Vicente’s smile is small. Satisfied.
Toni catches it. She shoves the bag into Sam’s hands and crosses toward Vicente, her heels sharp against the stone. The distance closes between them, and Vicente’s smile widens as she approaches, like he’s been waiting for exactly this.
Beside me, Leo mutters, “Mierda.”
“Leo asked me,” Toni says when she reaches Vicente, voice low but carrying. Her eyes cut to Leo, who’s suddenly very interested in his drink. Celeste’s hand moves to his back, protective. “Because you asked him to.”
Vicente spreads his hands, all innocence. “I simply mentioned to a friend that I’d miss having tamales this year. That’s all.”
“That’s all.” Toni’s laugh is sharp and humorless. “You couldn’t just—you had to go through my best friend. You had to make me the one who twisted the knife for you.”
“Elena made her choice,” Vicente says calmly. “I wanted tamales. She refused. I found another way. Ask yourself who’s really being unreasonable here, mija.”
Toni flinches at the endearment. I remember, suddenly, that this man kidnapped her earlier this year. That she was leverage. That he held her life in his hands and used it.
“No te atrevas a llamarme así.” Her voice shakes. Don’t you dare call me that.
Sam appears at her elbow, having handed off the tamales somewhere. She lets him guide her toward the bar, but not before she throws one last look at Leo—hurt bleeding through the anger.
Elena watches them go from her post near the table. If she feels any victory, it doesn’t show. She just looks tired. Worn down in a way that speaks to decades, not a single afternoon.
Vicente turns to me—deliberately, I think, choosing his audience. That conspiratorial tone I recognize from our sessions slides into place. “You see what I have to deal with? I ask for one small thing. A tradition. And somehow I’m the monster.”
“Me traicionaste en mi propia cocina,” Elena says without turning around.
“Your kitchen.” He lets that sit for a beat. “In his house.”
The air between them crackles. Arturo steps forward from where he’d been watching near the bar, positioning himself like a buffer—a role he’s clearly played before.
“Ya basta.” Arturo’s voice is low but firm. “It’s a holiday. We’re going to enjoy it. All of us.”
Vicente inclines his head. The graciousness is flawless. The sincerity, absent. Elena disappears toward the kitchen without another word.
I file it away—the dynamic I’ve only heard described in sessions, now playing out in front of me. Vicente’s manipulation. Elena’s cold spite. The children caught in their war. Arturo trying to hold it all together.
Some things you have to see to understand.
Arturo turns to me once Elena is gone, something apologetic in his expression. “I’m sorry you had to witness that. Family gatherings can be... complicated.”
“I’m a therapist,” I say. “Complicated is familiar territory.”
Vicente laughs—genuine, I think, or a convincing imitation. “You see why we need you, Dr. Palmer.”
Seeing them here, in their home, surrounded by the family they’ve built—it’s different than the therapy room. Vicente in a dark henley instead of tailored business casual. Arturo in a linen shirt the color of sand, at ease in a way he never quite manages during our sessions. Two men enjoying their first real holiday together in thirty years, even if the celebration comes with landmines.
“Thank you for coming,” Arturo says, and his warmth seems genuine. “It means a great deal to have you here.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” The professional distance I usually maintain feels inadequate. They’re not my clients right now. They’re hosts. “Your home is beautiful.”
“It’s Arturo’s,” Vicente says. “I’m just a guest who won’t leave.”
“A guest who rearranged my entire library,” Arturo counters. “And reorganized the wine cellar.”
“Improved both significantly.”
Their bickering is comfortable, lived-in. The kind that comes from decades of history, even when those decades were spent apart.
A hand touches my elbow—Chris, with Wyatt a step behind. They must have been watching the tamale situation unfold from across the courtyard.
