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There is a moment, after the Battle of the Bands, when Andi considers telling Emilia she loves her.
No, “moment” isn’t right, unless it’s the longest fucking moment known to mankind. And “considers” isn’t accurate, either—it’s more like “has to staple her mouth shut to avoid screaming it to everyone in the greater zona metropolitana of Mexico City.”
Which isn’t typical behavior for Andi. She’s no Jana, airing her business at max volume in the middle of EWS every damn day. She’s supposed to be the chill one. Honest? Yes, absolutely. Maybe too much sometimes. But always lowkey.
But there was nothing lowkey about how it felt to kiss Emilia in front of the entire school, about blowing up the Lodge and watching Sebas slink away after his mom like a dog caught pissing on the floor, about playing that corny RBD song (that maybe Andi likes a tiny bit more now) and hearing cheers fill the auditorium. Cheers for them, after all the bullshit they went through just to get on that stage.
And there was nothing lowkey about seeing Emilia in the crowd, her eyes on Andi and Andi alone, her smile brighter than all the spotlights combined.
… Fuck, she’s got it bad, doesn’t she.
Which everyone knows now. Even her mom. Andi went to greet her after the show, Emilia in tow—Emilia’s own parents weren’t there, an absence she didn’t seem surprised or especially upset about. Just the way her mom looked at her, then at Emilia, then at Andi again, eyebrows raised ever so slightly, said almost everything. Then she followed it with, “You never told me you had a girlfriend, Andrea,” and that took care of the rest.
After a semester of hiding it, of kissing behind dumpsters and hooking up in the janitor’s closet, the sudden rush of candor, everything exploding into the open, is overwhelming, almost unreal. Andi spends the next several hours in a pleasant haze, Emilia’s hand in hers. She can’t seem to stop grinning.
When the excitement is starting to wind down and the students have all retreated to their various corners in hopes of continuing the celebration with smuggled bottles of booze, Emilia leads her outside. They’re definitely past curfew, but no one cares tonight, not even Lourdes. Andi walks on air, barely feeling the December breeze. Despite sneaking out here plenty of times after dark, this time feels different. Everything is different now.
They stop at a bench at the edge of campus. Emilia drops onto it with an exhausted giggle, pulling Andi with her, to her lips. With Emilia’s need for secrecy blown to oblivion, they kiss languidly, assuredly, Emilia’s palms warm against Andi’s jaw and the back of her neck.
A million thoughts are hurtling through Andi’s mind when they part, but all she manages is an eloquent “Wow.”
Emilia’s smile has a conspiratorial bite to it, like they’re still stealing kisses in the dark. “Tonight was amazing,” she says.
Andi can only nod in agreement. “How are you feeling?” she asks. “I mean, after everything with Sebas—”
The smile disappears. “Fuck him,” Emilia snarls, laced with so much venom it makes Andi flinch. “How could I perform with someone like that? Someone who thinks people like me—like us—don’t belong here? God, Andi. I swear I had no idea. This whole time…” She sighs, tilting her head back toward the stars. “But you know, now I’m remembering all these little comments he used to make. Like, little jokes about where I came from, how I never had any money, things like that. And I always laughed it off, because he was just a dumb rich boy who didn’t know any better.” Her chuckle is a bitter one; it makes Andi’s heart clench. “I was so blind.”
Any theoretical vindication Andi might feel is hollow in the face of Emilia’s very real pain. “Don’t blame yourself. That asshole fooled a lot of people. And the ones he couldn’t fool were in his pocket.”
“Yeah, I guess. I know I said I’d do anything to win, but… no win is worth that.”
“If it makes you feel any better, it sounds like there might not even be a winner. Directora Ferrer said she needs to meet with the rest of the board to figure out what to do with all the ‘complications.’ So who knows, you might get another chance.” She nudges Emilia with her elbow. “Our band could still use a Brazilian.”
The fact that there is now apparently a space for Emilia in Sin Nombre goes unspoken. MJ slipped away right after the performance, barely getting through an awkward congratulations to her former group before she left with her parents (who, Andi was amused to notice, were giving her and Emilia dirty looks the entire time they were in their presence). Did MJ’s gamble with Sebas pay off? Or will Andi return to their room and find another empty bed? Oh well. Nothing she can do about it now.
Anything to win.
“Hmm. Maybe,” Emilia muses, like she’s actually considering it, and Andi’s heart skips a beat. “Right now I think I’m content to just be the girlfriend of the most beautiful and talented woman here.”
