I love you,I think, wishing I had the courage to say it aloud.
“Feliz Navidad, pi lover,” Damian croons, smiling up at me as he bends down to kiss the back of my hand.
Suddenly, I’m transported back to that day in Touro Park—the day that started everything—and all at once, the pill box makes sense. I want to laugh. I want to comment on how far we’ve come since that fateful day when he misread my email address aspilllover instead ofpi, and I was convinced theuniverse was playing an elaborate joke on me. But I can’t. Because I realize now it wasn’t messing with me at all.
It was bringing me exactly what I needed. I just didn’t know it yet.
So, although I want to, I don’t laugh. Instead, I just stare at him—at this frustrating, sarcastic, sexy, unexpectedly ambitious man I love—and my heart is racing so quickly I am breathless when I whisper back, “Merry Christmas, fuckboy.”
Después de la risa, viene el llanto - After laughing comes crying
Translation: What goes up must come down. And I am a plane that was always destined to crash.
January
The new year starts with a bang. After spending Christmas in Guadalajara with my abuela, I ring in New Years with Blondie, her friends, Gina, and her mom at the Dornans’ house. It was probably the most low-key New Years I’ve ever experienced—we sat around their living room wearing party hats and drinking bubbly, talking and laughing long after the clocks had ticked past midnight—and I cherished every minute of it. I think that night was the first time in my life I really felt like I belonged anywhere. Like I actually had real friends.
My abuela has always done her best to make me feel loved, and she does a bang-up job of it, but I would be lying if I said that New Years celebration wasn’t also the first time I truly felt like part of a family since my abuelo died. Part of something that isn’t fundamentally broken.
It’s like that saying: la familia no siempre es de sangre, sino de corazón. Family isn’t always by blood, but by heart. And this is definitely the family I choose.
Blondie’s friends have warmed up to me, and her mom and aunt have embraced me like a second child. Nothing about their affection feels conditional; they know the worst of what I’ve done and accepted me in spite of it—something I can’t exactly say about my parents. In the story of my life, I am a hostage on a pirate ship, one wrong word away from walking the plank, but with Blondie and her family, there is no ship. They are the land in the distance, the haven promising refuge from the ravenous sea that would otherwise swallow me. They are my sanctuary. They are home.
Blondie is my home.
I don’t think I moved my arms from around her that entire night. We sat on the floor against the sofa, her back to my chest, the chiming sound of her laughter rumbling through me like a shock wave. It was fucking euphoric seeing her like that—in a place of safety and comfort, surrounded by people she could be herself with, and knowing I got to be a part of it. There were fleeting moments when I felt like an impostor, like I had stolen something that didn’t belong to me. Moments when I was certain I didn’t andcouldn’tever deserve this happiness. Moments when I believed I didn’t deserve her. But then I would catch a glimpse of the necklace I gave her for Christmas around her neck, and those doubts and worries would wash away, like the ebbing of an ocean tide. Sure, I might have chosen Blondie,but seeing that necklace on her told me that, flaws and all, Blondie has chosen me, too.
Every day since then has felt like the extension of a dream I don’t want to wake up from. Maybe because this all feels too good to be true, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe because I can sense something on the horizon of this happiness—something that is steadily creeping closer, getting ready to destroy it.
That something takes the form of a text from my dad that arrives halfway through my first week back at school after the Christmas break, effectively jerking me awake and pulling me from the safety and comfort of the dream I had so desperately hoped would become my new reality.
Because dreams can’t exist without nightmares to counter them. And the feeling clenching my gut as I stare down at my phone screen tells me that’s exactly what I’m about to walk into.
Mein Führer
I need you to come home. Immediately.
My parents live in a waterfront New England shingle-style mansion in Jamestown, a twenty-minute hop across the bridge from Newport. There’s a lot of generational wealth in the area, and since old money types value their privacy, my parents fit right in with their stuck-up noses and pompous demeanors. Plus, it’s removed from the tourists (a bonus, according to my mother) while still being only a short drive from Hallazgo and the local amenities.
The house itself is luxurious, its design heavily influenced by the coast it overlooks. The exterior is painted in the same grayish-blue hues of a stormy ocean, the color accented by the cobblestone first-story walls and the crisp white trim that highlights the sharp edges and clean lines of the property. Ivy creeps intentionally across select parts of the stone, carefully planted for effect, and well-maintained shrubs sit under the windows, their frost-tipped leaves unmoving in the still, frigid air, pristine and obedient in every way.
Unlike me.
Before my abuelo passed and my abuela moved away, my grandparents lived in a charming older house in Newport—still nice, still large, still technically a mansion, but nothing like the showy property my parents own. Their home had history—creaky floors, lots of wood, and the kind of charm and warmth that could only come from a place that had been truly lived in, not that unlike my abuela’s current home. A lot of people were surprised by how understated the house was, but my grandparents never needed some self-indulgent designer mansion to prove anything. They had a yacht—theLucia—for their adventures, and that was where the real luxury was. The house, on the other hand, was a representation of their life together—full of love. And I felt it every time I walked through their door.
I don’t have that same experience here.
It’s a weird feeling entering the code for the gate at the end of the sweeping circular driveway that curves in front of the house. I haven’t come back here more than a handful of times over the last four years; I stay at school when possible, which is most of the time, even opting to sign up for one or two classes over the summer period so I have an excuse to remain in the housing on campus, and I always spend holidays with my abuela. I know she would welcome me down in Guadalajara for the extendedbreaks, but she has her own life, and I don’t want to cramp her style. And honestly…maybe I was always a bit scared that, if I stayed too long, I wouldn’t want to leave out of fear of losing her like I lost my abuelo. Like I lost Jamie. Or maybe I feared staying would only accelerate that inevitability.
Whatever the reason, these last four years, I made it a point to never go home unless absolutely necessary—like after we returned from Guadalajara in November to fetch the Renesmobile. It’s not like my parents miss me, and for the rare occasion when they actually request my presence, they just summon me to Fernando’s, where bad news pairs well with good wine. And since bad news is the only kind they ever seem to have, I can only assume there wasn’t enough time for their usual theatrics if they felt the need to call me here.
Whatever this is about, it couldn’t wait. Or what they’re going to say is so bad they don’t want to risk an audience.
It’s an even weirder feeling approaching the house, a thin layer of melting snow crunching under my shoes, and pushing open my parents’ front door.Myfront door, I suppose, though this place hasn’t felt like a home to me since Jamie died.
The entry hall is eerily silent as I walk inside. While the late afternoon sunlight flooding in through the windows gives the interior a light and airy vibe, filling me with a false sense of ease, that misleading comfort doesn’t last. Dread pokes at me as I inch farther into the foyer, peering into the empty rooms I pass.
“I’m home,” I call out.
