Chapter 13 – Analyse
Chapter Thirteen
ANALYSE
I’m sitting in the teacher’s lounge enjoying a much needed break—legs crossed, coffee in one hand, and half a donut in the other.
A couple of the other teachers walk in, chatting quietly between themselves. They settle at a table behind me, their voices low at first, the sound of crinkling wrappers and chair legs scraping tile filling the quiet.
I don’t mean to listen. I swear, I really don’t.
But sometimes these bochinchera ears win the battle against the mature woman inside of me.
I tear off another bite of donut, chewing slowly, pretending I’m not leaning back in my seat in their direction.
I blame my mother for having me watch all those telenovelas with her—now look at me, living for the drama.
“Did you see him the other day?” one of the teachers says.
“No!” another scream-whispers. “He was here?”
“Yes! He was parked right out front. It looked like he brought her lunch.”
Shit. My eye twitches. My coffee goes down the wrong pipe.
I cough once, quietly…at least I hope I was quiet, and I take another bite of my donut to buy time while my brain short-circuits.
Dammit. Please don’t let them be talking about me.
There has to be another nice guy who brought a teacher lunch in our school, right? Right??
“Wow,” one of the teachers says, voice lowered. “I’m so confused. I thought he and Letty were a thing? That’s what she said.”
Another lets out a sharp breath. “I know. He’s obviously going behind her back.”
A third voice jumps in, tone dismissive. “It honestly doesn’t surprise me. Mateo doesn’t scream boyfriend material.”
The second one snorts. “No, he screams get in my bed material.”
Then the first one sighs. “Ugh. Poor Letty. She’s going to be heartbroken when she finds out.”
I put the rest of my donut down. I’ve officially lost my appetite. I’m equal parts furious and sick to my stomach. First of all, how dare they talk about Mateo like that?
They don’t even know him. Not the real him. They only know what they think they see. The jawline, the arms, the sexy-as-hell thigh tattoo. Look, I get it. He’s hot. Like…infuriatingly hot. But that’s not him. That’s now who he is as a person.
They haven’t seen the way he crouches to talk to Maya like she’s the most important person in the room. Or how he will dress up in any princess costume if that’s what makes her happy, because her happiness means the world to him.
They haven’t seen how he shows up for every single one of us. How he showed up for Seb during his heartbreak, or Mariana in her time of grief, or me. How he’s shown up for me since the day Maya was born, helped me every chance he could, even agreed to be my fake boyfriend to get my ex off my back.
Mateo Rodriguez isn’t just “get in my bed” material. He’s the whole damn home. And here I am, sitting in this lounge, listening to people who don’t know a thing about him speculate on a story they made up out of scraps. The idea that Letty is a victim in this all? Laughable.
The anger inside me starts bubbling, rising fast and hot in my chest. It’s a white-hot fury that makes you say things you can’t take back.
And I know myself, and my damn mouth. So before I say something that’ll have me writing a resignation letter before noon, I stand, toss the rest of my donut and my half-full coffee in the trash, and walk out.
Fast. Head high. Heart racing.
The door swings shut behind me, muffling the gossip still spinning in that damn room.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. I go through the motions of teaching my students. I smile when I’m supposed to. Laugh when I need to. But none of it really lands.
I’m too in my head. Too distracted. Too annoyed.
Every time I pause, even for a second, my brain goes right back to that lounge. Those voices. That gossip. The way they tossed Mateo’s name around like it was nothing. Like he was nothing. And worse—like I was some side chick with no self-respect.
By the time the final bell rings, I’m emotionally tapped out. The kids race out of the classroom, and I’m left standing by the whiteboard, a dry-erase marker in one hand and a tension headache blooming behind my eyes.
Goddamn Letty. Who does she think she is? Why is she telling people that she and Mateo are together? Did they have a thing? Were they hooking up when Mateo agreed to fake date me?
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to will the thoughts away, but they’re already in. Circling. Building.