“Funny, I could say the same thing.”
Cheesy as hell, but Emilia laughs at it anyway—genuine and sweet, no trace of remorse this time. She’s looking at Andi the same way she did on stage, unabashedly affectionate, fiercely proud, and all the night’s emotions come pouring back in, opening a cage of butterflies in Andi’s chest.
She wants to tell her. She wants to tell her so badly. Here under the moonlight, drunk on triumph, she wants to tell this terrifically gorgeous and terrifically brave woman in front of her exactly how she feels. This woman who, from their very first conversation, has left her equal parts fascinated and helpless.
Her hesitance makes Emilia’s eyebrows tilt up. “What are you thinking?” she asks, taking Andi’s hands in her own.
“That I—” The words spark across her tongue, everything she’s dying to say. “I—I’m happy.”
It’s too soon. They’ve only just gone public with their relationship, and between that and everything else that’s happened tonight, adding this on top could be too much. She can’t take that risk.
“Good. Me too.” Emilia rubs her thumbs in slow circles over the backs of Andi’s wrists. She looks down at their hands then back up at Andi, but it’s a sidelong glance, almost shy. Almost like she knows what Andi can’t bring herself to say.
Andi leans in to kiss her again. Maybe she can’t say it yet. But she will.
Zona Rosa, Andi has learned, is two things: 1) gay as fuck, and 2) loud as fuck. At least after sundown, when the streets fill with inebriated, shrieking revelers, locals and foreigners alike, and music doesn’t so much leak but burst from every club on every street, a cacophony of noise competing for attention.
And it’s well after sundown now, close to midnight. Their evening started in Polanco, where the clubs are full of sophisticated gays and charge an arm and a leg for one fucking drink. After a few hours of Lana del Rey remixes, Andi convinced the group to move east to Zona Rosa in hopes of a little less pretentiousness.
With only four of them—Andi, Emilia, Jana, and Dixon—it wasn’t a hard sell. Esteban stayed behind; he’s still got some lingering weirdness with Jana. And MJ (whose stunt apparently succeeded in convincing her parents she’s capable of more than singing about Jesus) still has some lingering weirdness with, well… everyone. As for Luka, no one’s sure where he is. Andi suspects he’s working on some plan to overturn his expulsion and worm his way back into the MEP. It’ll probably involve a fuckload of money landing in the right hands. Typical EWS.
The lights adoring the countless clubs, bars, and restaurants smear in greasy rainbow streaks whenever she turns her head. Which means she’s a few drinks past buzzed. Which means maybe those overpriced Polanco cocktails were worth it. The sidewalk feels decidedly less than solid beneath her feet.
Emilia’s had her share of booze, too; she’s listing to the left as they walk, and her grip on Andi’s arm feels a little too firm to be solely out of affection. She keeps flashing Andi this grin, loaded with something Andi can’t quite put her finger on, something tipsy-soft with a hard edge of mischief.
Before Andi knows it, Emilia is dragging her into a club and putting shots in her hands and then they’re dancing, so close Andi can feel the heat pouring off Emilia’s body. Close enough for her to appreciate, for what feels like the thousandth time, just how nicely Emilia can fill out a dress.
Being in the very near vicinity of a smoking hot woman does nothing to help Andi’s two left feet. Somehow, being able to coordinate her limbs behind a drum set doesn’t translate to being able to dance, which is bullshit. But Emilia is an excellent dancer (what isn’t she excellent at?), and she takes the lead, one hand on Andi’s waist, the other wandering, sliding over her hip and up her back before settling over Andi’s bare shoulder blade.
The music is so loud that the bass rattles Andi’s molars and thuds in her chest like a second heart. She can’t see Jana or Dixon; they’ve disappeared into the crowd, becoming part of the amorphous, sinuous energy surrounding Andi and Emilia, orbiting their sun.
Andi lets it all flow through her: the music, the crowd, Emilia. Glowing beneath the blue and purple strobe lights, Emilia’s gaze is locked on her, eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted. She moves like she owns the music, like the composition and the lyrics and the vocals are all hers. And Andi is hers. Willingly trapped in her wake, burning under her hands. She is hers, and everyone knows it.
The club is packed; someone’s arm brushes against Andi’s back as they slide by her, but she barely notices it. She presses closer to Emilia, wraps her arms around her and eases a leg between her thighs, just enough to earn a tiny gasp in her ear, cutting through the relentless throb of music.
