into the path.
The church was awash in candlelight, its stone walls glowing amber from the flames.
The giant altar to Lady Death was overflowing with offerings—bouquets of poinsettias, photos, trinkets, rosaries, plates of food.
The scent of copal hung thick in the air, curling around carved saints and trailing down the aisles.
His footsteps echoed as he approached the back where the brujx had set out their decorated candles. He spotted his—sky-blue wax, wrapped with silver ribbon, tiny red flames painted near the base.
Julian found them standing off to the side, Yadriel in an olive-green button-up, his portaje glinting at his side, and Maritza beside him in black skinny jeans and a cropped embroidered jacket that somehow still looked formal.
When Yadriel turned and saw him, his expression shifted with visible relief.
“You came,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was careful, like he wasn’t sure where they stood after earlier, but his eyes searched Julian’s face with concern.
Julian nodded, a little breathless. Just seeing Yadriel had loosened a knot in his chest. “Yeah,” he managed. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”
The joke fell flat with Yadriel, but Maritza gave him a pity snort. “Told you he’d show up,” she teased, bumping Yadriel with her shoulder.
The smile she aimed at him was crooked, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. There was tension in her shoulders, like she was still braced for something bad. Julian didn’t blame her. He was, too.
“I was a jerk,” Julian blurted. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for apologizing,” Yadriel said gently, earnestly. “I know you’re doing your best.” He placed a hand on Julian’s chest, right above his heart.
Julian inhaled for four, held for two, out for six. The St. Jude medal was warm against his skin.
Maritza’s gaze softened, protective.
Julian let out a weak laugh and rubbed his nose. “My friends are pissed at me, too,” he confessed. “I forgot we were supposed to go to Carlos’s Christmas party tonight.” He scrubbed at his face. “I keep screwing everything up.”
Yadriel’s brows knit. “Carlos’s party?”
Julian nodded. “We’ve gone every year, since before my dad died. Food, music, stupid games. But I bailed, and they’re right—I keep choosing this over them. They don’t get why.” His throat was tight. “I don’t know how to fix it.”
Yadriel’s hand found his again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to choose between them and us. It isn’t fair.” He squeezed Julian’s hand. “I’m determined to figure out a way where you don’t have to be stuck in the middle.”
Julian blinked, thrown by how easily Yadriel had said it—no anger, no judgment. Just understanding. It made his chest ache in a different way.
Lita emerged from behind the altar, trailing soft wisps of copal and palo santo behind her. She carried a small bundle of herbs in one hand and moved with the easy grace of someone used to commanding sacred spaces.
“Julian, mijo!” she greeted him warmly. “I’m glad you’re here!”
He tried to smile, but it didn’t stick. He gave a small nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Lita’s gaze flicked behind him, scanning the crowd. “Where is your friend Angel?”
The question hit him like a sucker punch.
Yadriel stiffened. Maritza glanced away.
Julian worked around the lump in his throat. “No,” he said, too fast, too flat. “They’re … not coming.”
Lita’s expression didn’t shift, but her eyes softened. She simply nodded, as if she already knew not to ask further. “That’s a shame,” she murmured, giving Julian a gentle pat on his cheek. “Well. Everyone finds their way in time.”
She turned back to the table, reaching for his candle.