I knew things about her that were impossible to forget. Like how she always hummed when she was nervous—under her breath, almost too soft to hear. A tiny habit she probably didn’t even know she had, but one I’d come to notice.
I’d never tell her I’d noticed, but it felt important. Something that was mine to keep.
I knew the way she’d pace around the apartment when she was thinking, and the way she’d bite her lower lip whenever shewas struggling to admit something genuine. I knew she hated her birthday even though she’d made such a big deal of mine. She was secretly terrified of thunderstorms, though she swore she wasn’t, and she’d subtly shift closer to me without saying a word whenever lightning cracked too close outside.
I knew she laughed the loudest when she was nervous or embarrassed, and the quietest when she was genuinely happy. She pretended to hate cheesy rom-coms but still watched them whenever she thought I wasn’t around, rolling her eyes at every cliché yet glued to the screen until the credits rolled.
And I knew what she looked like at three in the morning, wide awake with insomnia—restless, messy hair, curled up next to me on the couch, telling me stories from her childhood she thought I’d forget. But I remembered every damn detail, from how Isabel got her scar to the way her mother made pancakes shaped like animals when she was young, back when things were simpler, less complicated.
I’d spent years avoiding exactly this: knowing someone so well, so thoroughly, that their little details took up permanent residence in my head. It was dangerous. Reckless. The emotional equivalent of driving blindfolded, with no clue how hard I’d hit if—when—things eventually went off the rails.
But damn, if I wasn’t completely, willingly, selfishly hooked.
CHAPTER 42
VALENTINA
The house still smelled exactly the same. Like lemon. Cleaner, not the fruit.
Balloons were taped all over the walls—bright pink and purple, and way too many of them, because apparently, Isabel believed balloon minimalism was a crime punishable by death.
The birthday banner was hanging over the dining table, crooked and sagging right in the middle, exactly like it had been when Lucia turned six—except this time, it wasmymessy handwriting sprawled across it, declaring, “Feliz Cumpleaños,Lucia!”
God. Another year. Another birthday. I could’ve sworn I was just here yesterday, trying my absolute hardest not to look bored out of my mind or counting the minutes until I could sneak out for a cigarette. Time was funny. No—scratch that. Time was kind of a jerk. It dragged you forward whether you were kicking and screaming or finally calm enough to tie your shoelaces without falling over. It never cared if you were ready; if you’d done the dishes or paid your taxes or figured out how to tell your sister about your super-secret marriage without hyperventilating into a paper bag.
Time was deeply personal. It stole from you quietly, casually, like a pickpocket in a crowded street, and by the time you realized something was missing, it was already halfway down the block, blending into the crowd.
But tonight, standing here amid balloons and relatives and cupcakes I definitely hadnotbaked myself, surrounded by chaos and noise and so much love it made my chest hurt, I realized something else about time. Something I’d spent most of my life ignoring.
Sometimes, time gave back.
Not perfectly. Not neatly. Not wrapped up with a nice little bow. But it gave moments. Real, messy, crooked moments, kind of like my handwriting on that banner. Moments worth remembering. Worth keeping. Worth all the endless kicking and screaming it had taken to get here.
And this time I planned to keep every single one.
The house was crowded with family. Uncle Luis was arguing loudly with Uncle Tito about some soccer game neither of them had actually watched. My cousins—too many to count—were hovering near the food table, pretending they weren’t going for thirds.
Isabel was darting around in full mother-hen mode, balancing a plate of cupcakes while trying to keep Mama from getting out of the wheelchair she insisted she did not need.
“I feel fine, Isa,” she huffed, swatting away Isabel’s hands with her stubborn pride. “You’re making me feel like I’m ninety.”
I watched from a distance, smiling softly, because some things never changed: Mama’s independence, Isabel’s protective worrying, and me, still standing on the edge taking it all in. But this time, the difference was, I didn’t feel like an outsider anymore. I felt part of it—really,genuinelypart of it.
Don’t get me wrong—things hadn’t magically healed overnight. Mama was still sick. She still had days that wereharder than others and still pretended everything was fine even when it clearly wasn’t.
Isabel and I were still tiptoeing around each other, awkwardly relearning how to talk without the conversation immediately nosediving into passive-aggressive commentary about money or responsibility or “that time Valentina forgot to pick up Lucia from school”—which, by the way, had happened exactly one time, years ago, and no one was ever going to let me forget it.
And yes, obviously, I was still a recovering alcoholic, with all the charming baggage that came along with it. But things were better. Actually better, in a subtle, sneaky way that caught me by surprise when I wasn’t looking.
It wasn’t perfect, because families weren’t perfect. Families were messy and loud and sometimes exhausting—like trying to put together IKEA furniture while drunk, which was something I’d recommend never doing, by the way. But family was also warm and familiar and necessary in ways I’d spent far too many years pretending to ignore.
I glanced toward the front window, spotting Marco’s car parked outside. Lucia was tugging at his sleeve, babbling enthusiastically as he leaned down to listen, nodding patiently.
God, that man was suspiciously good with kids. It was honestly concerning, and something I’d definitely have to interrogate him about later. But for now I just watched, feeling a weirdly warm twist in my chest. Marco belonged here somehow, in ways I’d never imagined he would.
He belonged in this house, with Lucia tugging impatiently at his hand and Isabel loudly critiquing Mama’s refusal to accept help.
He belonged in the chaos—inmychaos.
