Page 59 of Hate That Blooms
After a minute, I exhale and walk toward the door, knowing I’m not going to ignore him forever. It’ll be easier if I could, but I’m addicted to him.
“Joaquín!” I call as I step onto the porch. My voice sounds rough, like I’ve just woken up—because I have. He looks up from his truck, and when his eyes find mine, a small, almost guilty smile spreads across his face. He pushes the mower the rest of the way into the bed and closes the tailgate.
“Hey, Gabriela,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Morning.”
He looks at me like he’s not sure whether I’m going to tell him to leave or invite him in. It’s hard to keep that distance between us now, but I’m trying. I’m so damn tired of fighting the love I have for him. I’m at a point where he could touch my arm and I’d drag him inside and beg for him to keep touching me.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, nodding toward the yard, the car, everything. It feels awkward to be standing here while he works so hard on something I didn’t ask for. I hate I can’t just thank him without feeling this strange mix of gratitude and frustration.
“I know,” he says with a shrug. His voice is calm, almost too easy. “But it seemed like something you might appreciate. I figured I’d save you the trouble.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I didn’t realize it was that bad,” I say, gesturing to the car.
His smile softens a little, and he shrugs again. “It wasn’t. But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take care of it. Can’t have my girls riding around with a dirty windshield during the rainy season.”
His girls.
Fuck, I’m going to crack. I know it.
A part of me wants to protest, wants to say I don’t need him, that I’m fine on my own. But another part of me, the part that’s tired of being so strong all the time, just... appreciates it. Even if I’m still not sure where we stand.
“Okay,” I finally say, folding my arms across my chest, trying to sound casual. “But I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I know,” he replies, his voice soft, but there’s no hesitation. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t need to. It’s just a fact, and we both know it. “Let me take care of the things that I can. I want to take care of you, Gabriela. You and Mireya.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. I don’t know if I evencanrespond. My mind keeps flashing back to everything that’s happened—the tension between us, the way things have been left unresolved, the way we haven’t addressed the past.
“Okay,” I finally say, swallowing whatever discomfort I’m feeling. “Thanks, I guess.”
Then, in a surprising move, Joaquín takes a step toward me, a small but purposeful gesture. His voice drops a little quieter than usual.
Oh, God. Is he going to touch me? I don’t know if I have the strength to not fling myself into his arms if he does.
“Also,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “I was wondering if you’d hand over the keys to the car. I thought I could do a quick oil change and a tune-up. It won’t take long.”
I blink at him, caught off guard by the offer. “You don’t have to do all of that,” I say, though I can already hear how ridiculous I sound. He’s doing it whether I say yes or no.
“I want you safe,” he says, eyes meeting mine. “And I’m already here, and it’ll only take an hour. I figured it’d be one less thing you have to worry about.”
I hesitate. I want to refuse. I want to say I’m fine handling it myself. But I also know that, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not just about the car. It’s about everything else—the unspoken way Joaquín’s been trying to fix things, to make up for all the shit that’s gone down. And for whatever reason, today, I can’t say no.
I turn to the mail table and grab the keys from the dish. “Okay. I appreciate it,” I say, handing them over. My voice softens a little, and for the first time in a long while, it feels like I’m saying something other than just okay.
Okay, I forgive you.
Okay, let’s finally talk.
Okay, touch me and tell me you love me.
“No problem,” Joaquín says, taking the keys from me, his fingers brushing mine in the process. He gives me one of those rare smiles, the kind that feels like it might mean something more but doesn’t say it out loud. “I’ll be done soon.”
As he walks back to the car, I linger on the porch for a few moments, watching him work. It’s odd, the way he seems to be everywhere, doing everything I haven’t asked him to do. Fixing things, taking care of things—like he’s trying to prove something.
It dawns on me. Actions. He isshowingme he is changing.
* * *
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I put the bills I was going through down. I pull it out and see a text from Joaquín. He only left an hour ago, so I wonder what he could have to say now.