The thoughts are gnawing at me so deep, it makes my skin itch. I close my eyes. Exhale. Try not to scream.
After a few deep breaths, I decide I know exactly what I need.
I sit behind the wheel of my car, parked in the driveway with the engine off and the windows cracked, finishing the last few minutes of the podcast episode.
“…the killer had been in the attic the entire time,” the host says in her calm, slightly breathy voice. “Watching. Waiting. Listening to her brush her teeth.”
I suck in a breath and mutter to myself, “See, this is why I don’t trust creaky floorboards. You’re either going to be fighting off a chupacabra or a murderer. Either way, you lose.”
The host moves on to the closing credits, thanking listeners and teasing next week’s deep dive into a cult that lived in the middle of the country and worshipped a man named George.
I hit pause. There’s nothing like a little bit of true crime to get your heart rate going, a reminder that I’m alive and well.
I glance in the rearview mirror. Maya’s in the backseat, legs swinging, earbuds in, humming along to what I assume is that Halloween playlist she begged me to download. She catches me watching and flashes me a peace sign. I smile. I love my tiny weirdo.
I unbuckle, grab my water bottle, and open the door. The air is crisp enough to make me glad I grabbed a sweater.
“Come on, mamita,” I call, stretching out the kink in my back as I round the car. “Let’s make the most of the last daylight before it turns into murder hour.”
Maya hops out, tiara crooked, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. “We should do the murder mystery game again!”
“Only if you promise not to yell ‘this is where the body was found’ loud enough to freak out the neighbors again.”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “I make no promises.”
I really am raising my mini-me.
She skips ahead of me into the backyard, already dragging the chalk bucket and our “Mystery Kit” across the patio. It’s an old shoebox we decorated last year with Halloween stickers and filled with random clues, flashlights, and one incredibly dramatic feather pen.
“You’re such a little weirdo, kid.”
“I get it from you.” She giggles.
“Alright, Detective Maya,” I say, grabbing the clipboard she’s scribbled all over in marker. “What’s the case today?”
She pulls out a crumpled index card and clears her throat. “The case of the missing pumpkin cookie. Someone took it. We don’t know who, but we have three suspects. Each left behind a clue.”
“Was it the princess with sticky fingers, the titi with a sweet tooth, or the firefighter who says he doesn’t like sugar but is totally lying?”
She gasps. “Mateo!”
I grin. “Let’s gather the evidence and crack the case!”
We spend the next hour going through “clues” to crack that case.
Muddy footprints made with water and chalk, a bite mark in a sugar cookie I definitely took a nibble out of earlier, and a suspicious glove we found under the patio table.
Maya’s convinced the thief is someone close to us.
“It’s always the ones you least suspect,” she says, squinting through her magnifying glass.
We’re mid-search when the back gate creaks open.
“Buenas noches,” Hilda calls, her voice warm.
Maya gasps and bolts across the yard. “Hildaaaaaa!”
They meet in a hug that almost knocks Hilda backward. I walk over, smiling as Hilda steadies her tote bag full of snacks, pajamas, and definitely a storybook or two.
“You sure you’re good with her tonight?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
She pats my arm. “Please. I live for these sleepovers. We’re doing movie night, popcorn, and a couple of Cam Jansen books.”
“Cam Jansen!” Maya practically vibrates with excitement. “I want the haunted carnival one.”
“Packed and ready,” Hilda says with a wink.
I lean down to kiss Maya’s forehead. “Okay, mija. Be good. No scaring Hilda with crime scenes.”
“Only happy mysteries,” Maya says solemnly.
I grin. “Good girl.”
The second Hilda and Maya pull out of the driveway, my phone buzzes.
Anna
We’re two minutes away. I expect wine and popcorn to be ready.
Mariana
Also…is your door unlocked or are we breaking in again?
Analyse
It’s unlocked. But by all means, live out your little breaking and entering fantasy.