Then Emilia’s fingers are gripping Andi’s chin, turning her head to bring their mouths together in a kiss so intense it leaves Andi clutching at Emilia’s back and moaning against her tongue. Her head spins, and it’s not just from the alcohol—there’s something thrilling about the sheer exposure of it all. No more secrecy.
A sheen of sweat glistens along Emilia’s hairline when she finally pulls away, and she’s breathing hard enough for Andi to feel. “Another drink?” she asks—or at least Andi thinks that’s what she’s saying. She repeats it again, louder, and gestures toward the bar.
Andi nods, buzzing on liquor and lust and love, knowing she must be grinning like an idiot and not giving a single fuck about it. She lets Emilia take her hand.
By the time their adventure comes to an end, the sun is just starting to fight through the smog and light pollution in the east, and Andi, Emilia, Jana, and Dixon are stumbling out of a dive in el Centro. Andi holds Jana’s hair back while she hurls Modelo and Zona Rosa hotdogs into a sewer grate.
If Andi did say those three little words to Emilia at some point during the night, yelling them into her ear at a club or whispering them in the back of a taxi, neither of them will remember it.
The following afternoon, Andi acknowledges the possibility of never telling Emilia she loves her, because this hangover might just kill her first.
She wakes up in her dorm bed—how she got there is a mystery—in last night’s clothes. Her brain is trying to force its way out of her skull and her mouth tastes like some hellish combination of a toilet and an ashtray. She fumbles for where her phone ought to be, and after a few panicked seconds, finds it tucked into her bra. Everything is sticky. Why is everything sticky?
With monumental effort, she cracks her eyelids open and is rewarded with a text from Emilia, sent twelve minutes ago:
Ugh I feel awful
Breakfast?
Or lunch? Whatever. Food
It takes her ages to send a response; autocorrect fucks it up no fewer than ten times.
Im fcuking dying. Guess last night was good
You want barbacoa? We can take an uber to naucalpan
The reply comes immediately:
Sure. Give me 30 min to look like a human being
Thirty minutes later (give or take, because Andi needed at least ten to keep whatever’s left in her stomach from making a dramatic escape, and then another ten to make sure Jana was still alive), they meet at the front gates.
Emilia has little to show for last night’s excitement—maybe some bags under her eyes, but they’re tiny clutches compared to Andi’s fully-loaded suitcases. Other than that, she’s positively radiant. How can someone with a hangover still be so pretty? It’s not fair.
“How much do you remember from last night?” Andi croaks. Speaking feels like deepthroating sandpaper.
Emilia shrugs. “Everything after Zona Rosa is fuzzy,” she says, fetching a pair of sunglasses from her purse. “I remember Jana saying we should go to, uh…”
“Centro Histórico. Drinks are cheaper,” Andi explains, then coughs out an abbreviated bark of laughter. “Damn, guess Jana’s a real chilanga after all.”
The trip to Naucalpan is largely spent in silence, every bump and pothole in the road a small slice of hell. Thankfully, it’s only a short walk down a few back streets before a tangerine-colored tarp comes into view. The smell of roasted meat wafting from it is simultaneously mouth-watering and nauseating.
Andi will feel better if she eats something. She knows this. It’s not her first time suffering the aftereffects of an overindulgent night. She’s tried all the tricks: sleeping it off, painkillers and coffee, electrolyte drinks, more alcohol. The only thing that ever seems to make a difference is choking down a greasy breakfast until she feels her soul returning to her body.
But when they’re seated at the orange vinyl-covered table and a plate of meat and tortillas lands in front of her, she can’t do it. Her stomach lurches, her mouth clamps shut, and she shoves the plate over to Emilia before dropping her forehead to her arms, crossed on the table’s edge.
“You should eat something,” Emilia says from somewhere above her, matter-of-factly.
The table, inches away from Andi’s nose, reeks of plastic and disinfectant. Her only response is a muffled grunt; a weak objection, because of course Emilia’s right, but dear god everything is too damn bright and too damn loud. Each order the barbacoa cart’s owner calls out feels like a stake through her eardrums.
Groaning, she pulls her head off her arms and squints through one eye, like that’s going to make anything better. Next to her, Emilia is shoveling food into her mouth with a ferocity that would be endearing if Andi didn’t feel like total fucking garbage.
But she has to eat. Maybe she can handle the bowl of consomme steaming on the table between them. She pulls it over and spoons a small mountain of salsa into it. Her dad always told her spice was the best way to chase off a hangover—brings you back to life, he’d say with a self-deprecating smirk, bent over a bowl of something eye-wateringly hot on a Sunday morning. The irony of it now is painful, but with any luck the salsa will take care of that, too.
