I shake my head. It’s stupid; I could never be with a woman like Carla. Two people who worship the same sport? It’s impossible.
And yet, as I study her, laughing and joking and giving as good as she gets, tendrils of jealousy unspool low in my gut. I want her dancing eyes. I want her witty quips and her easygoing nature. I want her to gaze up at me and…what?
I shake my head, trying to clear the confusion that invades it.
Carla García is off-limits. She always has been.
Annoyed at my reaction to her, I slam down the visor of my helmet and rev my engine, pulling back onto the road and heading home for the night.
5
Carla
“¡Hola! I’m here,” I announce as I push into my brother and Marlowe’s apartment.
They purchased a beautiful four-bedroom apartment extending an entire building floor along a quiet, tree-lined street in the L’Eixample area after they tied the knot over the summer.
“I’m so happy to see you,” Marlowe says, throwing her arms around me. “Alejandro just ran down the street to buy ice.”
I relocate the pastry box I’m holding to a small console table so I can hug her back. As her arms tighten, I hold her for an extra moment. Mamá, Abuela, and Ale confided that Marlowe has been overwhelmed by her emotions. Partly, it’s from her pregnancy hormones. But it’s also stemming from her missing her friends and family in Rhode Island. It’s difficult for her grandfather or closest friends, a group of octogenarians she refers to as her Sewing Circle, to hop on a plane. And her father’s condition with Alzheimer’s has worsened, making it so he rarely recognizes her.
I know it’s painful for her to balance her big, happy feelings of love and impending motherhood against the backdrop of grief and nostalgia.
“How are you?” she asks, pulling back to look at me.
“I should be asking you that. How are you feeling? Abuela told me the nausea is easing.”
“Good days and bad.” Marlowe peeks into the pastry box and grins. “I love éclairs and ensaimadas!”
“I love your blueberry cheesecake.”
She beams. “I made one especially for you.”
“I can’t wait to try it.” I wrap an arm around her as we move toward the kitchen.
“Thank you. Now, be honest, how are you doing?”
I shrug, collecting my hair and tying it in a messy knot at the base of my neck. “I’m okay. Adapting.” Marlowe lifts an eyebrow as she pours me a glass of wine. She passes it to me, and I take a long sip. “I’m not sure what to do next and I hate feeling so…stuck. Like life is happening to me and I’m just watching and waiting.”
“It’s only been a few weeks.”
“Two months,” I correct her. And then, shake my head. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Marlowe touches my hand reassuringly. “It’s tough to feel like you’re moving…backwards.”
“Exactly.” I nod. “I always thought if I came home to Valencia, it would be because I was retiring from soccer. Or, because I found my person and was raising my children.” My voice trembles on the last word and by the understanding that washes over Marlowe’s face, I know she catches it.
“I didn’t know that’s something you want,” she says slowly. “Marriage, kids, that’s not something I’ve ever heard you mention, Car.”
“I know,” I sigh, rolling my lips together. “I don’t think I realized it either. But now, you and Ale are expecting. Kate is pregnant with her second, and Raia and Cohen are trying for a baby…” I pause to take another sip of my wine. “I’ve been all in on soccer for so long and now that I’ve lost it, it’s like waking up and realizing that everyone close to me has moved on in their personal lives. They’re building something real and meaningful. And I’m not. I mean, I felt like I was with my career but now… I’ve lost soccer.” I blink as a flood of tears rushes forward. “I don’t think I’ve admitted this to myself until this moment,” I ramble by way of explanation.
“That’s okay,” Marlowe says, passing me a napkin and taking one for herself to dab at her eyes. “I do that all the time. Find clarity unexpectedly. Go ahead, keep going.”
Two tears spill over my cheeks and I brush them away. Then, I polish off my glass of wine, which my sister-in-law quickly refills. “Like, what am I even doing with my life, Mar? I’m scared I’ve peaked at twenty-five and it’s all going to go downhill from here.”
“I’m scared my dad won’t know my baby. Not even for a heartbeat,” she whispers, her eyes wide and layered with hurt.
At her confession, I cry harder. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how hard that is for you.”