Mariana
I’d need Seba for that.
Anna
Yesss girl.
Analyse
Mari! TOO FAR!
Two minutes later, the front door swings open.
Anna walks in first, arms full—one hand holding a bottle of red wine, the other clutching a jumbo-sized bag of popcorn.
Mariana follows behind her with a tote bag that’s definitely filled with snacks.
We’re all wearing our vintage scream sweatshirts—the faded black ones with Billy Loomis on the front, one finger raised to his lips and the other hand gripping a knife.
That man was so damn hot. Psychotic? Absolutely.
But hot. And I will not be taking questions at this time.
Anna drops everything on the coffee table and flops onto the couch with a sigh. “Why are we not married to murderers who look like Skeet Ulrich in 1996?”
Mariana snorts. “Well firstly, I think Seba might have a problem with that. And secondly, jail is apparently frowned upon.”
I raise a brow. “And yet we all agree Billy was the moment.”
“Unhinged,” Anna says, pouring wine. “But in a sexy way.”
“I stand by what I said,” I add, grabbing my glass. “He could ghost me and stab me in the same breath and I’d say thank you.”
Mariana throws her head back laughing. “Therapy. Immediately.”
“Whatever,” I say, curling into the corner of the couch. “It’s movie night. Let me be delusional in peace.”
We’re about halfway through the movie, and the popcorn’s long gone. Anna’s stretched across the floor, dramatically clutching a throw pillow every time Ghostface shows up. Mariana’s wrapped in my favorite fuzzy blanket, the one that technically belongs to Maya but we all pretend is communal.
Tatum is in the garage, tossing beers around and low-key flirting with Ghostface like she’s not about to freaking die.
“She’s literally flirting with him,” Mariana says, horrified. “Girl, what are you doing?”
“She thinks it’s Randy,” I say. “To be fair, if I thought some dude was trying to prank me in a Ghostface mask, I’d flirt, too.”
“Oh, we know you would,” Anna says, reaching for more wine. “You’d be like, ‘Nice knife. But are you emotionally available?’”
Anna snorts so hard she chokes on her drink. I hand her a napkin, and we dissolve into laughter. That big belly laughter that only happens with the people that you most care about, the people the truly get you—down to your twisted sense of humor and your lifelong fear of attic murders.
As the credits roll, we all slump into the couch, quiet for the first time in hours.
Anna yawns and stretches. “Okay, but real talk…Mateo.”
I blink. “What about him?”
She sits up. “He’s really into you.”
Mariana hums in agreement. “Deeply. Like, ‘I’ll build a house with you in the woods’ into you.”
I roll my eyes, but my face warms anyway. “You guys are making stuff up again.”
“No, we’re not,” Anna says. “We’re observant. You’re just scared.”
I don’t answer right away. I run my finger along the rim of my glass, watching the way the candle flickers on the coffee table.
“We’re having a really good time together,” I finally say. “There’s so much more to him than meets the eye. He surprised me. He’s…a good man.”
Mariana’s smile softens. “I love that. He is a good man. And that’s exactly what you deserve.”
Anna raises her glass. “To good sex, good men, and the hope that they’re both with the same person!”
We laugh and clink our glasses one last time.
They head out a little after midnight, both of them swearing they’re going to text me the second they get home, even though I know they’ll forget. And this is why I make them share their locations with me…gotta make sure my girls are safe.
I lock the door behind them, turn off the lights, and sink back into the couch. It’s quiet now. Still warm from their laughter and presence. My heart beats a little louder in the silence.
I check my phone. No new messages. I sigh and start to set it down—when it buzzes.
Mateo
I hope the ghost with the knife didn’t get you.
Another buzz.
Mateo
Also…thank you again. For the snacks. For the quiet. I didn’t say it that night, but I really needed you. I’m glad you showed up for me.
I stare at the screen for a long moment. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, unsure of what to say. Then I type:
Analyse
Always.