Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You only noticed the sudden change in weather when you finally let yourself look up from your work. Having been hunched over your laptop for so long, you couldn’t ignore the ache in your neck as you eyed the heavy clouds in the sky, draping the world outside in a gloomy overcast. Funny. You could have sworn you heard the weather reporter predict clear, sunny skies for the whole week. Then again, you could have heard wrong. After all, you did wake up in a panic, having slept for only four hours the night before. Coffee in hand and phone in the other, the weather was the least of your worries at the time. You were running late.

“Oh, good. The Jacarandas will love the rain,” comments a soft feminine voice behind you. “I was worried I’d have to stay behind later to water them. I can’t be late to my dad’s birthday party,” she sighs.

Glancing sidewards, you see Isabela, your lab professor, staring at the window, hands clasped daintily behind her back. Her long, dark hair is pulled in a clumsy braid, and her usually no-nonsense eyes are troubled.

Chuckling, you reply. “I’m sure the Jacarandas will survive. By the way, tell your dad I said happy birthday.”

Isabela raises her brow as she turns slightly to face you. “You aren’t coming later? I thought Mirabel invited you.”

She was right. Mirabel, your best friend, had, in fact, invited you—more than once, you might add—to her father’s fiftieth birthday party. According to her, it was going to be a big celebration. I mean, you only turn fifty once, right? But the Madrigals always threw big parties and you couldn’t possibly imagine a more grander celebration than Dolores’s twenty-first or Camilo’s eighteenth. Now, it was Agustin’s day, a man loved by all, students and family. Surely, they’d go all out.

You shrug. “Well…I thought I’d catch up on all this.” You motion to the laptop and papers in front of you.

Feigning exasperation, Isabela rolls her eyes. “Really, Y/N? It can wait. I know my parents will be happy to have you there. Dad will. He always tells us you were one of his favorite students.”

You smile at the memory of meeting Professor Agustin Madrigal for the first time in your freshman year. The man taught creative writing. At the time, you were in need of an elective that met your gen-ed requirements. A friend of a friend recommended his class. Then the rest was history. He taught you to fall in love again with writing and you passed the class with an A minus. Agustin was no push-over, of course. He graded hard in spite of his friendliness, but his students, instead of spiting him, seemed to respect and admire him even more for it. You felt the same way.

Just as you’re about to protest, the door to the lab flings open. Startled, you and Isabela turn to see who’s arrived. Upon recognizing who it is, you grin. Isabela glares daggers.

“What did I tell you about coming into the lab without a gown and goggles? Look, there’s some stuff here that could seriously—”

Mirabel, hair a mess and glasses slightly askew, groans and casts her eldest sister an annoyed look. “—seriously hurt me or have me sent to the ER with a butt rash,” she finishes, mimicking Isabela’s mannerisms.

“You think it’s funny now, but I’m warning you. That rash shouldn’t be taken lightly,” Isabela says a-matter-of-factly.

The younger Madrigal turns to you with a pout, having now straightened her glasses. Her curls, you notice, are still a mess. “Y/N, Isa’s always so grumpy. How do you deal with my sister?”

Isabela grumbles something in return which makes you laugh. Seeing these two bicker always confirmed your belief that having a sibling must be fun. Though they pretend they get on each other’s nerves, you understand that it’s how they show affection.

Mirabel takes a seat on the stool beside yours. She gags when she takes a peak at the nearly done lab report on your laptop screen. Isabela is somewhere in the storage closet, checking stock of all the equipment before locking up for the day.

You continue typing as she begins to ramble about her day. Long accustomed to your best friend’s liveliness, it doesn’t distract you in the slightest as you get your work done. Every now and then, you pause to laugh, or gasp, or offer your two cents. By the time she’s done, you only need to tie a few loose ends here and there in your report.

“Now,” Mirabel gently takes away your laptop and sets it aside on the counter. “We need to get ready for the party. Oh, Mama also wanted me to stop by the store and get some confetti cannons. You don’t mind if we make a quick stop on the way, right?”

Isabela with her impeccable timing re-appears from the stock closet and says, “I’ve been trying to get her to come to Papa’s party. Maybe you can convince her, Mirabel.”

“What?! You aren’t going? Why?!” Mirabel gasps.

You give Isabela a disbelieving look to which she merely rebuffs with a smirk.

“I don’t know… it just seems like a family thing, you know? I wouldn’t want to intrude or anything like that,” you explain to Mirabel who’s wearing the look of a kicked puppy.

“Y/N! You’re my best friend! You’ve known my family for—I don’t know—four years? You are family.”

“But—”

“—I promise it won’t be like Camilo’s birthday. There will be no sweaty boys hitting on you or my sisters and there sure as heck won’t be vomit or wet paint in random corners of the house.”

“Good grief,” says Isabela. The two of you shudder at the memory of their cousin’s birthday.

“Come on,” Mirabel prompts, hands pleadingly clasped in front of her. “I know you can’t resist my mom’s cooking.”

You twist your lips to stop the smile that’s trying to escape. The sisters’ mother was an excellent cook, probably the best you’ve ever known. Whenever you’d visit, she’d make sure you were well fed, even going so far as to send you off with containers full of home-cooked meals that—you must admit—have saved you from starving on multiple occasions whenever you’d get too caught up with work and school. Julieta Madrigal was an angel and like a second mother to you, and if anything was going to convince you, then it was going to be her cooking.

“She’s going to say yes,” Isabela confidently declares.

“You’re going to say yes,” Mirabel follows.

There’s no point in hiding it now. Grinning but accepting defeat, you say “Yes. Yeah. Fine. I’m going!”

The three of you were quick to get what was needed at the store, although that was because of Isabela who gave you and Mirabel pointed looks whenever you’d both get carried away looking at different party things and cracking silly jokes here and there. As serious as you were in the lab, hanging out with Mirabel brought out your goofy side. By the time Isabela’s car was pulling into their family’s driveway, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

Casita Madrigal, or the Madrigal home, was the most colorful house you’ve ever seen in your entire life. Some of the outside walls were painted a deep pink, purple, or green. However, the first floor was a safe beige. Vegetation surrounded the premises—probably Isabela’s doing—bringing even more color to the house. In each window, warm light streamed through, giving the home a magic-like glow, and guests made their way like moths to a flame toward the vibrant green doors.

With a slight smile, Mirabel nudged you with her elbow, sensing your hesitation. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

You knew she was right. Nevertheless, there was only so much social interaction you could take in a day, but for the Madrigals who have done nothing but treated you with kindness, you were going to see it through.

The three of you marched toward the now bustling Casita with bags in hand. Isabela held a bright pink box which contained her father’s gift, Mirabel had a gift bag, and you had the confetti cannons. As you grew closer, jolly conversation and the cheeky hum of Colombian music grew louder. A burst of laughter from inside erupted as you passed through the doors. The delicious smell of Julieta’s cooking lifted your spirits.

After weaving your way through the throng of guests, the three of you eventually made it to the balloon-adorned dining room. If you were being honest, this was your favorite part of the house. It never ceased to amaze you how big their dining table was. It could fit twenty people at most, but maybe you were exaggerating. Anyway, you couldn’t imagine ever having a meal with so many people on a daily basis. When Mirabel first invited you over for dinner, the happy commotion during the entire meal had you spinning.

Professor Agustin immediately scooped Isabel and Mirabel into a hug when he saw them. Isabela pulled away to greet him ‘happy birthday’ and hand him his gift.

“Y/N, I’m so glad you’re here! How has school been, hm? Are you still sure you don’t want to switch majors?” Agustin joked.

“Papa,” both Mirabel and Isabela groaned at the same time.

“I’m kidding. I’m kidding. A man can dream.”

Ever since your more than satisfactory work in Agustin’s writing class, he’d always pester you about switching from the sciences to the arts. Of course, you never took it seriously, until one day, he told you with uncharacteristic seriousness that you did have a talent for prose. It had left you dumb-founded and flattered, but you were determined to get a degree in Biology.

“Happy birthday, Professor,” you say instead. He drags you in a one-armed embrace, his other still draped over his youngest daughter.

“Thank you so much for coming,” he tells you before inclining his head in Mirabel’s direction. “I hope Mira here isn’t giving you too much trouble these days.”

“Not at all,” you come to your friend’s defense. “To be honest, if it wasn’t for Mirabel, I’d probably be holed up in my room studying or something.”

“And skipping meals,” Mirabel inserts.

“Did I hear you’re skipping meals again, Y/N?” asks a soft voice. It’s Julieta.

Julieta Madrigal stands with her hands on her hips in the doorway leading from the kitchen to the dining room. Her hair is curly like Mirabel’s but shorter and graying. Her brown eyes are filled with motherly concern.

“Hello, Mrs. Madrigal,” you greet politely. “It’s nice to see you.”

The woman embraces you, and you take in the scent of spices and flowers. “So polite as always. Call me Julieta, querida. We’re way past Mrs. Madrigal.”

Julieta’s hugs are always welcome. They always make you think of your own father who lives thousands of miles away.

“Oh, girls,” Julieta suddenly says after pulling away from the hug, “Your cousins are here—and your Tia Pepa.”

Both Isabela and Mirabel gasp while you look confusedly from mother to daughters.

You’ve heard of Pepa, Julieta’s sister, mentioned in passing. However, you’ve never met her, not even once after years of coming over to Casita Madrigal. Neither Mirabel nor Isabela ever brought her up. You only knew that she was the mother of Dolores, Camilo, and Antonio.

“Where is she? Is she with abuela?” asks Mirabel.

“Abuela’s upstairs. I believe your tia is dancing with the guests downstairs.”

You barely have time to say good bye to Julieta and Agustin. Mirabel drags you away with lightning speed toward the heart of the revelry where the music and cheers are loudest.

All the dancing is in the dead center of the house, a clearing of space where onlookers on the second floor can lean over the railings and watch. People crowd around the room, swaying along to the music. You and Mirabel, of the same height, struggle to see past the crowd. Sensing your friend’s frustration, you grab her by the wrist this time, stealthily weaving past the mass of bodies and earning a few side-eyes in the process. You’re both a bit disheveled once you make it through.

Panting, you tell Mirabel, “So, what’s the deal with your aunt? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Oh, yeah. You haven’t met her yet, have you?” Mirabel shields her eyes from the bright lights with her hands. “Well, it’s kind of a long story.”

“Hit me.”

“Okay,” Mirabel scans the room, “Pepa’s my mama’s sister, right? Anyway, she’s been away for a long time—three years, I think—and she’s only come back now. She and my cousins used to live here with us.”

“Why’d she leave?”

Mirabel leans toward you conspiratorially. “Tio Felix and her got a divorce. It was a mess, and hard for the family to take. So, one day, tia Pepa packed her things and just left. Tio Felix moved out with my cousins not long after.”

There was a lot you knew about the Madrigals, courtesy of Mirabel who loved to over share. You knew that before getting into university, Mirabel had gotten into the biggest fight with her grandmother, which led to the family to seek counseling afterward. If you had your numbers right, Pepa’s departure must have happened a couple months after.

