Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

I'm going to go home. I'm going to redeem this summer. I'm going to change my life.

It's not too late to call California. Great Aunt Marisol—Aunt Mari to me—picks up on the first ring and says I'm always welcome to come stay with her for a visit, it's been too long.

My airline points will cover a one-way flight to San Diego first thing in the morning.

I email the office with my notice that I'll be taking Thursday and Friday as sick days followed by two weeks of vacation. Here's hoping they'll let me go and give me some severance instead of me quitting.

I drag my big suitcase, my duffel, and my little carry-on out of the closet and start throwing my essential belongings into them. Packing never felt so good.

I cocoon into my sweatshirt on the early-morning flight, wiping my tears with my sleeve. Last night was utterly sleepless as I turned everything over and over in my mind. I'm making my way past anger and heading towards simply grieving now, sad and worn down. For some reason I almost miss the way Bryce used to say, "Bye, babe," whenever we ended a conversation. I'll never hear it again. In fact, if I do, it means I've made a massive mistake and a terrible judgment call.

"We will not be doing that," I promise myself.

My whole trip to the airport, part of me was waiting for him to call and explain, to make something up that would let me come back. Instead, it's been complete radio silence from him, which is a wake-up call in and of itself.

Anxiety and longing rise in my chest. I wanted him to be the last person I dated. I wanted to finally have something or someone I could count on. Now how do I find that?

My heart aches for a place to call home, for people in my life who will always be there for me. I want to choose something that will give me security and stability and have that thing choose me back. I tried D.C. for a few years, and it chewed me up and spit me out. But what should I have expected from the easy, safe choice?

My future self will be pickier, will set firm boundaries, and will never settle for satisfactory. If I want stability, I'm going to have to make it for myself on my own terms. And this is the first brave step.

The last vestiges of morning fog are breaking up as I exit the airport. San Diego must be fighting to hold on to its June Gloom reputation. I pull my hood up, hoping it hides my unbrushed hair and my red, puffy face, and check my phone. Aunt Mari texted she'll be curbside soon and to look for her silver electric Mustang. I keep my eye out for the car that is as cool as she is.

I wave as soon as I spy her coming towards the terminal. She waves back and pulls up, hopping out and coming around to me as the trunk opens. She gives a little sound of tenderness and hugs me tight.

"? Ay, mi corazón preciosa! " she exclaims in my ear with affection and excitement.

My heart skips with happiness, hearing her familiar greeting in her Mexican accent. Every summer of my childhood used to start like this, a big hug and a million besos from Aunt Mari.

"Come, let's go home now."

Aunt Mari drives us onto the 5, then over the long swoop of bridge connecting mainland San Diego to Crown Island. The curving bay below us is sparkling blue in the now-bright sunlight, the white sailboats bob at their moorings in the harbor, and the radio plays a doo-wop tune from the 50s. I can barely make out the line of the fence distinguishing the divide between North Island, the Navy base with aircraft carriers and airfields, and Crown Island, with its neighborhoods full of white mansions, gorgeous gardens, and a simple, Main Street, USA feel.

I can't wait to be able to walk four blocks from Aunt Mari's house to stick my feet in the sand and smell fresh saltwater. This is the idyllic island homecoming I've been anticipating, and it meets every expectation.

"Are you happy to be here?" asks Aunt Mari.

"Very happy," I reply with a grin.

When we pull into the driveway, I take a deep, satisfied breath to see the house is just as I remember it: a cream-colored, mid-century California ranch house with ivy climbing up the wall next to the ornately carved wooden front doors. A big tree shades the small front lawn and red geraniums are sprinkled around in terracotta pots.

I carry my bags inside and my sense of relief doubles at the familiar layout. The living room is in front, the kitchen to the right, the dining room tucked around the side of the patio, just off the kitchen. Aunt Mari gives me the full house tour all over again, including the highlights of which pieces of furniture were bought for a bargain.

