Chapter 8 #2
“I hope you like homemade pie,” Marisol says, pulling plates from a cabinet. “I have to know whose pie is better—tu mamá’s or mine.” She points a wooden spoon at me like she’s issuing a formal challenge.
“I love pie,” I say without thinking. “My mom makes a great apple pie that Alycia can’t get enough of.”
“Is that so?” Marisol laughs, clearly entertained. “Last I checked, this one would rather skip dessert entirely than touch a pie.”
“What can I say? My mom’s pie changes lives,” I say, flashing a grin that doesn’t quite mask my panic.
Marisol snorts. “?Cambiar vidas? Por favor.” Marisol snorts as she lifts her chin like she’s asking for a verdict right now. “Bueno, mija… tell me, whose pie is better?”
Alycia mutters, mortified, “Mamá, para.”
“That sound a lot like a trap, and I refuse to walk into it,” I whisper in Alycia’s ear before flashing Marisol a smile. “Without even tasting it, I already know they’re both going to be number one in my heart.”
Marisol freezes for half a beat, then her entire face breaks into a delighted smile.
“Careful, mijo,” she says, wagging a finger at me even as her voice softens. “You keep talking like that, you’ll make my daughter blush.”
Alycia does blush, which only confirms it.
Marisol turns toward her, whispering under her breath, “Ay, este muchacho…” Her hand drifts to her chest as she looks right at me, eyes warm, almost misty with approval. “Con palabras así…”
I have no clue what she just said, but I don’t need a translation. The tone is pure affection. Then she reaches out and gives my cheek a quick, gentle pat—the universal mom stamp of I like this one.
I shoot Alycia a smug little wink. “I think your mom likes me.”
Alycia nearly drops the corkscrew. “God, please stop encouraging her.”
Marisol only shrugs innocently as we move around the kitchen, and every time Alycia gets close, her mom tosses out a quiet, “Ajá…” under her breath like she’s clocking every inch between us.
“Why don’t you two sit. Dinner is coming in one moment,” Marisol finally says, shooing us out of the kitchen with her hands.
We cross into the dining room and head to the small table, and for a minute, it’s just us. Alycia moves to pull out her chair, but I beat her to it, fingers brushing hers on the backrest. She glances up, her perfect brow arching like she wants to scold me but doesn’t have the words.
“Thought I’d earn a few boyfriend points,” I murmur, voice low enough for only her to hear.
“You’re insufferable.”
“Maybe. But charmingly so.”
She sits, shaking her head, but the smile that slips through isn’t nearly as annoyed as she wants it to be. I take the seat beside her, leaving us suspended in that strange quiet between pretending and something else entirely.
“How am I doing so far?” I ask, leaning in just a little. “Convincing enough?”
“You’re… doing fine.” Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
“Just fine?”
Her lips part like she’s about to answer, but no sound comes out. Without thinking, I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. It’s supposed to be a comforting gesture, but the second our skin touches, something sparks.
“Relax,” I murmur, thumb tracing the edge of her knuckles before I pull away. “You’re doing fine, too.”
Marisol reappears a second later with a serving dish, completely oblivious to the tiny inferno she just interrupted. She sets down a serving dish and wipes her hands on a dishtowel, the soft clatter of plates breaking whatever spell was hanging between us. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“It smells incredible,” I tell her, and it’s true.
Alycia passes out plates, and her fingers brush mine again. Deliberate or not, I can’t tell. It happens twice before she avoids eye contact altogether.
“So, Kyle,” Marisol says from her seat across from us. “How did you meet?”
“Mamá, ?tenemos que hacer esto?” Alycia groans.
“?Qué?” Marisol asks, feigning innocence. “It’s a normal question to ask your boyfriend.”
I could tell her the story we practiced: the coffee shop, the latte, the smile that changed everything. It’s close enough to the truth to be believable, but when I glance at the way Alycia’s lips part on a sigh and the faint pink dusting on her cheeks, something in me rebels against pretending.
“Funny story.” I grin, taking a slow sip of water just to buy myself a second. “There was this elevator…”
“Kyle.” Alycia shoots me a warning look that I ignore.
“An elevator?” Marisol leans forward, elbows on the table. “I need to hear this.”
“Three floors and she already hated me. It was perfect,” I say solemnly.
“Oh my god,” Marisol bursts out laughing.