Suddenly, the music switched to a sensual tune, one that caused a noticeable shift in the atmosphere. The lights dimmed, and the guests roared. Five women made their way to the center of the room in time with the beat. Dancing was a staple at every Madrigal party, and you’ve seen your share of talented dancers from having been to quite a few said parties, but when one of the dancers, a middle-aged woman dressed in a sunshine yellow dress, began to move her hips to the beat, you couldn’t look away.

How could anyone look away? She was hard to ignore from her braided copper curls to her bright green eyes, and the way she moved her body—she was as smooth as fluid. Oh’s and Ah’s sounded each time she moved. You could tell she enjoyed the attention, basked in it even, and unlike most people, her smugness wasn’t repelling. It was the complete opposite.

The song was coming to an end. The group of women made one last twirl and as the captivating stranger in yellow whirled with the skirt of her dress in tow, her eyes found yours for a few seconds. You stilled, feeling oddly like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, then as sudden as a thunder-strike, a smirk graced her lips. She was gone as soon as she came. The dance was over, and your heart was aflutter, your throat suddenly dry.

What in the world?

The crowd erupted in an applause and whistles. You couldn’t help it. You clapped as well, craning your neck to see where the woman had gone. Unfortunately, there was no trace of her.

“Mirabel,” you tug your friend’s hand. She looks at you curiously. “I’m gonna go to the rest room. I’ll see you at the dining room?”

She nods and gives you a thumbs-up. “Okay. Thanks, by the way, for helping me get through all these people!”

The crowd thinned as you made your way to the closest restroom, an outside stall built specifically for guests that came around during celebrations. It was stuffy inside, and you were thankful for the cool air that graced your neck and face, fanning yourself with one hand and holding your hair up with the other. A sigh of relief escapes your lips. You’d decided that you were going to avoid the crowd as much as possible for the rest of the night.

Unsurprisingly, there’s someone inside the restroom. You guessed as much from the sound of the faucet running and the shuffling of footsteps. You pull out your phone to check the time. Tapping your foot impatiently, you realize that it’s already been more than five minutes. You needed to decompress and quite frankly, your bladder was also killing you. Silently, you cursed whoever was taking their sweet time.

Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, you tried to distract yourself with random thoughts. You eyed the string lights, how the fluttering tiny insects seemed to be mindlessly attracted to its glow. The potted plant by the door that seemed so familiar to you. You tried to recall the scientific name. You couldn’t. The urge to piss was relentless. You shut your eyes in consternation.

You had half the mind to kick the door down, when finally, the knob twisted the door open, and you came face-to-face with someone’s freckled chest. Whoever was in there was considerably taller than you, but you did not falter. Height did not matter in a fight. Not at all. Not even the alluring scent of newly bloomed flowers, and rain, and sweat. An odd heady mix.

Perplexed, you lift your head to meet their gaze, and then suddenly and comically, all your frustrations—and even the urge to pee—dissipate into thin air.

“Can I help you?”

It was the red-headed woman from earlier. Here she was, staring at you like you had some highly contagious disease, lips nearly a sneer, brow arched dramatically in disdain. You wished for the ground to swallow you whole.

“I was just…” you trail off, gesturing weakly to the door behind her.

Before you can finish, she shakes her head and dismissively waves in front of your face. “Nevermind,” she says then moves past you.

Her brusqueness comes as a shock, one that should discourage you from speaking ever again, but to your surprise, it doesn’t. You think of her earlier performance and suddenly find your words.

“I loved your dance,” you blurt out, turning to her retreating figure.

She pauses mid-step, but does not face you. Instead, her face is slightly angled toward her shoulder, giving you a clear view of her side-profile and the long braid that falls below her shoulder blades.

You swallow hard. “You’re really good, and I’m not just saying that, and well, what I’m really trying to say is that I wish I saw more performances like yours.”

At your words, she stiffens, then after seconds that seem almost like hours, she practically marches away, returning to the party’s throes.

“You alright?” Mirabel asks with a frown when you take a seat beside her at the table.

Try as you might to keep yourself from appearing dismayed, it seeps into your voice. “I’m fine, probably just hungry.”

You can feel Mirabel’s eyes on you, most likely trying to figure out what’s gotten you in such low spirits. Pointedly, you ignore her, deciding to take a sudden interest in the table’s elaborately designed table-cloth.

It’s guilt, of course, that makes you retract your actions. This was Agustin’s party, and you were not going to ruin it by being a party-pooper.

“So,” you look at Mirabel who as expected has been staring at you intensely for the last five minutes. “Did you find your aunt?”

Instantly, she brightens. “Yeah, I did. You saw her. Isn’t she the coolest?”

“Huh? Did I?”

“Uh, duh. We both saw her dance earlier,” Mirabel confirmed, hands held up in front of her. “You know, the woman with the red hair and the yellow dress? Remember?”

Suddenly, you’re very thankful you don’t have a drink in your hand, because if you did have one, you would have spit it in your friend’s face by now.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter more to yourself than to your friend.

Mirabel tilts her head and purses her lips, then after a few seconds of deep thought, abruptly pumps her first. Usually, this means she’s got an idea.

“Oh, I should introduce you. The whole family knows who you are except her. She’ll like you.”

“Um,” you chuckle nervously. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Tia Pepa doesn’t bite,” Mirabel squeezes your hand. “Relax. You stay here. Enjoy the party, and I’ll go get her,” she says before bolting.

“Mirabel!” you cry helplessly. There’s no point. You knew how stubborn your friend could be.

Could you still somehow wiggle your way out of this? You could run, but you know that Mirabel would have her sisters find you. Isabela was easy to avoid, but it was hard to get past Luiza. Firstly, she was the strongest person you’ve ever met which was to be expected as she was a power-lifter. Second, you just couldn’t say no to her. Luiza was the sweetest person you’ve ever met in spite of her strength.

“I’m doomed,” you mutter to yourself.

“In a pinch, Y/N?”

The grin you give Bruno Madrigal, Mirabel’s awkward yet well-meaning uncle, is strained. As usual, Bruno’s clothes are rumpled. There are creases all over his dark green dress shirt and his khaki trousers. His shaggy hair is combed back and he’s just shaved. He’s made an effort to look presentable tonight.

“Is it that obvious?” you joke.

Bruno smiles. “Honestly, yes. You look like you’re about to hurl. Lo siento.”

One thing you liked about Bruno was his honesty, although to others, it could easily be misunderstood.

Bruno gives you a hesitant pat on the back. “Cheer up. I’m sure it’s not going to be so bad.”

The smile that forms on your face is faint but genuine. “Thanks, Bruno.”

“Anytime,” he replies. “Uh-oh. Pepa’s on her way here. That’s my cue for me to leave. See you, Y/N.”

Bruno’s gone in a flash.

Mirabel speaks animatedly to her aunt as they walk closer in your direction. You can see that she’s ecstatic to have her aunt back, and from the look in the older woman’s eyes, it looks like she’s happy to be back as well. Nervously, you fiddle with the hem of your dress.

“…and that’s how Camilo spent the entire weekend cleaning up Tio Felix’s house.” Mirabel finishes her story.

“Ay, that boy,” Pepa releases an exasperated sigh. “Always up to no good.”

In the midst of her giggles, Mirabel catches you staring, and then says to Pepa. “So, tia Pepa, I wanted to introduce you to my best friend.”

In that exact moment, you and Pepa lock eyes. Unable to hold her gaze for more than a few measly seconds, you look at Mirabel instead.

“This is Y/N,” Mirabel points to you with her thumb. “Y/N, this is my Aunt Pepa.”

“Hello,” you manage a smile, not wanting to be rude, “Mirabel’s told me lots about you.”

You’re glad that you don’t trip over your words like earlier and you hope that the fear in your voice isn’t noticeable. You extend a hand in Pepa’s direction, shyly peering up at her.

For a moment, you’re sure she won’t take your hand. Her stare flickers from you to your outstretched palm which shakes a little.

“Y/N,” Pepa finally says, your name accented coming from her lips. You find that it sounds better that way. “How do you know my sobrina?”

Your mind short-circuits when she takes your hand. Hers is warm and soft and you notice that her nails are painted a deep red that contrasts well with her dress.

“We go to the same University. It’s a funny story actually,” you say lamely.

Pepa cocks her head to the side and opens her mouth to speak but is cut off by Mirabel who happily relays the tale. The older woman raises her brow at Mirabel. Gradually, Pepa’s irritation morphs into genuine interest.

You and Pepa say little to each other during the entire conversation, which you’re grateful for. Mirabel does most of the talking while her aunt asks questions and comments from time to time. You sneak glances at Pepa, observing the passing emotions on her face. In this regard, you can see that she and Mirabel are similar, two very expressive people, their emotions an open-book.

Mirabel is about to relay another tale about her college adventures when, in the corner of your eye, you spot her grandmother just coming into the room. Immediately, she lowers her voice and flashes you a sheepish grin. You give her one in return.

To be honest, Alma Madrigal scares you. You learned from the rest of the Madrigals that they felt the same way. She was the oldest, and so, the head of the entire family. Her word was law. Though you know things have supposedly changed since Alma’s fight with Mirabel, you can tell that old habits are hard to shake.

“Abuela,” Mirabel greets, “Tia Pepa is—”

Alma, who now stands before the three of you, raises a hand, silencing Mirabel.

“—I can see that,” Alma lowers her hand and nods her head. “When did you get here?”

Clearing her throat, Pepa answers, “the plane landed around 3:30, Mama. I spent a couple hours in the city before taking a bus to here.”

“I suppose you’ve already said hello to the children.”

“Of course,” the red-head says a little to fast. “Of course, I have. They are well. Felix has taken good care of them. Tonito is all grown up.”

You and Mirabel exchange looks. You weren’t the only one who could feel the tension between mother and daughter hidden beneath the guise of aimless small talk. Alma was unaffected, a calm smile on her face. You could have thought the same of Pepa if not for the slight twitch of her fingers and the tapping of her foot.

“You know what, Y/N? Let’s say hello to Dolores and Camilo. They’re somewhere around here.” Mirabel awkwardly says, dragging you away by the arm.

“Um, sure…” you reply, casting one last glance toward Pepa who looks as if she’d rather be elsewhere than alone with Alma Madrigal.

Chapter Text

“Alright, alright. I’m on my way,” you grumble as you sprint down the stairs of your apartment. You shove your phone in your bag, pretending that the vibrations aren’t that insistent, that you aren’t already late to an event that you don’t even want to go to.

A popular dance troupe—the name, you couldn’t remember—was performing tonight at the university. Unbeknownst to you, a couple of friends of yours were fans, and when you’d naively confessed to them weeks ago that you’d never even heard of the troupe, that had spurned them into dragging you along to one of their shows, tickets paid for and all, despite your protests.

Absently, you stared outside the window as you rode the usual bus toward school. You knew the route by heart. You could point out the familiar buildings and stops. Oddly, you’ve never really had the chance to actually explore the city since you arrived. It was always school, then the apartment, and the few haunts (of which you could count on one hand) that Mirabel had shown you.

The bus ride lasted a good twenty minutes which had you racing past a half-empty campus. As you slowed toward the entrance to the College of Performing Arts Theater, you sent a quick text to the group chat, letting them know that you were outside.