Emilia’s leg brushes hers under the table. “Do you know how we got home last night?” she asks.
“Nope.” Andi grabs a napkin to wipe her streaming nose. “I remember Jana getting sick, and then I sat down… somewhere. Dunno what happened after that.”
“Did we take the Metro?”
Andi shakes her head. “Doesn’t run that late. Unless it was already five in the morning?”
“God. I have no idea.” One corner of Emilia’s mouth turns up. “Maybe we had a guardian angel.”
“It was probably just Dixon calling a cab.”
“Probably.” Emilia pushes her empty plate to the end of the table with one hand and passes her styrofoam cup of coffee to Andi with the other. Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. “Don’t take this the wrong way”—the smile breaks through anyway, and now she’s trying not to laugh—“but… girl. You look like shit.”
Andi makes a sound that’s supposed to be laughter but sounds more like a horse dying. “Thanks, Emi,” she says, staring into the brown abyss of the coffee. “I feel like shit.”
Emilia coos in sympathy and presses a kiss to Andi’s shoulder, then rests her forehead on it, shaking with silent giggles. And for the millionth time, Andi thinks she should say it. But not now, no way. Not until she’s certain she’s not going to puke.
The trajineras in Xochimilco are the perfect place to tell Emilia. No interruptions, just the two of them.
… And the guy steering the boat, but he’s probably heard a million love confessions before.
Or so Andi assumes. She’s never actually been to Xochimilco. The few times she came up to the city with her family to visit her mom’s cranky aunt Lupita before she died, the trajineras were deemed “too touristy” to bother with. And living here since August hasn’t helped her odds as much as she thought it would. Xochi is on the opposite side of the city from where EWS lies sequestered in Las Lomas. Just getting to the Metro is a hike, and then (after the requisite transfer) you’re stuck on the Blue Line until your ass is numb. Taking an Uber could be faster, theoretically, if Mexico City traffic decides to behave. Which it never does. And then you’re out a small fortune for the privilege of being trapped in a car with two other people instead of a hundred.
Which means Andi has to make all that shit worth it.
The canals are busy tonight. Boats jockey for position at the docks, arrivals and departures squeezing in like Tetris blocks wherever they can fit. Andi and Emilia are ushered onto one with an arch that says “Rosita.” The way the deck sways under Andi’s feet when they hop on is a little concerning, but it quickly steadies, assuaging Andi’s fear of plunging into the canal and emerging with a third arm. Though maybe that would help with drumming…
“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” Emilia says, running her hand over the red and yellow table spanning the length of the boat.
“Yeah. Bet you could fit like thirty people on it.”
Emilia grimaces. “Haven’t you seen that video where one sinks?”
“Oh yeah, with the Titanic song? That’s a classic.”
“Exactly. Just the two of us is okay with me.”
Andi has them sit at the front, as far away from the driver as possible; he doesn’t seem that offended about it. With only a long wooden pole and a few hand gestures, he works them out of the tangle at the docks. And then they’re off, floating down the middle of the canal.
They’re far from alone, however—other boats float around them, most carrying groups far larger than two. Some are having full-scale parties, blasting music from portable speakers and passing bottles around the table. A particularly raucous one—complete with mariachi band—passes them by, everyone on it shouting and waving. Andi and Emilia wave back, and the party disappears around a bend.
“Now that looks like a good time,” Andi says. They only brought a six-pack to their boat. She didn’t want to be too sloshed to say what she needs to say.
Which is happening tonight, isn’t it? Fuck. Andi frees a can of beer from the pack and chugs half of it as discreetly as possible. A little liquid courage can’t hurt.
Emilia takes one for herself. “We should bring everyone out here next time. They can’t start any drama if they’re stuck on a boat together.”
“Dunno about that. Have you met our friends?” There’d be three breakups and a marriage proposal before they made it around the first curve.
“Mm. Good point.”
The music and the shrieks from the party boat drift backward toward them. Andi realizes she’s drumming on her legs under the table and forces herself to stop, wrapping both hands around her can of beer instead, aluminum flexing beneath her fingertips.
She clears her throat. Here goes. “I, um… wanted to talk to you about something,” she says. God help her.
Emilia immediately sits up straighter. “About what?” she asks.
“Nothing bad,” Andi quickly amends, and Emilia’s shoulders relax a fraction. “Something… really good, actually. I hope.”
“Okay. Let’s talk, then.”
