I grin against my youngest sister’s hair. “Hey, Val.”
The force of her embrace tells me everything she doesn’t say out loud –I miss you. Why don’t you come home anymore? Please don’t leave so soon.I press a kiss to the top of her head, knowing my affection means the world to her.
“You don’t look so good,” she says, when we pull away, a frown to her brows when she studies me, even though I’m grinning down at her.
“Jeez,” I breathe. “You’re as sweet as ever.”
She gives me a once-over and turns on her heel. “Mom is in the kitchen.”
Flabbergasted, I look over to Gaby as she pulls her coat off. “When did she start having this much attitude?”
“Since she turned sixteen.”
Valentina has grown so much since the last time I saw her. She’s always been the quiet one between us three, but it seems her personality is coming out little by little. Though she has never openly spoken about it, I think she’s still having a hard time coping with the loss of our dad. He passed away when she was only nine, but they were really close and had a unique relationship. She likes to find solace in books and journaling, but I love seeing her bloom like a flower.
Dad would be beyond proud of her.
He’d be so fucking proud of Gaby too. She’s just graduated from college and landed a job in marketing that she’ll start in the spring.
But he’d shake his head at me. He’d ask me why I keep onbeing reckless. Why I try to impress the people around me when there’s no need.
My feet drag me into the kitchen where delicious aromas whiff in the air – onions, garlic, herbs I can’t name for shit. The scent of dried chiles and toasted cumin rises like a memory, stirring my appetite and something deeply nostalgic. The cocktail of spices takes me back to afternoons in my abuela’s kitchen in Mexico, where I’d steal spoonfuls straight from the simmering pots, too impatient and hungry to wait. I love that Mom still cooks like she never left Puerto Vallarta – her devotion to keep every single flavor alive is something I quietly admire. My parents moved here to Blue Ridge Springs for Dad’s job when I was barely a year old, so I don’t recall living and growing up elsewhere. But still, they’ve held on to where we came from, to who we are. And I don’t say it often . . . but damn, am I grateful for Mom’s cooking, and for everything else that our roots carry.
Fuuuck, yes. I almost fall to my knees when I realize Mom is making her famous tacosal pastor. She notices me after putting the lid back on the pot in which the meat is slowly cooking. Her entire face lights up, and, fuck, if that doesn’t crush my heart a little bit more.
“All of that for me? You didn’t have to, Mamá.”
She rolls her eyes in amusement before wrapping her slender arms around my waist. I close my eyes, marveling at the feeling of being home.
When we part, she cradles my cheeks. “Let me look at you,” she whispers. I can’t help but smile down, studying the lines of fatigue on her face, the greying hair by her temples. Her eyes are full of joy, though, and that makes me happy. “Guapo.”
“He looks so much like Dad,” Gaby comments softly from the island, where she has taken a seat on a stool.
I swear to God, if my sisters try to make me cry today, I’m going to pull a prank just to piss them off.
Mom’s eyes are brimming with emotion when she releases me. “Go sit next to Gaby and tell us what happened and why you’re here.”
The stern tone she uses makes me obey in a heartbeat. All these years in Blue Ridge have softened her accent to a whisper, but sometimes, in the hush between syllables, it returns like a warm memory. Whenever she’s upset or angry are usually the times she sounds as if she never left her hometown.
Valentina reaches into the pantry to retrieve a bag of Takis, only to have it swiped away by Mom. “We’re eating soon.”
“But I’m hungry!” Valentina whines, before seating herself on my other side, her bottom lip jutting out in the most dramatic way.
While they bicker, I look around. The fridge’s door is littered with pictures from not only our childhood but also recent shots. I spot an article from my latest tournament, where I won the silver medal, drawings from Valentina from when she was younger, and postcards from the cities Gaby has visited.
When I spin on my stool, I notice the door leading to the hallway is open, and my eyes land on a family portrait that makes my heart squeeze. Valentina is only three years old in that picture and she’s propped up on Dad’s shoulders. Gaby is smiling widely, holding a cup of hot chocolate in a gloved hand, foam sticking to her upper lip. Mom has her arm looped through Dad’s, her other hand gripping my shoulder. My grin is broad, my cheeks flushed, my hair sticking to my forehead, and my snowboard is tucked to my side.
This was taken on my twelfth birthday during the town’s amateur snowboarding competition. I had achieved third place – it’s my happiest memory. It was right then that I knew Iwanted to go pro, and that nothing would ever make me feel the way snowboarding does.
“Diego.” Mom snaps her fingers, and when I turn to her, she has her hands on her hips. “¿Qué onda?”
I let out a long breath, then rattle off everything that happened – from the doctor’s opinion to Coach’s plan to keep me at Blue Ridge for the next three months.
Mom nods in understanding, Gaby watches me with that pitying look that I can’t stand, and Val doesn’t say anything. But when they all tell me that everything will be okay, that I’ll be able to bounce back easily, I have to dig deeply inside me to find that sliver of hope they possess.
And I don’t find it. Not even a minuscule piece. Not even a crackling ember.
Because nothing can convince me that I’m going to be okay.