It was already getting dark. Pretty soon the sky would deepen into a dark purple. The campus lights would then flicker on as always not long after. Leaning against the building, you let out a deep breath. Maybe the show must have already started. In that case, your friends probably wouldn’t notice your text. Would it be better then to pass time at a nearby café?

Just as you’re about to be on your way, a familiar voice calls out your name.

“Y/N!”

Guess there wasn’t going to be a change of plans.

Marco, one arm holding open the door and the other waving at you, phone in hand, grins at you through hurried breaths. He’s one of the friends you’re seeing the show with tonight. You wave back at him.

“I saw your text.” He says when you walk up to him, “It’s loud in there. So the others probably didn’t know you were out here. You excited?”

You shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know. The others have been saying that they’re great, so maybe a little.”

Marco shows both of your tickets to the person working the booth. As you two walk the halls, the music grows louder, the bass practically bouncing off the walls.

Marco holds the door open for you again. When you take in the packed room, your eyes widen.

The Performing Arts department theater was the largest one on campus. Rarely was it ever completely occupied and tonight was one of those times. Even the upper boxes had people in them. Some people were even sitting on the steps. Bright lights illuminated the stage. The university dance troupe was nearing the end of their performance. When you and Marco finally made it to your seats, the audience stood to give a round of applause.

The curtains dropped and some catchy pop song began to play on the speakers. The intermission would probably be about ten minutes at most before the main act came on. You and your friends took the moment to chat about school and whatnot.

“Ay,” one of your friends sighed, “the dance department’s performance was better last year. Now, look at them!”

“Were they that bad?” You ask.

“Girl, you should have seen them,” they say while shaking their head.

Marco leans toward you. “It’s because they haven’t had a decent teacher in a long time. At least, that’s what my sister says. All the new hires are okay but she says when it comes to performances, they’re usually on their own.”

“Maybe it’s because the school doesn’t pay them enough,” says another one of your friends, “A lot of the funding goes to your college, Y/N.”

You couldn’t argue with that. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by you how the buildings in the Math and Science department were well-kept compared to the humanities and art departments. This theater was huge but old and the largest building the arts department had on campus. On the other hand, the science department had probably two or three buildings that were as large as the theater. Even Augustin would complain every once in a while about how the English department was being handled by the university.

Suddenly, the lights dim and the music hushes. The crowd erupts in cheers. Marco flashes you a grin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Los Diablos!”

The dance starts slow. One of the dancers dressed in black leads the dance with fluid, acrobatic-like movements. Then, the music picks up steadily. You nod your head to the beat. The entire group is moving to the music. When the beat drops, they fall collectively with effortless grace. Quickly, they’re on their feet again. One of the dancers do a flip that makes the crowd roar. You were beginning to understand the hype.

In spite of the lively performance, you found your thoughts wandering. You couldn’t deny that the dancers were talented but they didn’t captivate you, didn’t hold your attention for long. All the movements were complex, yes. It takes hard work to be able to move your body like that. But why wasn’t it like during Augustin’s party? Why wasn’t it like… Pepa?

The strange turn in your thinking nearly made you choke. Marco glanced at you in concern.

“I’m fine,” you say to him over the noise, “I just need some air.”

Before he can say anything, you make your way out of the theater, accidentally stepping on some people’s toes, but nevertheless, determined to breathe in the cool air.

It’s deserted outside. You decide to sit on one of the benches a couple paces away from the theater entrance. With your hands on the bench, you lean back to gaze at the sky. The pretty colors earlier have faded into an inky black and the stars twinkle like spilled pixie dust. The moon’s barely there, a thin opaque crescent pushed aside by the dark.

You would have enjoyed the view in silence if not for the strange feeling in your gut. You felt like you were about to throw up quite frankly, a feeling that’d make itself known before class presentations or the night before an exam. God, why were you acting weird?

But that weirdness soon transformed into something else. An emptiness began to pool in your very core. With your face in your hands, you let your shoulders fall. Were you seriously about to cry right now?

You took in deep breaths. The pounding in your heart eventually began to recede into a relaxed, even rhythm. You had the rising suspicion that your period might be due sometime this week. You usually weren’t such a mess. Yes, that had to be why.

Minutes passed. You spent the rest of time listening to the muted sounds coming from the theater. Eventually, people began to file out from the building. The silence filled with distant chatter. You probably should text your friends that you were outside.

As you tapped a message on your phone, you shiver at the cold evening breeze. You were only wearing a dress. Grumbling to yourself, you hastily send a text to the group chat.

Satisfied, you cross your legs, absently kicking one of them up and down. You’re in the middle of scrolling through your social media accounts when you get a text from Mirabel asking if you want to sleep over this weekend. From the way its worded, you can tell that something’s up.

Sure, you text back, you’ll be there. It wasn’t a problem. Isabela usually didn’t have you come into the lab on weekends and you could work on your homework at her place. Mirabel didn’t mind although you couldn’t help but feel bad each time.

After confirming the details with your best friend, you decide it’s time to meet up with the rest of your friends. You’re all probably going out for drinks after the show.

You get on your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. Suddenly, you get the feeling that someone’s looking at you. When you lift your gaze, you’re too stunned to speak.

Your heart rate feels as if it’s been electrocuted when you catch Pepa’s surprised green eyes staring into yours. You feel your jaw literally drop.

Under the pale lamplight, she looks like a hallucination. Her curls are pulled back in a messy pony tail, stray strands swaying in the wind. She has on a faux leather jacket and hip-hugging jeans paired with high red high heels. And she’s still looking at you which makes you gulp. Hard.

“Wha-” you say but immediately stop when you feel someone’s heavy jacket drape around your shoulders.

“There you are,” says Marco with a smile. “I thought you disappeared on us, Y/N. You okay?”

“Oh, yeah. I just needed a moment.” You manage to say, gaze flitting from Pepa to Marco.

“Great, great. Oh, hello,” Marco says at realizing Pepa’s presence. “Do you two know each other?”

Since you were a kid you were always known for being one of the brightest tools in the shed, but for some God forsaken reason, in this exact moment, your usually functioning brain decided to fail you.

“Uhm—well, I wouldn’t—I guess…no? I mean not like—”

Enough was said. As soon as you sputtered whatever incoherent answer you had in mind, you realized that you somehow screwed up.

Pepa’s initial surprised faded into one of pure irritation. Eyes alight with fury, the redhead practically stomped away, hands balled in the pockets of her jacket.

Chapter Text

You never thought the day would come when you’d say this but you were dreading hanging out with Mirabel for the weekend. It wasn’t like you didn’t feel like hanging out with your best friend. In fact, with what happened during the show a couple days ago, you needed her more than anything. No, you wanted to spend the weekend with her just goofing around and stuffing yourselves sick with ice cream. You just didn’t want to see Pepa. 

At the mention of her name, you groaned into your pillow. In the middle of packing, you flopped stomach down on your bed with your feet in the air. The videos on the internet had stolen your interest so here you were, with your bag half full, moping. 

Remembering the look on her face once again, you wished that the ground would swallow you whole. Why in the world did your brain just have to stop working in that moment? A simple yes or no would’ve been enough. It’s one syllable. Not hard to say. But you weren’t so sure which was the right answer. You barely knew the woman, only having met for the first time at a party. Wouldn’t claiming to know each other be a bit much? So, no then? But that clearly wasn’t the right answer because Pepa looked as if she wanted to strangle you then and there. It was all so confusing. 

Sighing, you toss aside your phone. Whatever. You’d spent the last couple of days thinking about what happened. The only thing you got was a headache. The right thing to do—that is, the quickest way to end your misery—was to apologize to Pepa. You have the whole weekend. Might as well clear up the air. 

You catch a ride with Isabela who’s on her way home from the university. As usual, you two discuss what’s been going on with her research in the lab. Isabela’s been trying to study a few genes in some flowering plants that have potential. Hence, the Jacarandas. According to her, there could be some promising results in a month or so. You’re happy for your mentor’s success, as well as genuinely curious to see what will become of her research. 

Time passes by in a flash as you two talk throughout the drive. Before you know it, Isabela’s pulling into the Madrigals’ driveway. You grab your things from the back and follow her inside. 

With less people around, Casa Madrigal feels cavernous. Your foot steps seem to echo as you walk through the ancestral home. It’s quiet except for the sound of laughter and splashing water in the distance. From the sound of it, the whole family might be in the pool in the back. Thankfully, you remembered to pack your swimsuit just in case.   

You and Isabela push past the doors in the kitchen that lead to the backyard. Just like the front of the house, the backyard is bursting with all kinds of plants. On one side of the yard is a table as big as the one in the main dining room. On the the other side is the pool surrounded by loungers. You spot Mirabel in the pool with her cousins. Dolores, however, is perched on the edge of the pool, sipping on her drink with her phone in her other hand. Her swimsuit’s shade of red complements her complexion nicely. It’s no wonder why she does modeling on the side. Augustin is absent, probably still on campus. Julieta waves you and Isabela over.

“Y/N,” Julieta greets you with a hug. “Do you want anything to drink? Have you eaten? I made shakes for the kids. You should try it.” 

As usual, Julieta’s motherly concern makes you smile. “I guess I could do with a shake.” 

Instantly, Julieta brightens and she hurries back inside the kitchen. 

You call out to Mirabel. “I didn’t know we were going swimming.” 

Mirabel lifts her head from under water, losing to Antonio and Camilo to what seems like a contest of who can hold their breath the longest. 

“Sorry, I didn’t tell you. Did you bring a swimsuit? I can lend you one if you don’t have one.” 

“I brought one. Don’t worry.” You turn to Dolores. “Hey Dolores, I missed you at the party.” 

The older Madrigal grins. “It’s fine. By the way, Y/N, don’t tell me that you brought the same one piece that you always wear.” 

You lift your hands up in defense. “What’s wrong with my swimsuit?” 

Dolores lifts an eyebrow. “Are you serious? You’ve been wearing the same swimsuit for years.”

You feign innocence. “Have I?”

“Don’t act cute, Y/N. That won’t work on me anymore. Maybe on Luiza or Camilo, but not me.” 

“Hey!” Camilo protests. 

“Aw,” you pout playfully at Dolores. She rolls her eyes at you. 

“Spice it up, girl.” Dolores says at last, “You have a body. Show it.” 

“I hate to say it but she’s right,” Isabela interjects from her spot on one of the loungers.

“Mirabel? Help me out here?” You turn to your best friend who’s just climbed out of the pool.

Mirabel scrunches her nose in thought then says, “Well…” 

“See?” Dolores grins. “I am right but don’t worry about it. I’ll lend you one of the swimsuits I got from a sponsor. I think it’ll look great on you. Trust me.” 

With a gulp, all you can do is follow along as Dolores drags you by the arm to her room. You weren’t too keen on the idea. The clothes that Dolores received from online clothing brands were bold, more catered to her style. You doubted you could rock anything that Dolores wore but she did tell you to trust her on this. Helplessly, all you could do was obediently change into the dark green two-piece set that she handed to you. 

