“We’re strong girls, Uncle Jay,” they reply in unison, matching dark eyes and hair that look so like my sister.
“Stronger than me, that’s for sure.” Both climb off me, eyes now locked on the new person as they run toward Liv. A symphony of ‘who are you, I like your hair, do you want to play Barbies with us’ rushes around her. Liv’s head ping-pongs back and forth between each twin, unable to utter a single syllable.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Jay?” Carina smiles.
“I saw them canoodling outside,” teases Bea, who, for the record, used to be my favorite. We’re closest in age, we spent the most time together in this house, but now she’s on my shit list. “I’m going to guess they’re dating, or you know...” She doesn’t say anything, but her eyebrows wiggle suggestively. Yep, definitely off my Christmas card list.
“Beatriz,” my mom says in warning, and the smell of garlic and butter trails behind her. “Stop tormenting your brother and go tell your father dinner is almost ready.”
Bea grumbles something unintelligible but slips out the back door.
“For the record, she’s holding her own with those two already.” Carina nods toward Liv and the girls, where they’re all laughing, real, deep belly laughs. The twins are eating it up like she’s their new favorite person. For someone who looked ready to bolt on the porch only minutes ago, she fits right in.
The air in my lungs feels full of her. Of that magic she often has during a storm, the same kind invisibly swirling around her, now clearly charming my nieces, too.
Looking around the room, I spot ‘the husbands’ Luis, Mateo, and Rafa, spread across the couch, half-watching the chaos unfold. I lift my hand in greeting and see my newest nephew, Nico—Bea and Rafa’s baby—sleeping in the crook of Rafa’s arm, tiny fists curled against his chest. Rafa lifts his free hand in a quiet wave, careful not to wake him.
The older kids, Luisa, Tomas, and Marco, don’t bother looking up from whatever activity they’re doing together in front of the TV, but that’s okay; there are lots of us here, and we’ve got tonight and tomorrow to catch up and introduce everyone.
Walking outside, I find Bea and my father, hoping I can steal two minutes alone with him before we’re all whisked inside for dinner. Dad’s crouched by the old crib, a screwdriver between his fingers and his glasses sliding down his nose.
“Still can’t let anyone else fix things, huh?” I say, leaning against the back porch.
He doesn’t look up right away, just makes one last twist of the screw before sitting back on his heels. “If I don’t, who will? You know your sisters. They call a professional when a lightbulb flickers.”
I huff a laugh, stepping closer. Bea huffs and walks toward the door behind me. “Maybe you can get him to come inside, he’s insistent he’s almost finished.”
She leaves, and I walk closer to my dad.
We stand there for a beat, the sky above us a deep, bruised blue. Somewhere down the street, a dog barks, and the lake hums with crickets.
Dad doesn’t look at me, but he doesn’t have to. “Something on your mind, filho?”
I draw a breath, and it burns a little going down. “Yeah.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “I got an email last week. A job interview in California.”
His brow lifts just slightly. “Big one?”
“Pretty big.” My throat tightens. “Full-time staff photographer with the Valkyries.”
“That’s no small thing,” he says, straightening up. “So why aren’t you excited?”
It’s the question I’ve been battling with since I got the email confirming the interview. “I don’t want to screw it up.” I also don’t know if I’m good enough for it, but I swallow those words, choosing to battle them by myself.
He hums as he assesses me. “Screwing up is half the fun, you know us Oliviera men like to fix things. Something I’ve learned over my years is that fear usually shows up right before the good stuff. You don’t flinch away from it, filho. You step into it.”
I swallow, but the pressure doesn’t ease—not when my mind goes somewhere completely different from California and cameras and interviews.
Dad’s gaze flicks to my face, and it’s like he knows. “You’re thinking about something else,” he says quietly. “Or someone. The girl your mother told me you brought today?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. His brows lift, knowing, soft rather than teasing.
“You care about this job,” he continues, “but that isn’t the only thing making you nervous tonight.”
I let out a breath. “She doesn’t know yet.”
“Mm.” He nods, thoughtful. “Big things feel bigger when someone matters, when they’re brought into your world, too.”
I don’t trust myself to respond. Instead, I glance up through the room to find Liv again. She’s standing between my mother and Isabel now, her coat gone, sleeves rolled up, a bowl ofsomething already in her hands, laughing at something Isabel says.
