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i.
you meet juan in your third year lit class. it’s clear from the moment he sits down that he’s not from the city; in the way he moves, in the slight accent hidden in his voice. but he’s sauve, and brash and endlessly charming, and you’re a goner nearly two weeks in.
he tells you about growing up, spending winters in philly with his mother and summers in de valle with his father. he tells you about deciding to go to school here, that it’s not as much of an escape from the pressure as he’d hoped.
wishful thinking, you’d wager.
ii.
he’s never been through san rafael. you take him by the streets you grew up in– the park where you played, the café next to your grandfather’s store. you introduce him to your mother, watch as he helps her haul in the flower delivery and stocks the shelves. you can’t help but smile as he winks over the arrangement they’re making together.
(your third language. acacia, gladioli, morning glory: love, honor, affection.)
when the two of you stumble out into the setting sun afterwards, you almost want to cry. it seems too good to be true. it usually is.
iii.
“what are you going to do after you graduate?”
you think of the library your father worked at, your mother’s flower shop.
“own a bookstore, one day. maybe write. you?”
“law school,” with an air of finality, like it's obvious. to juan, it probably is. “back home, of course.”
home meaning philly and not here with you, of course.
but then: “marry me.”
“...what?”
“marry me!”
“juan, i can't–”
“come with me, cedric, we'll get you your store.”
“i don't need your help.”
“but you do need me. marry me.”
“ask me again when we're actually done, you big sap.”
iv.
you say yes, in the end. of course you do; you have always be drawn to romanticism like a moth to a flame. it's in your blood, you think– your father proposed to your mother with a bouquet of books.
adjusting to philadelphia is hard, and part of you doesn’t want to do it. you probably wouldn't have if your mother hadn't practically pushed you out the door.
(“you're going to regret it if you don't, mijo. give that boy a chance.”)
so you do.
the altitude adjustment is bad, the weather is worse, and yet you couldn't be happier.
v.
the storefront you end up finding is better than you could have wished for. it’s homey, and warm, and full of light from every direction. the only thing, for you, that would make it better, is if it was back home, but there are things (even dreams,) you’re willing to give up for love.
juan wanted to get it for you, but you refuse, spending the last dredges of the money from your dad’s life insurance on it. instead, he buys the apartment above it, and you spend many happy years there.
time catches up to you, though. it always does.
vi.
you knew blaseball was part of the deal, when you married juan. that was clear from the first date you went on– whispered confessions of expectations he couldn’t live up to painted a stark enough picture of that.
still, when he comes home one day, both of your names on a dotted line, there is a fury in your blood like you’ve never felt before, and go to visit your mother until you can breathe again.
you know well enough the horrors a game like this could bring, and you wanted no part of it. now, you have no choice.
vii.
you may not be happy to be there, and even less so when it comes to dealing with sam, but you have to admit your husband looks good in stirrup pants. that’s the one good thing about this, you certainly get to see juan more. but more hours at practice mean less at the store, and even after pushing ana up to manager, you’re still feeling the strain.
the team itself is– well, it’s more of a mess than juan would like to admit. you see the strain in him too, these days; it’s draining the whole of you.
viii.
bright takes a shine to you almost as quickly as you do to her. you have a shared love for cards, and an even larger one for books. your’s comes from days spent in the shop’s basement during hurricane season, and when you ask, she just mumbles something about shabbos. but she knows just as many card games as you, and the two of you pass long bus rides passing cards back and forth and laughing louder than you should.
you invite her to dinner, and it’s what you expected: part of your family you didn’t know you were missing.
ix.
a captain burns and juan grows more distant. it's subtle– if it wasn’t for the twenty-some years you've spent together, you don't know if you'd have noticed. but you can see the stress in his eyes, the worried lines under them, and the pressure only continues to grow. the city expects too much of him–it always has–and you're terrified it's going to hollow him out if the game doesn't first.
the night before you die, you dream of marigolds, of laying them on your father's ofrenda. of painting them on your store's windows. of what you will leave behind.
x.
the first thing juan says, after a crushing hug, isn't i love you or i missed you or i’m so sorry. it is this, whispered into your ear with haunted eyes:
“they made your ashes into a pie, and they're going to do the same to me.”
you don't know what to say to that, and even if you did, your tongue feels too big for your mouth, like you are ever-expanding and drowning all the same.
you stay there long enough that your arm goes numb on his back, and finally, a whisper back:
“you're here, and so am i.”
xi.
forty long years together. it’s more than you could have asked for otherwise, but it’s not enough.
(it was never going to be.)
heaving breaths. rib-breaking coughs. black ichor tangled in your long hair, stringy from the sweat and immateria. a pounding in your chest you haven’t felt in many years.
the sensation of being alive feels foreign in your blood and your bones and the narrow confines of your heart. you’ve been gone so long– the game’s unrecognizable, your bookstore is gone, and you– well, you’re different too.
the world has changed, and you’d don’t fit in it anymore.
xii.
bright sits across from you, simultaneously stone faced and more desperate than ever. she’s grown from the naive nineteen year old you nearly adopted to a bitter and aching perpetual twenty-something.
it scares you a little. you almost wish juan was here but if he was, his heart would break just as much as yours is.
asking her to leave is one of the hardest things you ever do.
(cupping her face: “I love you, mija,” but neither of you can be what you need each other to be.)
the door slams behind her.
you’ve got to learn to live again.