When you were done, Dolores gave a low whistle. It made you all the more self-conscious. The bottom revealed more skin than you were used to and the top was a tad tight around the chest. Nevertheless, it wasn’t too uncomfortable. 

Stiffly, you trailed after Dolores back to the poolside, rubbing your wrist absently. As soon as the gang saw you, they let out suggestive howls that made Julieta and a certain red head turn your way. 

Instantly, you could feel your face redden. As Dolores proudly announced that the swimsuit looked great on you and that her fashion taste was impeccable as always, you stared with wide eyes at Pepa who seemed to want to be any where but here. The red-head twisted the ring on her finger, gaze averted politely toward the garden. Julieta gasped in admiration at your surprise choice in swim wear. Camilo flashed you a boyish grin before dunking his head underwater. 

“Dolores was right. The color suits you, Y/N. It complements your eyes,” Julieta says as she passes you a mango smoothie. 

To hide your embarrassment, you take a sip of your drink. You can’t help the moan that escapes your lips. Julieta never disappoints. The drink was delicious. Not too sweet but not too bland either. Julieta chuckles at your reaction.

“Hey, did we forget to bring out the towels?” Antonio asks to no one in particular. 

Mirabel, who’s currently wrapped up in one, answers him without looking away from her phone. “Not me.” 

He groans. 

Pepa, ever so silent, finally speaks up. Her voice is warm when she speaks to Camilo. “Don’t be dramatic, mijo. I’ll go get everyone towels.” 

Julieta chimes in. “Good idea but you might as well have an extra pair of hands with you. I just remembered that I left some food in the oven. Y/N? Would you mind?”

“Um, no. Not at all,” you reply, looking nervously from Pepa to Julieta. “I don’t mind.” 

The red head’s weighty gaze finally falls on you. You can tell by the glint in her eyes that she's against Julieta’s suggestion but was also trying her best to keep it from showing. You swallow hard as you return her stare. 

Without another word, Pepa walks toward the house. Unsure what to do, you choose to follow her in silence, your muted foot falls being the only sound between you two. 

Like a puppy, you continue to follow the woman upstairs. Pepa finds the towels hidden away in an unassuming hallway closet. As she rummages through it, you shift uneasily from foot to foot, wondering how to confront her about what happened the other night at the theater. You knew the facts were that you had definitely upset her in some way and that you both have somehow gotten off on the wrong foot. You didn’t want it to be this way. The Madrigals liked you enough. You wanted her to like you, too, but Pepa Madrigal was a different story.

Figuring you could no longer stand the unspoken anger from the red-head, you decided to let your mouth get ahead of your brain. “Pepa,” Her name felt full on your tongue. “Pepa.”

The red head stiffened. Maybe that was too informal. If she was offended, you were glad that you couldn’t see the expression on her face as she was leaning inside the closet. Instead, you settled for the freckled expanse of her neck, strangely flushed. Probably from the heat. 

You knew she could hear you. She was deliberately ignoring you. Pouting, you leaned against the wall and settled your gaze on her auburn curls.

“About that night,” you sighed, remembering the moment once again. “I didn’t mean to tell Marco that I didn’t know you. It’s just that, well, I don’t know you that well and I’ve only met you once and I—” 

Sharply, Pepa pulls away from the closet to face you. Her expression is strange. The look on it, you can’t pinpoint. You didn’t dwell much on it though. The fact that she looked less pissed was a huge relief.

“Y/N, you have nothing to apologize for,” Pepa tells you, voice slightly hoarse. You peer up at her as she hands you a stack of towels and she gulps. “Understood?”

You frown. “But—”

“—understood, cariño?” she continues, voice a touch softer than what it was seconds ago. 

At the look on her face, you decide not to push any further. Satisfied, she grabs one of the towels from the stack in your arms and drapes it over your shoulders. 

“Dolores’ clothes can be very… revealing some times,” Pepa wrinkles her nose as she smooths the towel, her touch firm on your shoulders. “I noticed you weren’t very comfortable.”

“Thank you,” is all you can say. Your voice is barely above a whisper. The clothes were now in the deepest crevices of your mind. Your entire focus was on her touch. 

And with that, Pepa leaves, casually saying to you over her shoulder that she’s going to go check on whatever Julieta left in the oven.

But persistent as you are, you follow her down the steps, wanting to talk to her, to be around her more. 

You watch silently as Pepa, brow slightly furrowed, rummages through the kitchen drawers for oven mitts. When she finally finds them, she glances back in your direction. By the look on her face, she’s surprised to see that you’re still here. 

“You can go ahead,” she says, now facing away from you and stooping slightly to peer at the oven. “I’ve got it from here.” 

“But—” you begin to protest but the glare she shoots you is enough for it to die on your lips. 

“Go and enjoy the pool, Y/N. The others are probably wondering where those towels are.” 

And here you were finally beginning to think that the only Madrigal that hated your guts was starting to warm up to you. Clearly, it was too much to hope for. Sighing, you trudge back to the pool, looking more dejected than ever.

You pass out the towels absently, ignoring Camilo’s exaggerated cries of relief. Without sparing anyone a glance, you take your place on one of the unoccupied loungers. 

Truth be told, it wasn’t like you to act this way. In fact, you believed that you couldn’t get every person you met to like you. That was life. Sometimes people loved you. Other times, you just weren’t their cup of tea. For some reason, with Pepa, it was a much harder blow. 

But then again, she'd been so nice to you earlier with the towel and all. Did she not like your clothes? Did she think they were too inappropriate? Maybe she did. She did mention that Dolores’ clothes were revealing. Still, it didn’t make sense for her to not like you just because of that, and she’s probably seen worse with her eldest daughter being a model and all. 

You shrugged off the towel from your shoulders. Thinking about that woman only put you in the weirdest moods. For the moment, you wanted her completely out of your mind, and plus, there was still Mirabel that you were worried about. Her calling you out to Casa Madrigal meant something was up. 

“Going for a swim?” Isabela asked, looking up from her phone. 

You smile. “Yup,” and without further preamble, jump into the pool cannonball-style, earning a shriek from Isabela, and cheers from the rest of the cousins. 

When you lift your head up from the water, you find that all of your earlier frustrations have disappeared. Camilo gives you a high-five, finding Isabela’s reaction hilarious. Mirabel, without warning, dives in the pool as well. You shut your eyes at the splash of water that hits you in the face. When your friend resurfaces, you splash water back at her. 

“Mirabel!” Isabela seethes, grabbing one of the towels. “I swear! You are such a bad influence on Y/N!” 

Mirabel asks incredulously. “Me? Y/N did it first!” 

You chuckle. “Sorry, Isabela! I’ll get you coffee before I come into the lab on Monday as an apology.” 

Isabela rolls her eyes. “You better!” Then heads inside. 

When Isabela is out of earshot, Mirabel turns to you. 

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” she asks, eyes accusatory. 

You shrug. “Okay, I did, but be honest with me, you okay? I know you didn’t call me here for no reason.” 

At that, Mirabel sighs. Up close, you can tell that she hasn’t been getting enough sleep. There are dark circles beginning to form under her eyes. 

“I know I look terrible,” Mirabel grumbles.

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

Mirabel kicks her feet underwater. Wordlessly, you do the same. 

After a pause, you say to her, “it’s your grandmother, isn’t it?”

Mirabel nods. She looks around before leaning towards you, voice low. “Things haven’t been well between her and Tia Pepa. They’re not exactly fighting but they aren’t okay either.”

“Is this about what happened with her and your uncle years ago?” 

“Probably,” Mirabel sighs. “I just want everyone to get along, Y/N. I know how difficult my abuela can be—and she’s working on it, you know?—but…but..”

Mirabel face falls in her hands. You wrap your arms around her. 

“Hey, it’ll be alright, okay? Your aunt and your grandma are still getting used to each other after being apart for so long. It’s not gonna be a walk in the park for either of them. Give them some time, Mirabel.” 

“You’re right,” Mirabel sniffles. “I just worry too much when it comes to my family.” 

You smile. “Anyone would.” 

Mirabel returns your one-armed embrace. “Thanks for coming over, Y/N.”

“You’re my best friend,” you nudge her with your shoulder. Mirabel manages a half-hearted smile. “No need to thank me.”

Chapter Text

After hanging out by the pool with the Madrigals, there’s still some time left to kill before dinner. Dolores and her brothers have gone home to their dad’s for a bit but they’ll be back for dinner according to Dolores. Isabela’s in the study, a workaholic as always and Julieta is busy in the kitchen. Presently, you were in Mirabel’s room, flicking absently through the TV channels for something interesting to watch. Mirabel was sitting beside you on the floor, angrily typing away on her laptop. 

“This professor, I swear to God.” Mirabel grumbles to herself. “Why couldn’t he have given us a normal mid-term? Why’d it have to be a two thousand word essay?”

“Well, you know how your dad is.”

Mirabel groans. “I wish I took this class with a different professor. I thought the reviews were exaggerating. You even got an A in one of his classes.”

It was your turn to groan as you remembered all the late nights you spent catching up on homework with Augustin as your professor. 

“Only at the cost of my sanity and sleep.”

“Gah!” Mirabel slams her laptop shut. “I can’t take it anymore. I don’t think I have any words left in me.” She looks to you. “Did you find anything to watch?”

You shake your head. “Unless you want to watch soap opera re-runs, I got nothing.” 

Mirabel stands and stretches her arms. A knock on the door causes her to shout for whoever’s outside to come in. 

To your delight and surprise, it’s only Antonio, the youngest Madrigal. Immediately, he runs to the bed and pulls you both in for a tight hug. 

“Hey Tonito,” Mirabel grins, “how’d you get here so fast? I thought you guys would be here later.” 

Antonio releases you two from his grip and says to Mirabel, “Papa and Mama wanted to talk about adult stuff. Camilo told me. So, he drove me and Dolores to Casita.”

You and Mirabel exchange curious looks but say nothing about it. Instead, you rustle his dark curls. Embarrassed, Antonio turns his head. 

“Hey buddy,” you tease him, “aren’t you gonna say hi to me?” 

“H-hello,” Antonio softly replies, “I got you a gift, Y/N.” 

“Did you? What is it?” 

The boy shakes his head. “I’ll show you later.” 

You nod and ruffle his hair one last time. This time, Antonio leans into your touch. Mirabel rolls her eyes. 

“What about me, Tonito? How come Y/N only gets something,” Mirabel complains, feigning hurt. “He totally has a crush on you.” 

“Do not!” Antonio protests, sticking his tongue out at Mirabel. 

“Ha! You do!”

“Mirabel!” 

You can’t help but laugh at their childish antics. Poor Mirabel is trying to fend off her little cousin who seems to be trying to physically stop her from embarrassing him any further. 

Just before it can get any worse, another knocks sounds from the door. This time it’s Isabela who looks baffled at the scene unfolding in front of her. You merely shrug when she looks to you for answers. 

“Dinner’s ready. You guys better hurry. Abuela’s already at the table and she says we’re having a guest over. As much as I love seeing Mirabel this way, stop torturing her Tonito. Your mama is already here.” And with that, Isabela leaves. 