“So, we’ve been together for a while now—well, I guess it depends on when you want to start counting, but it’s been like, you know…” Andi runs a hand through her hair and sighs. Already going off script. “Fuck, I’m a mess.”
“You’re doing great. Keep going.”
“Okay. Okay.” Deep breath, another drink. She can do this. “I’m just… really happy. With us, I mean. Being with you. When we’re together, no matter what we’re doing, just hanging out, whatever—it’s the best part of my day, I swear.”
The party boat drifts back into view. Its occupants seem to have turned it into a floating karaoke bar: someone is singing along very loudly, very dramatically, and very poorly to a mariachi version of “Abrázame Muy Fuerte.”
Emilia gives Andi’s knee an encouraging squeeze under the table. Right, Andi made her suffer almost two hours on the Metro for a reason.
“I’m so fucking lucky,” she continues in a breathless rush. “You don’t even know. Like, how the hell did I get someone so incredible? So passionate, and driven, and brilliant, and just—” She gestures uselessly at Emilia, who’s serenely watching Andi make a fool of herself, a small smile curving her lips. She’s so beautiful it hurts. “God, look at you. Wow. Anyway, um… the point of all this stupid babbling is that I want to tell you how I feel.”
“And how do you feel, Andi?” Emilia asks, leaning forward slightly in her chair.
Andi’s heart is hammering in her chest. “I like you. A lot. And I think—”
A huge thud makes the whole trajinera shudder. The party boat was apparently not content to party alone. Half its occupants hop aboard, cheering and dancing, dumping a stash of bottles and red plastic cups onto Andi and Emilia’s table. The mariachi band, undaunted by the shenanigans, their payment already secured, carries on playing.
Emilia looks at Andi and the people around them, then shrugs and lifts her can of beer high, calling out a toast in Portuguese to the delight of their invaders. Andi shakes her head and laughs, then follows suit in Spanish.
When the boats finally uncouple near the end of the canal, Emilia’s made a dozen new friends, and Andi has lost her nerve.
Andi’s never liked Polanco that much. There’s nothing wrong with it, really. It’s just not her scene. Too glossy, too corporate. There’s something in the air here—in the designer bags swinging from smooth manicured hands, in the Teslas parked on the street, in the ads full of glamorous white women plastered on the side of every goddamn building. It’s the same something that floats through the halls of EWS: you don’t belong here.
Still, there’s no better place in the city to people-watch, window-shop, and shit-talk, and that is precisely what Andi and Emilia are here to do.
It’s a pastime Andi’s grown to love. Not your typical kind of date activity, perhaps, but this place never fails to bring them closer. It’s a reminder of where they come from, of the common thread of their less-than-privileged upbringings tying them together across continents and languages. Neither of them belong here, but here they are anyway. Their presence is a middle finger to Polanco’s elite. Same way it was to the Lodge.
Hand in hand, they stroll past the Chanel and Dolce & Gabbana stores, peering at the mannequins in the windows and debating over whether or not they’d ever wear something like that. They haven’t spotted any of their classmates yet, but it’s only a matter of time until one comes sauntering out of the Rolex shop or the Aston Martin dealership.
Andi’s not about to go walk in and check. Every store has private security; they stand watch outside the doors, varying degrees of sweaty and bored, but they make her itchy just the same. She’s had a few run-ins with their type back home. Another one here and she’d be punted back to Petatlán before she could finish packing her bags.
“Do you think they’d even let us in?” Emilia asks, staring down a guard; he very pointedly does not return her gaze. Someone passes them pushing a stroller with a small dog in it.
“Pfft. Me? Definitely not.” Andi’s way too Guerrero for Polanco’s tastes. “But you? Just gotta open your mouth and they’d be begging you to come in and spend all your foreign money.”
“Ah, yes. I forgot,” Emilia says dryly, then exaggerates her accent to absurdity: “I’m an exotic Brazilian.”
“Aw, I love your accent though, not gonna lie.”
That lights a blush across Emilia’s face. It’s completely true; Andi was hanging onto every word Emilia said during the first day’s orientation, even (okay, especially) the rude ones. She loves the way Emilia’s accent creeps in when she’s relaxed, how it pitches her tone up and down like a slide on guitar strings. And she adores the way she says Andi’s name: extra punch on the d, a little longer on the i. Occasionally she’ll slip in a few words of Portuguese, and every time Andi swears she’s going to melt right into the floor.
