“You know, my barber had to redo my fade twice last week because he said my face changed,” Nico said randomly.
“What do you mean yourfacechanged?” She blinked at him. “It looks the same.”
“Apparently I’m entering my ‘leading man’ era.”
Bea snorted. “You’re sixteen.”
“I’ll be seventeen soon. The transformation is starting.”
A smile claimed her face. She couldn’t help it.This kid. Sixteen going on delusional, with the kind of confidence you couldn’t buy—but if you could, she’d take a year’s supply. She couldn’t remember when exactly he became family, but he had.
“Where’d you go for the summer?” she asked.
“Mallorca,” he said casually. Like it wasn’t the most absurdly luxurious place a high-schooler could have summered. A place her own papa, who emigrated from Spain to Canada as a teenager, still dreamed of one day going. “Do you know how many carbs I consumed? I’m proportionally more bread than man now.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“It was. I also read a couple of books.”
She pressed her whole hand to her cheek. “I’m sorry, did you saybooks?”
He nudged his chair closer to the table. “It’s junior year. El Jefe said if I want options in the military, I need to earn it.”
“Finally, Rafael gave you some good advice.”
“I told you he does,” Nico said loyally.
Bea’s eyebrow arched. “Does that mean no more whining?”
“Absolutely not. I plan to suffer loudly and often.”
“I guess that’s what your mother pays me well for.” Bea sighed, neatly lining up her pens and highlighters.
“Exactly. I’m giving you job security. You’re welcome.” Nico nodded, smug as ever. Then, endearingly earnest, “So let’s do it, tutor lady. Two years to get me on the officer track. Don’t mess it up.”
Her eyes caught his. Unspoken agreement, like a handshake.
She fired up her laptop, heart full. “Open your book.”
Chapter Twelve
Golden hour hit her bedroom like it had a crush on her, painting warm shadows across the desk and the half-read book splayed on her duvet. Bea sat cross-legged on the bed, earphones in, chewing absently on a pen cap as her laptop glowed in front of her.
The video call connected, and there she was: Claire Park in peak late-night Toronto form.
Oversized flannel, chaotic topknot, mug of tea balanced in one hand—and behind her, a laundry pile large enough to qualify for disaster relief.
“Okay,” Claire said, squinting. “It’s just a little offensive that you live inside a perfume ad while I’m here wearing two pairs of socks so my toenails don’t go blue.”
Bea grinned. “I didn’t choose the cinematic backlit life. It chose me.”
Claire squinted at the screen. “Is that a sports bra?”
“I have Pilates tonight,” Bea said, taking another sip from her sparkling water.
“Who are you and what did you do with the girl who used to wheeze from climbing the stairs to the science labs?”
“I evenwalkthe twenty minutes to Pilates,” Bea said proudly.