Antonio, of course, gets there before either of you, having declared spontaneously that he wanted to race Mirabel to the dinner table. Trailing Mirabel who descends the stairs with haste, you hurriedly smoothen the creases in your clothes and tuck your hair behind your ears. You wanted to look presentable, especially in front of the Madrigal matriarch. Dinners with her bordered on semi-formal, and because there were also going to be visitors tonight, it fell partly (albeit minusculely) on you to save face for the Madrigals. 

The food smells heavenly as always. You could make out the aroma of spices even before you stepped in the dining room. You can hear the soft murmur of familiar voices, the clinks from dinner ware on dinner ware. Mirabel shoots you an apologetic look. 

“Sorry. I didn’t know we were having someone over.”

“Don’t apologize,” you assure her. 

Augustin waves the both of you over from his spot at the table. “Ah, there they are! Come, come. Dinner is ready.”

Mirabel sits between Isabela and Camilo. You take the vacant seat by Dolores. She flashes you a smile when you sit down. 

At the head of the table is Alma, conversing with a man about Augustin’s age, dressed in an all too formal suit. She chuckles when he says something to her and then flits her gaze towards Pepa who sits across from him. She gives them a small smile—a stiff smile—then takes a sip of wine, staining the curve of her lips. 

They begin passing around bowls of food. You only tear your gaze away when Dolores hands you one. Carefully, you fill your plate with whatever comes next. 

With so many people at the table, different conversations are bound to rise. Camilo and Mirabel talk about school. Isabela listens attentively to the adults. Presently, Dolores relays to you tales about her latest modeling gigs. 

“Wow,” you breathe in awe. “I didn’t know shoots could be that hard. Did the photos come out okay, at least?” 

Dolores sighs. “They did but working with that photographer was a nightmare. He says he wants to work with me again but I can’t just tell him straight to his face that I’d rather not, you know? I’m still making my name.” 

You nod understandingly. “That sucks. By the way, where’s Mariano?”

At the mention of her boyfriend, Dolores rolls her eyes. “Hanging out with a couple of his friends in the city tonight. Apparently, they’re having a boys’ night.” 

“Sounds fun.” 

“If fun for you is chugging beers and being around obnoxious men then I’m not judging.” 

“Speaking of men,” you lean closer to Dolores, speaking to her in a low voice. “Who is that guy?” 

You don’t have to point it out. Dolores already knows who you mean. Her lips quirk in a polite smile but you can tell by the fire in her eyes that she’d rather not be smiling right now. 

“I heard some divorcee from the city. He’s a son of Abuela’s friend. At least, that’s what I could understand from their talk. Anyway, I think Abuela’s trying to set him up with my mama.” 

You nearly choke on your gulp of water. 

“I’m not okay with it,” Dolores continues, eyes soft. “I think Mama should be able to decide for herself what she wants to do. If she wants to start dating again, that’s okay. But I don’t think that’s the case here.” 

“You’re a good daughter, Dolores.” 

She gives your hand a squeeze. A silent thank-you.

Dinner comes to an end eventually. Alma ushers the adults into another room, probably for some post-meal conversation and more drinks. You and the rest of the cousins are left to clean up. You and Mirabel do the dishes. Isabela takes it upon herself to water the plants one last time before everyone sinks into the rest of the night. Camilo takes out the trash as little Antonio tags along. Dolores wipes down the counter tops and table. 

When you’re finally done, you decide to get ready for bed. As you wait for your turn to use Mirabel’s shower, you lay on your back on her bed, staring absently at the ceiling. You know you should probably use this free time to get some reading done or make some revisions on the paper you’re currently writing, but for some unknown reason, you can’t find it in you to do any of those things right now. 

You’re sudden restlessness has you dragging your feet downstairs, past the sliding doors, out to the dimly lit pool.

Cool air fans your face but it’s not cold enough to make you shiver. It feels just right, and so, you let yourself bask in the quiet evening, bare to the clear twinkling sky. 

But the silence is short-lived. Moments pass and you realize that you’re not alone, not when you hear the click of a lighter and breathe in the sudden smell of cigarette smoke. 

It’s Pepa. It has to be. Because when you whirl around to see who this sudden visitor is, her bright green eyes gleam in the dark. Still dressed in her clothes from this evening—a form-fitting forest green dress—, Pepa has this indecipherable look on her face. You can tell by her body language that she’s torn between staying and leaving and you don’t quite understand why you’d rather she stay. 

“You smoke,” you say. There’s no judgment in your voice, no disgust, but instead, plain curiosity. 

By way of reply, Pepa simply takes a drag. She closes her eyes while she breathes out the smoke then opens them after, meeting your eyes this time. 

“Only when I’m stressed,” Her smile is mirthless. “Do you mind?”

Living in the city, you’ve always been surrounded by the scent of smoke, the smog, the whiff of alcohol. This was nothing. But maybe if you were being completely honest with yourself, you wanted to know more about Pepa. 

You shake your head. She walks forward so that you two are side-by-side, just inches away from the water. The two of you say nothing for a few moments. 

“So…” you begin, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “…what’s making you so stressed?”

You expect that she’ll tell you off, send you a scathing look, but to your surprise, the ghost of a smile graces her lips. 

“Why should I tell you, muñequita?”

Her new nickname for you makes the heat rush to your face. You pray that it’s dark enough that she doesn’t notice. 

“Because,” you clear your throat, “you came out here for a reason. Maybe just to have some peace and quiet. Maybe to find someone to talk to.”

Her eyes flutter at your words. Will she cut the conversation short, you think to yourself? Will she send you away like earlier? 

“And that someone just so happens to be you,” she sighs, speaking the words more to herself than to you. “It’s complicated, Y/N.”

Your hand brushes against hers. “How complicated?”

She chuckles softly. “Very. It… it seems like every decision I make is the wrong one. And now, there’s the obvious choice, the choice that everyone wants for me, but it doesn’t feel right.”

You can’t help but think about what Dolores told you during dinner, Pepa’s practiced movements, the fake smile on her face. 

“Maybe the obvious choice isn’t always the right choice.” 

“Is that so?” 

Nodding, you answer, “I mean, some people might think that they know what’s good for you, but that’s just what they think. You’re you, you know? You of all people know yourself better than anyone. If you feel that something isn’t right for you then it’s probably not.”

Lips slightly parted, Pepa blinks. The cigarette in her hand is long forgotten, ash flicking onto the small space between the two of you. A wistful look crosses her features. Her eyes shine in the dark. 

“You’re a very wise girl, Y/N.”

It’s your turn to laugh. “Am I?”

“Don’t let it get to your head.” She rolls her eyes. 

You grin, all teeth, wide enough that you feel your cheeks ache. “I guess this means you like me now.”

Pepa bursts into a coughing fit at your words. 

“W-what?”

Pouting, you tell her, “I thought you hated me. I mean, it looked like you hated me. When we first met, you weren’t exactly friendly.”

She shakes her head, exposing the flush on her face. “Silly girl. It shouldn’t matter to you whether someone like me likes you or not.”

You want to protest, to tell her that it matters because you think she’s pretty amazing, but her firm hand on your shoulder stops all coherent thought. You don’t notice that she’s already put out her cigarette, that her touch borders on a caress. It only dawns on you when she’s gone and all you can do is stare at her retreating figure. 

For some reason, you can’t stop smiling on the way back to Mirabel’s room. 

Chapter Text

Nearly a month passes by when you finally run into Pepa again. With the first mid-terms fast approaching, the work load has been getting more intense. You spend most of your days in the library, re-watching lecture videos on your laptop and sifting through your notes. Other days, you meet Mirabel for coffee in-between the free periods in your schedules. She's just as preoccupied with school as you, making your brief caffeine-runs the only time you two can hang out. As busy as you are though, you sometimes catch yourself thinking about your conversation with Pepa that night at Casa Madrigal and when you do, the faintest of smiles always appears on your lips. 

On that day, cumulonimbus clouds hang threateningly in the sky, blanketing campus in a dreary overcast and in the distance, the rumbling of thunder. You and your classmates trickle out of the science building, having just finished your last lab class of the day. A couple students complain upon seeing the sudden change in weather and others make haste across the quad before the rain comes down. 

You pause, hoisting the strap of your bag higher over your shoulder, and reach for your phone. Tiredly, you sort through your recent notifications.

There's a string of texts from Mirabel, most of which are hysterical ten-second videos that make you snicker. When you scroll further down your inbox, your face lights up at the name that comes up.  

It's a text from your Dad. 

‘Hey kid. Hope everything's okay on your end. Was just wondering what you were up to. Give me a call when you can ok? Love you.’

You type up a reply, assuring him that you'll definitely call him tonight and for good measure, you set an alarm for later tonight, just so you don't lose track of time at the library again.  

You remember how your Dad was so against the idea of you going to college in another country. Why couldn't you just choose some school closer to home? Why did it have to be Colombia? He took every opportunity to dissuade you from your decision but you were stubborn —a trait that you take after him —and in the end, he relented, partially swayed by the school's promise of a fully-paid ride. 

At the time, you told yourself it was adventure that you craved. Until now, you believe it to be true. You know so. The past three years in Colombia taught you things you would have never known if you'd decided to stay close to home, so many experiences you know you'll tell stories about. 

Sometimes you can't help but yearn for home. Oddly enough, it does get lonely even in the warm company of friends. But it's no good to dwell on these feelings especially when it's just you in a foreign country that you've yet to call home. 

Maybe something to eat would fix the sudden turn in your mood. Yes, that might be it. 

Mind made up, you hurry in the direction of the cafeteria, sped on by the crackle of thunder that sounds in your wake. 

You make it to the cafeteria steps, panting with your hands on your hips. In that moment, it starts to rain, a soft drizzle that morphs alarmingly quick into a heavy downpour causing a roar so loud that you can barely hear anything else. As you catch your breath, you observe the trees that drink in the rain and sway slightly to a gust of wind. 

When you enter the cafeteria, it's more crowded than usual with students taking shelter from the rain. Finding a seat at this point is useless. You'd have to eat in the library. Not wanting to waste any more time, you grab something quick and easy: a bag of chips and a diet coke. 

You know it’s not the healthiest choice. Julieta would be horrified if she saw your so-called 'lunch' but honestly you were too lazy. Plus, this was more convenient to carry around. 

‘Meal’ in both hands, you hurriedly walk out of the cafeteria. It’s still pouring outside. Your shoulders fall. You didn’t have an umbrella on you. Besides, it doesn’t usually rain around this time of the year—at least, not like this.

Well, then. There was no choice but to wait for the rain to stop. 

A minute passes. Five minutes. Ten. You realize that the rain won’t be stopping any time soon. Listlessly, you shuffle from foot to foot. 

Growing bored, you put on your headphones and scroll through the play list on your phone, cautiously balancing your food in one arm. 

You’ve been listening to a lot of old songs lately, songs that you were obsessed with when you were in high school. You realize then that most of them are cheesy love songs. Self-consciously, you pull your phone closer to your chest. 

As you listen to the soft strumming of the guitar and the singer’s voice, you begin to softly hum to yourself. It dawns on you then that you haven’t been to a concert in ages. Maybe when things aren’t so busy, you’ll go to a show with Mirabel. 