“Hm. Good to know.” Emilia’s aiming for coy, but the pink lingering in her cheeks gives her away. “Let’s keep walking so they don’t arrest us for loitering.”
They end up outside a restaurant. Through the window, Andi watches servers in suits and ties flutter around the tables, pouring wine for customers who look like they’ve never eaten street food in their lives. There’s no menu in the window, but that’s okay—Andi doesn’t need to see it to know she couldn’t afford a bowl of their chips.
“I think I’ve heard of this place,” Emilia says, looking up at the name printed on the awning. “It’s supposed to be really good.”
“I wish I could take you here for dinner,” Andi blurts, her face on fire before the sentence is out of her mouth.
There are so many things she wishes she could give Emilia. Though it’s not like Emilia needs anybody to give her anything. She has more determination than anyone Andi’s ever known. Anything Emilia wants, she’ll find a way to get. It was how she got into EWS: she worked through high school to pay for music and Spanish lessons, busked on street corners on the weekends, talked her way onto every stage she could find. She had to borrow a friend’s phone to film her audition video.
Nobody bought Emilia’s spot in the MEP. She earned it, clawed her way to the top, all on her own. She deserves a fancy fucking dinner at a fancy fucking restaurant, and Andi hates that she can’t give it to her.
“Andi,” Emilia says, that way Andi loves. “You’re so sweet. Someday we will, okay? And we’ll eat fifty plates of gold-covered oysters.” She grins slyly. “Or we could just invite Jana and make her cover the bill.”
“Right?” Andi snickers. A few of the patrons inside glance up from their plates. “As soon as the check shows up—”
“‘I have to pee, be right back!’”
“Or like, ‘Oh no, I left my wallet at home!’”
“‘I’ll pay you back later, I swear!’”
The snickers become full-fledged laughter, and now they’re really being stared at; Andi couldn’t care less. “Poor Jana,” she says, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “We’re terrible.”
“We are,” Emilia agrees. “But she’s a big girl. She can take it.”
“Hey, um…” Andi shoves her hands in her pockets, looking away from the restaurant window. “You wanna get tacos? Not here, obviously, but—”
“I’d love to.”
There’s no reason to stay here. No one will ever mistake them for Polanco girls. They leave the restaurant’s customers to their wine and gold-covered oysters and head south.
The sun is low in the sky by the time they get to Andi’s favorite taco place, and the air has a chilly bite to it. Andi shrugs off her jacket and gives it to Emilia, who only protests a few seconds before putting it on.
It’s a popular spot. A line stretches from the grill and out of the tiny building, wrapping around to the tables and stools scattered about the pseudo-patio. Andi and Emilia have been here enough times to have a system worked out: Emilia secures a table in the corner and shoots spectacularly bitchy looks at anyone thinking of sitting by her while Andi gets the food.
“How did you know that’s what I wanted?” Emilia asks when Andi returns, balancing two plastic-covered plates full of tacos in her hands, two beers tucked in her armpit.
“You always get al pastor.”
“I do, yes. Because it’s perfect.”
Andi cracks the caps off the bottles with her lighter, the way her dad taught her, because it always makes Emilia grin. Like maybe she’s also remembering the first time Andi showed her that trick, and what came after.
She tips the bottle to her lips and takes a long pull. The guys at the table next to theirs are having an animated conversation about the Pumas’ recent victory over Cruz Azul. Traffic is backed up on the nearby boulevard, a chorus of honking horns their background music for the evening.
Emilia sits across from her, sighing happily, her first taco already demolished. She takes a sip of her beer, her elbow propped casually on the table. Her foot taps against the leg of her stool to some silent beat. Another sip, slow, as if she’s trying to savor that cheap-ass beer. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the streetlight glinting on her earrings, and lets her shoulders sag forward. No tension, no worries.
When she catches Andi watching her, she smiles and asks, “What? Do I have salsa on my face?”
“I love you,” Andi says.
Emilia’s reply is immediate, as self-assured as everything she does: “I love you, too.”
“Wait, really?”
“Of course.” It’s a resolute sort of tease, like Andi is stupid for asking—and she probably is, given the way Emilia’s looking at her now. “It took you long enough.”
Andi reaches across the table and intertwines their fingers, cold and damp from the condensation on their bottles. Of course it’d be like this, so natural, so simple. She didn’t need any grand gestures or a carefully planned performance. Their relationship isn’t like that anymore. They’re not sneaking around, crafting separate private and public lives, spinning fragile webs of lies. They’re just… them, and that’s all they need to be.
“Just needed to wait for the right time.”