Page 96 of Cava with My Colleague

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not? You like her. She clearly likes you if you spent two months together and, uh . . . something happened. So what’s stopping you?”

“My life is here,” I say, hearing the desperation in my own voice. “You’re here. Carmen is here. My work, my home, everything I know⁠—”

“And you’re miserable,” Fernando says bluntly. “Dad, we can see it. You’re trying to pretend everything’s fine, but it’s not. You look like someone took something precious from you.”

“She’s leaving in two weeks⁠—”

“So stop her!” Fernando’s voice rises slightly, startling Carmen, who starts to fuss. He lowers his voice, turning his eyes to his daughter and extending a finger for her to grab. “Dad, when was the last time you were actually happy? Not content, not settled—happy?”

I think about Jade laughing at something I said in Zurich. About her hand finding mine under the table in Seville. About waking up with her in my arms in my apartment, feeling like I’d found something I didn’t know I was missing.

“The tour,” I admit quietly. “I was happy during the tour.”

“Because of her.” Diana isn’t asking, but I answer anyway.

“Yes.”

Diana leans back. “Carlos, we’re not going anywhere. We’ll still be here for Saturday dinners. You’ll still be Carmen’s abuelo. But we don’t need you to make your entire life about us. We want you to be happy.”

“I am happy⁠—”

“No,” Fernando says firmly. “You’re safe. There’s a difference.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

“And honestly?” Diana adds. “We’re worried about you. You’ve been alone for so long. And now you finally found someone who makes you feel alive again, and you’re just . . . letting her go?”

“What am I supposed to do? Beg her to stay? Upend her entire life?”

“Why not?” Fernando shrugs. “She might say yes.”

“Or she might say no. And then what?”

“Then at least you tried,” Diana says gently. “At least you fought for something you wanted instead of just accepting what you think you deserve.”

“Which is what? Being alone?”

“Being safe,” Fernando says. “You think being alone is safer than being hurt. But Dad—you’re already hurt. You’ve been hurt for eleven years. Maybe it’s time to risk being happy instead.”

Later, I’m home alone with Izan. Fernando and Diana sent me away with leftovers and concerned looks I pretend not to see.

The apartment feels too quiet. Too empty.

I sit on the couch—the same couch where Jade woke up from her nightmare and I couldn’t help but kiss her—and pull out my phone. The photo she sent earlier is still there. Her friends laughing in the background, the Monaco coastline visible through the window.

I get up, restless, and find myself in front of the bookshelf in my bedroom where I keep Marisol’s photo. She’s laughing in it, caught mid-motion at Fernando’s birthday. Beautiful. Alive. Gone.

I pick up the frame, trace my finger over her face.

“I think I’m falling in love,” I say to the photo. To her memory. To the empty apartment. “And I don’t know what to do.”

She doesn’t answer, obviously. But I can almost hear what she would say—what she said when she was dying, weak but fierce: Carlos, promise me you’ll live. Not just exist. Live.

I’d promised. And then I’d spent eleven years doing the opposite.

I think about the tour. About standing on stages across Europe, about translating Jade’s passion, about watching her grow from terrified to confident. About the way she challenged me, pushed me, made me question everything I thought I knew about what I wanted from life.