It’s when you begin contemplating simply braving the storm—bag and clothes be damned—that you spot the figure jogging towards the cafeteria. 

At first, you think that you might be mistaken, that the drenched woman with wild hair couldn’t possibly be Pepa because why would Pepa be here of all places? 

But it is her and your heart beats painfully because from your standpoint, it seems like she’s running towards you.

You swallow hard, feet practically paralyzed to the ground. 

Pepa is only a few feet away when she finally meets your eyes. She looks mortified to see you in front of her. 

“Y/N,” she wets her lips, catching stray rain drops with her tongue. “What are you doing here?”

 The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by you. It takes a minute for you to give her an answer. 

“Uh, I’m getting lunch,” and you feebly hold up your soda and chips to her. 

A look of disgust appears on her face. 

“Do you usually have junk for lunch?”

You can’t help the warmth that seeps into your face. 

“What are you doing here, anyway?” You ask, voice defensive, pulling your food away from her disapproving eyes.

Pepa glances at you momentarily as she wrings out the water from her curls. “I was catching up with a friend from the Dance department.” 

It all comes together then. “Is that why you were at that show a couple weeks ago?” 

She nods. “Apparently, the school’s dance troupe has gone downhill.” She sighs and rubs her temples like she has a headache. 

The rain shifts into a soft drum. People steadily leave the indoors with  either their books shielding their heads or their hoods pulled up. You turn to Pepa just in time to catch the shiver in her shoulders.

“Pepa,” you frown at how her clothes cling to her body. “You’re wet.” 

If you weren't so worried about the woman catching a cold, you would have noticed her sharp intake of breath at your words. 

“My place is close by. I can lend you some of my clothes while yours dry,” you insist. 

"I..." Pepa hesitates. You peer up at her, pouting, so sure that she'll say no. She falters. "...Okay. I suppose that's alright."

Pepa is unnervingly quiet as you chatter about your days on campus, pointing to which rooms you have classes in, dropping anecdotes here and there about your early days in Colombia, frayed with nerves at the prospect of being so far away from home. With herculean patience, she humors you long enough to make you realize that you should probably shut up now. 

“The next bus should be here in fifteen minutes,” you tell her, glancing at your watch. 

Brow arched, Pepa replies, “Give me your address.” 

You give her a quizzical smile. “Um, okay. Give me one second.” 

You fish through your mess of a bag for a pen and a piece of paper. It's during times like this that you wish you hadn't hurriedly stuffed your things in your bag as soon as your professors announced that class is over. 

Pepa clears her throat. “Just text me your address.” 

“Oh, sure!” You cringe internally at the ill-concealed hopefulness in your voice. 

You hand your phone to her expectantly to which she takes, wasting no time in typing her number. 

When she hands you back your phone, you press your lips at the smile that threatens to escape. 

“Okay, there.” You slide your phone back in your pocket. “I sent it to you.” 

Pepa glances at her phone and nods. She reaches for the keys in her purse. “Let’s go.” 

The two of you walk to the parking lot. You can’t remember having ever set foot in here. Aside from the fact that you didn’t own a car, you weren’t confident enough in your driving skills. 

With a lazy flick of her wrist, Pepa presses a button on her key fob, emitting a beep from her car—a white Mercedes-Benz—and triggering the headlights. 

Without sparing you a glance, she opens the passenger door and motions you to get inside. You do as you're told, nearly shutting your eyes at the strong scent of her that pervades the inside of the car. 

Pepa gets into the driver’s seat, bringing the engine to life, and then vainly looking in the visor mirror at her reflection. You can’t help but stare, and when you’re caught, you’re glad she doesn’t comment but instead pretends that it didn’t happen at all. 

She pulls the car out of the parking garage with ease. You notice the slight muscles in her arms that flex with each turn of the steering wheel, dusted with freckles just like her neck and her face. 

In the cup-holder, you find a tube of lipstick, probably the shade she’s wearing right now, and to your surprise, a wedding ring or what looks like a wedding ring. 

As if burnt, you avert your gaze to the window, ignoring the stab of curiosity inside you. 

You were still piecing together Pepa’s story. Her sudden divorce. The strained relationship between her and Alma. You didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Out of silent respect, you forced your gaze not to wander back to the ring that sat between the two of you. 

Eventually, the car ride comes to an end. You climb out of the car, one hand in your bag in search of your keys. Conveniently, Pepa parks the car closest to your side of the apartment building, so the walk isn’t so far. 

“Sorry,” you begin sheepishly as you lead her further inside your apartment, “it’s a mess in here.” 

Nervously, you watch as she inspects your apartment. To your luck, the kitchen and living room are tidy enough aside from the occasional used mugs on the tables. Pepa turns to you with a raised brow. 

Awkwardly, you point in the direction of your room. “That’s where my room is. Uh, I don’t know what’ll fit you in my closet, so, uh, follow me.” 

Before you open the door, you close your eyes and pray to whatever god that exists that you left your room as tidy as the rest of your apartment. 

You redden at the sweatshirt discarded on the floor beside your bed. As stealthily as you can, you kick it underneath your bed, out of sight. Checking behind you, you see that Pepa has busied herself with perusing your book shelf. 

You try to think of something in your closet that Pepa would wear. As far as you knew, Pepa liked to dress stylishly, leather jackets and heels, dresses and sandals. The dresses you did have were too girlish in your opinion. Pepa would never wear them. She'd wear something classy. Elegant. Womanly. Mature. Letting out a sigh, you decide that the best you could offer the woman was an on over-sized hoodie of yours and sweats. To be safe, you threw in a pair of fluffy socks, remembering that she might still be cold from the rain. 

When you turn around, you see that Pepa has moved on from your book collection to your desk. Slightly stooping down, she examines a picture of you and Mirabel, both of you grinning widely and holding peace signs in the frame. 

She doesn’t notice that you’re beside her. Not until you break the silence. 

“That was two years ago during Arts and Humanities week,” you revealed, voice fond, “Mirabel joined the debate contest and I remember her being so nervous that day. I swear she looked like she was going to puke.” 

Pepa smiled. “Did she?” 

“God, no,” you smiled back. “She did pretty good actually considering it was her first time. Though…” at this you scrunch your nose. “…she does have a tendency to word vomit when she gets carried away.” 

Pepa playfully rolls her eyes in knowing exasperation. “Ah, the rambling. Now I know she hasn’t grown out of it.” It makes you chuckle and Pepa grins at your reaction. 

Suddenly, as if realizing what just happened, the two of you fall silent, studiously avoiding each other’s gaze. 

Clearing your throat, you thrust the clothes towards her. “Here. This is all I have really. Um, you can get dressed in the bathroom and I’ll, uh, throw your wet clothes in the dryer?”

 “Yes," Pepa sighs. "You should do that." 

When Pepa emerges from the bathroom, you think that it’s unfair that someone can look so put-together in a hoodie and sweats, but she does. The sweat pants are a little short on her but that's only because she's considerably taller than you. To you delight, she's even wearing the socks. 

“I feel like a college a student,” Pepa comments wryly when she sees you on the couch.

“Well, you look the part,” you supply, pointing to her outfit. “You wore the socks, too!” 

“I think I’m keeping the socks,” she says as she slightly lifts a foot. “They’re surprisingly warm.” 

You want to say that she can have them if she wants but you bite your tongue. You don’t want to come off a little too strong, not when you two are finally getting along. 

“Do you mind if I sit?” Pepa gestures to the couch and you pat the empty spot beside you. 

You’re not sure what to do now that the one and only Pepa Madrigal is in your apartment and on your freaking couch of all places.

But now what? It’ll take at least half an hour for her clothes to dry. Should you bring out some snacks? Put on a movie? What kind of movies does she like anyway? Now you were awfully curious.

“You haven’t had lunch yet,” Pepa blurts, causing you to jump in your seat. She looks at you guiltily. “What do you like?”

“Oh, no, I already bought—”

“—a real meal, Y/N. None of that junk." The commanding look on her face silences your protests. "And you live alone. You should take care of yourself." She adds, voice a tad softer. 

Like a puppy with its tail behind its legs, you have no choice but to obey. Meekly, you tell her that Chinese take-out sounds good. 

With a pleased look on her face, she pulls out her phone. When she finally finds a restaurant to her liking, she lists what’s on the menu, tapping her screen with each dish that you approve of. Apparently, she’s bought you lunch, which you believe is more than enough for more than two people, but you don’t comment on it. 

Pouting, you tell her, “you didn’t have to do that.”

“You let me borrow your clothes. Consider it my way of saying thank-you.” 

“Well, it doesn’t sit right with me,” you remark, “Next time, it’s my treat.” 

“Next time?” 

You give her an unimpressed look. “Of course. We’re practically friends at this point.” 

“I…I guess you could say that.” 

You laugh. “Great. Now I won’t feel so bad about you buying me lunch.” You grab the remote. “What kind of movies do you like?”

"Romance movies. The sad kind," Pepa coughs, avoiding your gaze. "Ridiculous. I know."

“It’s not ridiculous,” you argue, dead-serious. "Some of my favorite movies are the saddest movies I've ever seen in my life." 

You search through the TV for movies that might be on right now. Lucky for the both of you, a well-known one is just about to start. You’ve seen this movie a couple times now and each time you remember fighting off tears. 

The movie progresses and you find yourself becoming increasingly invested in the story as if it's the first time you've seen it. The romance is the typical kind. Girl meets boy by chance. They get off on a bad foot but eventually start over, growing closer and realizing that they have feelings for each other. It's adorable, so adorable that you can't help but squeal when they finally kiss. 

Everything seems to be going well for them. But a misunderstanding, paired with the fact that many people don't want them together, leads to them breaking up. The fight scene is heavy. Insults are thrown. Pasts are dug up. 

Risking a glance at Pepa, your eyes widen. 

Lips pursed and eyes glistening with unshed tears, Pepa stares straight ahead at the TV. 

Oh.

You want to reach out but at the same time, you don't want to scare her. God, should you squeeze her hand? Pull her in for a hug? What's hurting her must have to be more than the movie, something raw and personal. 

The movie is nearing its end. The final scenes play out. Oh, you remember now. This one didn't have a happy ending. 

Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door, probably the delivery guy dropping off the food. You take it upon yourself to answer the door. When you return, bags in both your hands, you see that the movie has just ended, the credits already rolling. 

You don’t expect the intense pang of sadness that hits you at the sight of Pepa with her back turned to the TV, sniffling softly to herself on the couch. Within those three years that she’s been away from her family and friends in Colombia, did she ever spend her nights like this? The more you think about it, the more you only want to wipe away her tears with your thumb and tell her that you know that it hurts and that it’ll be okay somehow and that it’s lonely, isn’t it? Being alone, so separated from the life you once knew, but all the same, freer than you’ve ever been, and some nights, you almost convince yourself that maybe the loneliness does outweigh the freedom. 

But you don’t tell her this. You settle for silence. You settle instead for awkwardly clearing your throat and announcing that the food’s here. And when she turns to you, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks blotchy, there’s an unspoken gratitude in her eyes at you giving her this moment to let it all out.