“That’s not even close to what happened.”
“Sure, it is,” I say, keeping my tone easy, like this isn’t a confession. “You glared at me. I fell in love. Pretty straightforward.”
Marisol claps a hand over her heart like she’s the audience in a telenovela. “How romantic!”
“Please don’t encourage him.” Alycia sighs, cheeks flushed.
But she’s smiling, and I can’t stop looking at her. I don’t know why I said that. Maybe because it felt truer than anything we rehearsed, or maybe because for the first time, I didn’t want this to sound fake.
Marisol sighs dreamily, chin resting on her hand. “Ay… ustedes dos… so cute.”
“Mamá,” Alycia whines as she looks anywhere but at me.
“?Qué? It’s nice to see you happy.”
“She’s always been like this?” I ask, half grinning, trying to disguise how thrown I am by the word happy aimed at Alycia. It sounds like it might be something rare and precious that Marisol doesn’t get to say often enough.
“Worse,” Alycia says. “She once tried to set me up with our mailman.”
“He was handsome!” Marisol insists.
“He was seventy.”
I laugh, and the sound earns me a fond smile from Marisol that feels too close to approval, like I’ve somehow passed an unspoken test.
“So,” she says, eyes bright with curiosity, “how long have you two been together?”
“Not long,” Alycia answers quickly, but her voice catches just slightly at the end.
“Feels longer,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her gaze snaps to mine. A small flicker of something—warning, heat, both—passes between us.
Marisol hums, “Mmm… cuando se sabe, se sabe.”
I don’t know what Marisol just said, but from the way Alycia’s entire face flames, I can guess. She shifts in her seat, her knee brushing mine under the table. I should move, give her space, but I don’t.
Marisol tosses out another soft line in Spanish that I don’t quite catch, and Alycia laughs. The sound slides under my skin, pulling me straight back to the night I first saw her months ago. She isn’t performing now. She’s just… her. And that undoes me faster than anything else ever has.
Alycia reaches for the breadbasket, fingers skimming the rim, then hesitates like she can feel my eyes on her.
Her hand hovers, and I reach toward the basket at the same moment she moves again, and our hands collide.
It’s barely a touch, but it knocks the air clean out of me.
Her fingers twitch like she’s going to pull away… but she doesn’t.
For one suspended heartbeat, we’re both frozen in the space between instinct and want. Then she clears her throat, gently nudges the basket toward me, and the moment snaps. When I look up, Marisol is watching us with that quiet, knowing mom-amusement.
“You adore her, don’t you?” Her voice is soft and unmistakably pointed.
For half a second, I forget how to breathe.
I should laugh or say something smooth, but nothing comes out.
Not with Alycia sitting right here. Every logical reason I shouldn’t feel this flashes through my head—the fake story, the short-term deal, the fact that we barely know each other—but none of it sticks.
All I see is the way Alycia looks like she’s trying not to shake, that stubborn tilt of her chin, the tiny line between her brows when she’s overthinking. She carries the world too easily. And I want to be the one person she can set it down with.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say, low and unguarded. “Hard not to.”
It’s not a line or pretend; it’s the truth. Alycia freezes, fork halfway to her mouth. Her face drains of color, then floods back in a slow, beautiful rush. Her eyes lift to mine, and something sparks there, something that’s been flickering all night finally catching flame.
It’s too much too soon, but I can’t look away. I’ve spent hours memorizing her without meaning to, and now every piece fits: the way she hides her nerves behind sarcasm, how she flinches when someone looks too close, how her laugh sounds when she forgets to be guarded.
Marisol beams, blissfully unaware she’s just blown my cover. “I see why she likes you.”
If only she did. The thought lands hard and ugly because, for all the easy smiles and quick jokes, Alycia still sees this as a favor. A role I’m filling, but I want it to be more. I want her to want it to be more.
Something flickers across Alycia’s face too quickly for anyone but me to catch.
I said something she wasn’t ready to hear, and she doesn’t know where to put it.
But her mask snaps back into place, and she forces a small, polite smile.
“We should probably get going soon, Mom. I have a long day at work tomorrow.”
I nod, swallowing everything I can’t say, pretending I’m not unraveling right here at her family’s table. Because if I don’t pull it together, her mom’s going to see what Alycia can’t yet. Somewhere between the elevator and tonight, I stopped faking it completely.