A long hallway to the left leads to the bedrooms. The first one on the left used to be reserved for me and Julio's summertime visits. Our bunkbeds are gone, and it's now a chic, neutral guest bedroom with a blue batik rug (Facebook Marketplace for five dollars, increíble ) and a queen bed with a polished brass frame (estate sale, two hundred dollars) and a white duvet. Across the hall is a petite office with dark green walls and a few bookshelves (solid wood, furniture store in El Cajon was closing, very cheap). Then, of course, Aunt Mari's yoga room and her bedroom across the hall.

The only thing significantly different is the hallway bathroom. Aunt Mari had it redone with a new white bathtub and white tiling, oak cabinets, and modern black fixtures. Nostalgia kicks in—I miss the old brown tiling and tub and the dark cabinets.

I put my three suitcases in my old room—the new guest room—and settle a few things in the drawers and wardrobe. So far, Aunt Mari hasn't mentioned that I appear to have overpacked for "a short visit." I'll find the right time to bring it up, to ease into what's happened and why I'm here.

I find her bustling around the kitchen with red reading glasses balanced on her nose. She's wearing a colorful apron with "Gibraltar" printed in big blue letters across the front over a white blouse with the sleeves still buttoned around her wrists. I can tell by the rich tomato smell she's making sopa de fideo , and she hasn't gotten a drop of the deep red broth on her blouse.

"? Qué está cocinando? " I ask because the sentence popped into my brain fully formed. My Spanish is terrible, nearly non-existent, but every so often a phrase forms itself without too much effort.

"? Quieres practicar tu espa?ol? " Aunt Mari asks, turning from the stove and eyeing me over her glasses.

"Not right now," I reply. "Maybe soon."

She waves her wooden spoon towards the barstools on the opposite side of the island.

"Get yourself some water, sit and talk. Women warm a kitchen."

I have to smile as I grab a glass and fill it with ice and water from the fridge. Aunt Mari always throws out these little pieces of wisdom, cute and pithy. Her short, graying bob, chunky silver jewelry, and a high sense of fashion are all part of what makes Aunt Mari my favorite.

I pull out a wooden bar stool and sit as she picks up a cutting board of vegetables and turns to the stove to dump them into her ancient soup pot, probably made before my great-great grandmother was born.

"What are your plans while you're here?" she asks. Marisol Elena Lopez Ortiz—getting right to the point, always bossing everyone around, taking care of us with commands and food.

"Hanging out with you, of course. I've missed being here. Missed too many summers."

Aunt Mari smiles then narrows her eyes at me, filling me with terror. " Bueno, pero your three suitcases filled up the trunk of my car. You haven't said how many days you're staying. Do you even have a return ticket to D.C.? What have you done?"

Oh, boy. There goes any hope of easing into the truth. "I quit my job."

Aunt Mari sucks in a sharp breath of surprise, then whips off her glasses. "Why would you do that?"

I settle for a middle-of-the-road truth. "I don't think D.C. is right for me. It's so fast-paced and kind of toxic. Everyone's fighting to get more power, more influence, more money. I put in my two-week notice and quit my job."

When I glance up, she's still staring me down with suspicion.

" ?Qué pasó ?" She's boring holes into my brain with her all-knowing glare. I should cave now and save myself the unease of keeping a secret from her.

"I wasn't happy there anyways," I mumble.

"Why?"

"Because it's hot and ugly and cold and dark, and yes, it has its moments. But overall, I don't like the East Coast."

" Ay Dios, you quit your job because you don't like the weather?" she asks.

"No, it's not just that?—"

"Then why?"

"Because it was all wrong! Everything! The weather, the city, my job, my friends, my boyfriend?—"

"What happened with the boyfriend? The tall one who looks like milk, ?no ?"

"Bryce," I bite out.

"What did he do?"

I don't want to repeat it, but I go ahead and tell her word for word what I heard Bryce saying on the phone and how he reacted afterward. Hearing myself say it out loud, it's stark in its severity. What a freakin'…weasel.

