“Nope,” I say. “Promise.”
She huffs but nods. “Okay. But only if I get chocolate milkafter.”
“Deal,” I say, my throat already tight.
Analyse reaches over and smooths down her wild bedhead. “You remember last night at the fundraiser? How proud we were of you?”
“I was the best volunteer,” she says, sitting taller. “Even Principal Ortiz said so.”
“You were,” I agree. “And that’s one of the reasons we wanted to talk to you today. Because you’ve been so brave, and kind, and strong. And because…well, we have something really special to tell you.”
Her eyes bounce between us, curious now.
I glance at Analyse. She gives me a nod.
I turn back to Maya. “You know I love you, right?”
She tilts her head. “Yeah. You always say that.”
“I do. But I want to say it again. I love you so much, Maya. And not just because you’re funny, or smart, or because you give the best hugs…though all those things are true.”
She giggles.
“I love you because you’re you. Because you’ve made this house feel like home. Because every time I see you, I know that I want to be here, with you and your mom, for the rest of my life.”
Maya glances at Analyse, who squeezes her hand.
“Is this about you getting married?” she asks, nose scrunching. “Because I already knew that. You kissed her like a bajillion times at the fundraiser.”
Analyse snorts and coughs into her coffee.
I laugh, pressing a hand to my chest. “Okay, yes. We are getting married.”
“In ten weeks,” Analyse adds, pulling out her phone. She types quickly and then holds it up to show us both the message she sent to the group chat:
Anna, get your planning fingers ready. The wedding is in 10 weeks. Save the date!
Maya’s eyes go wide. “Are we going to wear matching dresses?!”
“We’ll both be wearing white dresses, mi amor,” Analyse says.
“I want to sparkle!”
“You always do,” I say, brushing a crumb from her cheek.
She shifts her weight and looks back at me. “So, what’s the special part? I already knew you were going to marry Mami. Duh.”
I take a deep breath and grab the envelope I tucked into the coffee table drawer last night. I hold it out to her.
“What is it?” she asks, taking it with small fingers.
“Open it.”
She tears it open with reckless abandon. Inside is a simple drawing I made—stick figures, because I can’t draw for shit. The three of us, holding hands. Above us, in big, blocky letters, it says: The Rodriguez Family.
Maya blinks. “That’s us.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s us. But I want to make it official.”