Chapter Text

Before you knew it, midterms had come and gone. You couldn’t be more relieved. The minute you handed in your last exam of the week, you rushed back to your apartment, and then, collapsed on your bed, rewarding yourself with a much deserved power nap. When you woke later in the evening, it was easier to forgo an actual meal for ice cream. You didn’t feel like going to out. 

That night as you as you made yourself comfortable on your couch, half-heartedly searching through TV channels for something mildly interesting to watch, you found your mind wandering to thoughts of Pepa.

Truthfully, you’ve been thinking about her more so than usual lately, but only because of that day in your apartment where she’d let herself fall apart. 

You shut the door quietly, careful not to startle her. You could hear Pepa’s shaky breaths. Standing by the door, you watched as her shoulders shuddered and quelled the urge to drape a blanket around her. 

You swallowed. The least you could do was not gawk at her like an idiot. 

Instead, you busied yourself with the food, placing the take-out boxes on the counter and rummaging through your kitchen cabinets for plates and cutlery. This was a habit of yours, especially when you were worried. You couldn’t put your hands down.

 So lost were you in your own thoughts and ministrations that you hadn’t noticed that Pepa had slowly began to approach you. 

Then again, you should have noticed that she was close as soon as the telling scent of her perfume flooded your senses. 

She clears her throat and you look up at her. Her eyes are rimmed with red and slightly damp, and her face is flushed from her tears.

Miraculously, you find your voice. “Water?”

At her nod, you push a glass of water gently in her direction. 

“Thank you,” she says under her breath. 

“Are you hungry?” You ask her as you spoon some chicken onto a plate, keeping your voice as casual as possible. “You ordered so much food. I don’t think I can finish all of this.” 

“Y/N…” Pepa begins. 

“Hmm?”

She shuts her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to have a little breakdown in your apartment,” Pepa sighs shakily. “I owe you an explanation. I—” 

“Pepa,” you say with a frown, “I’m not mad.”

“But—”

You reach for one of her hands across the counter. It’s warm, the kind of warmth you feel on your skin after you’ve just been in the sun. Freckles litter the back of her hand which your thumb softly grazes over. 

“—you don’t owe me anything, okay? You don’t have to tell me what’s been bothering you. Not now.” You squeeze her hand. “You can tell me on your own time. When you’re ready.”

For a moment, you worry that you only made Pepa feel worse. She presses her lips together, tilts her face away from your earnest gaze. Then, when she finally brings herself to look at you, your worry fades. 

An emotion that you can’t pin down shines behind Pepa’s green eyes. It’s achingly soft, and unnoticed by you, magnetic. 

Maybe it’s because you don’t realize that you’re leaning towards her. 

This close, you notice the way Pepa’s throat bobs and the smattering of freckles on her neck and collarbones. 

“Why are you so nice to me, Y/N?” Her breath fans your face. 

Eyes fluttering, you whisper. “You’re not a bad person, Pepa.”

A bittersweet smile appears on Pepa’s face. She shakes her head as if dispelling some inside joke only she knows. 

“What?” You search her face for answers. “What’s so funny?”

“Ah, nothing.” Abruptly, she stands, running a hand through her curls. 

“Are you leaving?” Internally, you wince at the desperation in your voice.

“It’s a long drive back to Casita.” 

“But your clothes…”

She smiles. “You can drop them off at Casita when you visit.” 

Pepa proceeds to gather her bag and cell phone. At seeing the time on her screen, she scrunches her brows. Glancing at the window, you see that it’s already gotten dark. The rain has stopped, but the sky is still heavy with dark clouds. You hadn’t realized that it was already late. 

You’re pulled from your thoughts when you feel her firm touch on your shoulders. Turning your head slightly, you meet the vibrant red of her nail polish and her slender fingers that have you in their grip. 

“Thank you, Y/N,” she murmurs. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “See you.”

Then just like that Pepa’s gone. You hear her foot steps trail away in the distance and the soft thud of the door, and shut your eyes.

As the memory fades, you let out a heavy sigh. You haven’t had the opportunity to return her clothes ever since that rainy day. Mirabel has been busy prepping for another debate competition, which meant that lately she’s been crashing at your place, preferring to stay close to campus than going home to Casita or staying at Isabela’s flat. Sometimes, you contemplated asking your best friend if she could take Pepa’s clothes with her to Casita, but part of you felt awkward about it, and anyway, you’d rather you be the one to hand it to Pepa. It just felt right that way. 

You’d just have to settle for waiting until Mirabel invites you over again. Normally, you’d be alright with that, but you wondered, like right now, how Pepa was doing. Then, an idea hit you. You had her number from when she asked you for your address. You could text her. 

Immediately, you reached for your phone. You raised your brows. Apparently, Pepa had saved her name and number in your contacts list. 

‘Hello, Pepa. It’s Y/N! How are you?’ 

You read over your message once, twice, then decide to delete it.

‘Hey, Pepa. It’s me.’

You shake your head, and delete it again. You sound kinda creepy. 

Pressing your lips together, you type again. ‘Hi. It’s Y/N. I hope you don’t mind me texting you at this hour.’

You read the message a few more times. It sounds good enough to you, and so, you hit send.

It’s only then that panic sinks in. 

Oh, God. You just sent Pepa a text! Your stomach flips, making you reach for one of the pillows to clutch to your chest. Were you overstepping? Would she be mad that you texted her in the middle of the night? Was she even still up? You squirm in your seat. 

Ten minutes pass when you finally hear your phone ping. When you see Pepa’s name beside the message icon, you immediately put your phone down. You decide to clean up a little bit. You take out the trash, rinse some of the dishes. When you finally feel more centered, you open her message. 

‘Hello, Y/N. Is everything okay?’

You bite the inside of your cheek and type up a response. ‘I’m okay. How about you?’

You watch as the three gray bubbles beside Pepa’s name appear and disappear. Finally, you get a message back. 

‘I’m doing better. Again, I apologize for that day. It was not very polite of me.’

‘I’m glad. Btw you have nothing to be sorry for. If anything, I should be the one apologizing.’

‘Why?’ 

As you type your reply, you can’t help but pout. ‘Because I was a horrible friend. I should have comforted you better. I wanted to but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.’

‘Nonsense. You were very considerate and kind that day, Y/N.’

‘Thanks. I’m glad you’re okay! I was really worried about you :(’

‘Do you usually worry this much?’

‘If it’s about the people I care about? Of course.’ 

‘You’re sweet. Mirabel and your boyfriend are lucky to have you.’

You frown, puzzled. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend?????’

You don’t get a quick enough response from Pepa. Five minutes pass by. Ten. The pint of ice cream in your hand is already half-empty, and begrudgingly, you remove yourself from your comfortable position on the couch to return the container to the freezer. You check your phone again. Still no reply. 

Eventually, you give up on checking your phone every five minutes for a message. In bed, you wonder to yourself if perhaps Pepa had fallen asleep or something. Oh, well. 

Blankly staring at the ceiling of your room, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Mirabel had mentioned something to her cousins. Maybe she’d shared with Pepa the countless stories she had of setting you up on blind dates that one semester. At the thought, you let out a sigh. Your best friend’s well-meaning attempts at getting you to meet new people (not plants—people, as she’d told you then) were disastrous at most. You still shudder at the memory of the guy in Mirabel’s sociology class who had chewed loudly throughout the entire dinner date or the time when that political science girl had passive-aggressively pointed out mannerisms of yours that irked her. 

The lackluster history of your dating life in Colombia didn’t bother you as much. Not usually. Isabela had always scolded Mirabel for making you go on these dates. According to her, dating should be the least of your concerns especially with the important work that you both were doing in the lab. She had a point, but in all honesty, you sometimes imagined how nice it would be to have someone close—closer than a friend—as foreigner in a whole different country. So, yes. You weren’t opposed to the idea of dating, but you also weren’t actively seeking it out. It wasn’t a priority. 

As you thought this through, you couldn’t help but laugh quietly to yourself. This was something you almost never thought about. Clearly, mid-terms had done a number on you. With how demanding school has been, your brain is definitely not thinking straight. 

Sleep. You needed sleep. Eyes heavy, you let them fall shut. Pretty soon, you were dozing off. 

By the time you’d fallen asleep, your phone had lit up with a new text from Pepa. 

Chapter Text

“So…” Mirabel begins, her voice suspiciously airy. “Did you meet someone?”

It takes a minute for you to fully comprehend the implication of her words. Your thumbs hover over the screen of your phone. Begrudgingly, you look up and meet her eyes.

“Uh, what?” you ask her distractedly.

She points to the phone in your hand. “You’ve been on your phone since I got here. Come on. Who is it? Is it the girl in my sociology class? Is it?”

Your grimace only ramps up your friend’s excitement. She jumps from your bed. “No, wait. It’s gotta be that guy in one of your science classes. You know, the one with dimples?”

Instantly, you know who she means. “Marcos?” you scoff. “He’s just a friend.”

“But you went to that dance show with him,” she counters.

“I went with our friends, Mirabel.”

“Right,” she replies, not quite convinced. You know that she’s letting you off the hook this time.

You groan, open your mouth to defend yourself, but your phone chimes.

Mirabel gives you a smug look. “You should get that.”

Not wanting to give her the satisfaction, you ignore it. Instead, you throw one of your shirts at her.

“Shouldn’t you be helping me pack?”

Busying yourself with choosing among your entire wardrobe laid out on your bed, you don’t catch the shrug that Mirabel gives you in response.

“I told you I’d lend you some of my clothes while you stay with us at Casita.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, opting for a sundress, a short piece with baby pink florals. “But I’m flying back home for the rest of break, remember? By the way, are you still sure you wanna drive me to the airport? It’s pretty far from Encanto. I can always take the bus—”

“Nuh-uh. Me and Isabela are driving you,” Mirabel’s face scrunches. “My bad. I sort of mentioned to the rest of them that you were leaving soon, and now, everyone wants to come along. So, Luiza, Dolores, Camilo, and Antonio—if Abuela lets him.” Mirabel holds up six fingers.

That brought a smile to your face. Get one Madrigal involved and you get the whole family involved.

“If you say so. What do you want to do when we get to yours?”

At this, Mirabel gives you a look, one that you’re all too familiar with. It’s the same look she uses when she knows she’s messed up in some way.

“Mirabel...” You begin warningly.

It doesn’t take long for her to crack.

“Isignedusuptodanceatthefiesta.”

You blink. Once. Long and hard.

“…What?” Your face, a contrived expression of serenity.

She lets out a deep breath. “I signed us up to dance at the fiesta.”

You feel like you’ve been doused with cold water. “Mirabel, you know that I can’t dance. Like at all. Have you seen me dance?”

“Now that you mention it…”

“Exactly!” You stand, beginning to pace the small space of your bedroom, “I’ll make a fool of myself. I mean, can’t I just back out? I’ll do anything else. Put up decorations, help with the cooking—I don’t know. Just please, no dancing.”

Mirabel, bless her sweet heart, looks wracked with guilt. “I already got us costumes”—you wanted to faint—“and I wanted to do this for tia Pepa.”

