That answer again.
He didn’t ask why we sent them here. Didn’t push back. Didn’t fight me the way I expected. Maybe because he could see I was at my limit. Maybe because, deep down, he knew there was more going on.
And now, he’s watching me like he wants to ask—but doesn’t want to be the reason I break.
“Lila’s up soon,” he says, nodding toward the building. “Her class is presenting volcanoes. You’re lucky—she bribed the teacher to go last just in case you came.”
“Oh, my God.” I blink hard. “I love that chaotic little manipulator.”
“Wonder where she got that from,” he says, deadpan.
Inside the science wing, the hallway smells like paper, Elmer’s glue, and nerves. The walls are lined with perfectly constructed dioramas and projects with actualcircuitry. One kid’s model has fog machines and LED lighting. Jesus.
We slip into the back of the classroom just as a redhead finishes explaining tectonic plates like she’s pitching a Netflix documentary.
Then Lila steps up.
She doesn’t look nervous.
Shelookslike she belongs.
“Hi,” she says, voice clear. “I’m Lila Marquez, and this is Mount Dandelion. I know, it’s not a real volcano name, but it should be.”
A ripple of laughter.
“I made this out of papier mâché, clay, and my soul. And maybe some glitter.”
The volcano actually erupts. Foam, food coloring, vinegar, the whole thing. Kids cheer. Parents clap. I laugh so hard I nearly snort.
When she’s done, she finds me with her eyes and mouths,“You saw it?”
I nod, giving her a double thumbs-up like a totally uncool human.
She beams.
Twenty-five minutes later, after the polite round of parent selfies, teacher thank-yous, and one small incident where someone’s model volcano combusted with suspicious enthusiasm, we find a quiet spot near the courtyard fountain.
Julian has fifteen minutes before his lacrosse practice. Of course he plays lacrosse now. Because why wouldn’t my baby brother become a full prep-school stereotype the second he touches Monterey soil?
Lila’s still halfway focused on her muffin, humming softly, pulling the wrapper into symmetrical strips like she’s dissecting it for science.
I sip a lukewarm latte from the school café. It tastes like wealth and minimalism—foam, oat milk, judgment.
Julian’s been glancing at me for five minutes straight.
Finally, he says it. “You okay?”
I nod. Too fast.
He doesn’t buy it.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says, voice low. “But if something’s happening… I want to know.”
I glance down at the pastry I haven’t touched. Almond croissant. Flaky, fancy, not nearly sweet enough to distract me from what I’m about to say.
Julian deserves the truth.
I exhale. Long. Slow. Measured.