Pepa. The mention of her name makes you stop in your tracks. The same Pepa you’d been texting. The same Pepa that had broken down in tears at your apartment. Her cheeks wet with tears. The scent of her expensive perfume against the leather seats of her car. Mirabel had your full attention now.

“She used to be a dance instructor, you know? Before she came back.” Mirabel sat down on the edge of your bed, running her hands absently across the fabric of your comforter. “I can tell she misses it. It makes her happy and…” she trails off.

“…you want to cheer her up, don’t you?”

Surprise colored your friend’s features. “I—yes. How’d you know?”

You don’t know why you avoid her eyes. Clearly, Mirabel cares deeply for her aunt. She would want to know what happened in this apartment with Pepa, how the woman had been so upset, but a nagging feeling within had you thinking that it was better not to bring up what happened. Suddenly, the old posters on your wall seemed very interesting.

You shrug just like Mirabel had done earlier. “Come on,” you reach out your hand to her. “Isabela’s probably on her way.”

You stood at the foot of the guest room bed, hands on your hips, having just changed into a pair of gym shorts and a thin, loose shirt. As soon as the three of you arrived at Casita, Dolores had practically ran outside and insisted that you all get changed. Apparently, Pepa was already on the way.

Speaking of Pepa, you glanced at your phone. You two had been texting back and forth ever since you’d reached out to her about that eventful day in your apartment. You since learned that she had a preference for warm, vibrant colors, enjoyed reading romance novels in her spare time, and had lived in New York for the past three or four years, working as a dance instructor. To her surprise, you had yet to see the lights of that big city.

The last text you sent her was before you left your apartment. On the way to Casita, you told her. No response, and yet, it had said message read just minutes after you’d sent it. You tried your hardest not to pout for the entire drive.

You would have spent more time sulking had you not heard Dolores loudly announce that Pepa had just arrived. What quickly followed was the rumble of footsteps and worried murmurs. Confused as to why everyone was such in a hurry, you decide to follow suit.

You were the last one who had made it downstairs. Luiza and Mirabel were bombarding Pepa with questions about the drive. On the other hand, Isabela and Dolores were chatting amiably as they warmed-up with stretches.

You hovered on the stairs landing. This was the first time you had seen Pepa since. She looked good—not that she ever looked bad, of course not. An indulgent smile graced her face as she nodded along to her nieces’ words, setting down her bag and brushing errant curls away from her face. She looked slightly overwhelmed but at ease nonetheless. You bit back a smile.

As if on cue, her gaze found yours. You froze, could feel the heat rushing to your face at having been caught gawking. Oh, God. You wanted to die.

It was no comfort, but Pepa looked just as mortified as you. Then after another millisecond that could have passed for an eternity, she looked away. You did the same, consciously touching the back of your hand to your cheek. You had half the mind to open up a window right then and there.

“I love your shorts!” Dolores squealed, dragging you by the arm to where Isabela was currently doing the splits. You would have commented on the impressiveness of that feat but your mind was elsewhere.

Mirabel and Luiza, mid-conversation, turned to you. Your best friend held two thumbs-up in approval. Then, shaking your head, as if to dispel some slow spell, you ran to Luiza.

You hadn’t seen her in so long. As a professional weightlifter, she often traveled for competitions. Sometimes, she’d be gone for months, and Mirabel would lament that her sister was never around to hang out with her, but as soon as Mirabel’s phone rang with an incoming call from Luiza, she’d brighten like a flower coming back to life.

Anyhow, Luiza looked good as always. She had muscles that could put most of the guys in her class to shame, and as she gave the best hugs, which was happening right now. Next to Mirabel, you were closest to Luiza. She practically spun you around as you protested laughingly.

Once she put you down, she mussed the hair on your head. You stuck your tongue out at her.

“Geez. Not the hair, Luiza.”

She chuckled. “When did you get so self-conscious about how you look?”

“Who said I wasn’t?” you huffed.

Luiza grinned. “I think you’re spending too much time with Dolores.”

“You suck, Luiza,” Dolores interjected. Both Mirabel and Luiza laughed.

You heard Pepa clear her throat. Turning, you realized that she was standing behind you. There was a bottle of water in her hands. She wasn’t looking at you, but at Dolores, with a stern look on her face.

“No fighting, Dolores,” she scolded. Then she looked down at you, and gently nudged the bottle in your direction. You took it, muttering a meek thank-you under your breath.

A ghost of a smile appeared on Pepa’s lips. “Don’t thank me yet.”

You licked your lips, suddenly feeling very parched. You could only watch as Pepa proceeded to hand out water to the rest of the girls.

Once the rest of the girls had been given refreshments, Pepa had ordered you all to fall in a row in the middle of the room. Like a drill sergeant, Pepa eyed each and every one of you. Wordlessly, she ushered people into different spots. Isabela had been placed in the center. You and Luiza were on her left, Dolores and Mirabel on her opposite side. Once she was satisfied, Pepa clapped her hands, shaking you all into attention.

“Wonderful,” she murmured, then with eyes alight she said, “Now, shall we start?”

Hours had passed. When you glanced through the windows, you could see the sun already beginning to set, bathing Casita’s steps in soft, golden light.

Your arms ached, so did your legs. You were hyperaware of the sweat that made your shirt cling to your back and longed for a shower. After that, a nice, long nap.

In the time that had come and gone, you came to realize that Pepa was a brutal teacher. Brilliant but brutal. Before she had taught any of the steps, she performed the entire dance for everyone to observe. She made it look effortless, easy even, but when it was your turn to start moving, you struggled. You were pretty sure that the other girls were trying their best to keep up, too, but you were painfully failing. If Pepa had noticed—and you’d bet your life she did—, she didn’t comment on it. That, you appreciated. Still, you should have known that she wouldn’t just let you off the hook without some kind of action on her part.

So, here you were. Stuck downstairs with Pepa while the other Madrigals had been given permission to leave. For the first time since you’d met the woman, you didn’t want to be around her.

You raised your arms, then tried your hardest to replicate the graceful flourish that Pepa had shown you only seconds ago. A sigh from Pepa. Apparently, you weren’t doing well enough.

“Look at me,” Pepa ordered as she re-did the move you just butchered. “Like silk, Y/N. Let’s do it together again.”

It was your turn to sigh. Gingerly, you followed Pepa as she muttered the counts. She shook her head and raised a hand for you to stop mid-step.

“I don’t understand,” the redhead said, arms crossed over her front. “It’s not hard.”

At her tone, you felt like you were a child that had disappointed her parent. Frustration welled up within you.

“I’m not a dancer, okay?” you sniped, angrily turning away from her piercing gaze. “If you want someone who can keep up, then find someone else.”

Already prickly from exhaustion, you stomped away from Pepa. If you had chanced a look in her direction, you would have seen the disbelief on her face.

“I’m sorry,” Pepa blurted, stopping you in your tracks. “Sometimes I forget that not everyone knows what I already know. As your teacher, I should be more patient.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. You turn around only to be met by Pepa’s conciliatory gaze. You can feel yourself falter.

“Come here,” Pepa beckons, voice soft.

You do as your told, choosing to ignore the fact that it didn’t take you much to concede to the woman. Pepa repositions herself so that she is standing behind you. She holds you by the shoulders, guides you so that you both are staring in the mirror conveniently placed in the room.

“May I?” she leans down, breath fanning your neck. You can only nod.

Once you give your consent, her hands move from their place on your shoulders to your abdomen, just below your chest. Your breath hitches and it feels like a million butterflies are having a frenzy in your stomach. Pepa hums thoughtfully.

“Do you feel it?” She murmurs. Her thumb smooths over your side ever so gently. “You’re so tense.” 

“I am?” you let out a nervous chuckle.

She laughs in return. “Very. Breathe, carino.”

You try to do so as naturally as possible. Moments pass, and Pepa’s hands move on to your arms. Her touch like a second-skin to your own. In the mirror, she guides your movements. You’re both doing the dance together—as one.

Then it dawns on you that you’re actually doing it. You can’t help but grin.

“What are you smiling about?” Pepa raises a brow.

“I’m actually doing it right for once,” you beam.

“You’re doing it beautifully.”

“Only because you’re helping me.”

Her hold slips away from you at your words. You find that you can breathe easier but can’t help but feel slightly bereft. Nevertheless, you continue your movements, concentrating on the way that Pepa had done it while she was manipulating your arms.

“And now you’re doing it perfectly without me,” Pepa grins.

You let your arms fall, peer up at her through your lashes. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.”

Her entire demeanor softens. “I was being too demanding.”

You shake your head. “No, no. I let other thing to get to me, and I took it out on you.”

“What things?” Pepa probes. Her fingers brush against yours.

“It’s silly,” you look away sheepishly.

“Is it really if it’s causing you so much worry?” She counters.

Sighing, you ask her, “Why didn’t you tell me that you knew about the dance?”

Pepa blinks, not expecting your troubles to involve her.

“Y/N…”

“We’ve been talking, right? I think we’re friends. I mean, you didn’t even text me back earlier and—”

“Oh, darling,” Pepa breathes. Your heart flutters. “Things got a little busy earlier. I didn’t mean to.”

Pouting, you divert your attention towards Pepa’s hands.

“And about the dance, you’re right. I should have told you, but Mirabel wanted to be the one to tell your herself.” She takes a deep breath. “I was being selfish.”

“Doesn’t sound like selfishness to me.”

She smiled wryly. “Trust me when I say that I was being a little selfish. I knew you’d say no.”

Your eyes widened when the meaning of her words sank in. She had known you’d say no, so did that mean she wanted you to be here?

At your stunned silence, it was Pepa’s turn to avert her gaze. You couldn’t tell her that the only reason for your loss of words was because your thoughts had suddenly taken a very dangerous turn. Oh, you were definitely blushing.

“You could have told me you wanted to hang out,” you blurted, hand clasped around Pepa’s wrist.

She looks mortified. “W-what?”

“I mean—” you licked your lips, ran your fingers through your hair. “—you could have told me the truth anyway and I would have said yes.”

Pepa scoffs. “You hate dancing.”

“Excuse me. I don’t hate dancing. I love dancing especially…” you catch yourself, bite your tongue at the words that nearly tumble out. “Anyway, hate is a pretty strong word. I like watching people dance. I’m just horrible at it.”

“Well,” Pepa chuckles, and nudges you. “I won’t disagree with you.”

You gasp. “You wound me, you cruel woman.” you feign hurt, press your hand to your heart.

“I’m just being honest.” She grins. “Now, I think we’ve done enough dancing for today. The girls are probably upstairs. I’ll just clean up here and then see if Julieta needs help in the kitchen.”

You want to offer her help but you quickly figure that there’s no arguing with her. Pepa’s already packing things up before you can respond. You clench and unclench your hands that hang loosely by your sides.

“Alright,” You step away, “I’ll see you at dinner then.”

Pepa doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, so you decide to awkwardly make your escape without going unnoticed. Once the sound of your footsteps fades away in the distance, it is only then that the tension in her body disappears. Her shoulders slump and she sighs.

“See you at dinner.” She mutters to herself, eyes closed.