The gasp Aunt Mari sucks in through her teeth makes a sharp hiss, then she calls Bryce all sorts of swear words in Spanish. "That is so very wrong, what a terrible man" she says, sounding more angry than I've ever heard her. She turns to the stove and aggressively stirs, muttering a prayer under her breath. "Okay, well, Gustavo always wanted this house to be a safe place for our family. You stay here, as long as you need."

Bless Great Uncle Gustavo and his well-placed investments in telecommunications and his foresight to have bought a house in the most beautiful beach town in California. Rest in peace, Uncle.

"But you must have a plan, ?no? "

This is the part where I need to put on my big girl pants and gird my loins for Aunt Mari's commentary on my plan. "I was doing some thinking on the flight over and…I want to try a different life."

"What does that mean, try a different life?"

"Well, something creative." My cheeks redden as I talk. "I was thinking of going back to painting for a bit. Of course, I'll get a job at a coffee shop or do something in retail to make ends meet while I put together a portfolio. Then I'll see if I can sell some pieces."

I brace myself for the eventual wind-up of her aunt-splaining that art is no way to make a living. My entire family believes it's nice to have a hobby or a creative outlet, but art can never be your job. It makes sense—I was raised to be practical, to think about how to pay bills and save some for myself.

My senior year of high school, I told my dad about the art programs I could apply to for college. Dad paused, a beer halfway to his mouth and gave me a long look, full of exhaustion. "Nina, I didn't save up college money for you to go study art." He shook his head. "Learn something useful, something practical in college. You can always do your art on the side."

I couldn't have felt more ashamed if I tried. No, of course not. Dad's savings from working as a well-respected auto mechanic would go towards something concrete, something real. He couldn't have been clearer and I understood what was expected of me. But that was eight years ago. I did what I thought was right and hated it, basically got rejected by it, now it's time to try a new path. Something I choose for myself.

"You want to paint?" Aunt Mari's voice is pointed.

"It may not be what I do forever," I say, walking back on my dream. "But it would be nice to give it a shot for a season."

Suddenly, Aunt Mari's soup is in need of all her attention. I fade into the background as she chops and stirs and seasons, all with her lips pinched tightly together in thought.

After a tense few minutes, she says, "My friend owns the coffee shop here on the main avenue. I think she'd like some extra help now, since tourist traffic will pick back up during the summer months."

It's an olive branch, a sign of acceptance, and I take it. "That would be great."

"Okay, you'll be here for a while, then. It's fine," Aunt Mari says, rinsing the cutting board and other dishes in the sink, then drying her hands on her apron. "But one thing—promise me you won't run off with one of these Navy sailors and marry them. They are everywhere here."

I laugh out loud. "That's random. But no, I won't be going near any men, Aunt Mari."

"Good," she says, tucking a kitchen towel over the oven door handle. "Now, the soup will cook, and it's time for our movie."

It's tradition that the first movie Aunt Mari and I watch is Pride and Prejudice . Aunt Mari has an unending love for Jane Austen because her mother, my great-grandmother, learned her sparse English from watching old Regency romance movies. Like Laurence-Olivier-as-Mr. Darcy old.

We start at lunch time and end up watching all six BBC Pride and Prejudice VHS tapes in one sitting and eating soup in the living room. And even though it's late, we decide to follow it up with Sense and Sensibility, the Emma Thompson and Hugh Grant version.

I get choked up every time there's any sight or mention of Willoughby, and when Marianne stands sobbing in the rain looking down at Combe Magna, I weep with her. Aunt Mari fetches the tissue box from the kitchen and tucks it next to me on the couch.

Once the credits roll, Aunt Mari clicks off the TV, the light over the stovetop keeping us from total darkness. She gets up, folding the blanket that was on her lap and draping it over the arm of the chair. "You should have a good summer, Christiana," she says, patting my cheeks, then straightening up the cushions on the couch.

"I'm going to paint all day and forget about men for a while and I'm going to play a ton of soccer."

Aunt Mari laughs. "Ah, I forgot your obsession with futbol . You were never far from a ball growing up. I would have to yell at you to keep it out of the kitchen."

Julio and I used to kick the ball down the long hallway, from one side of the house to the other. We regularly overshot our kicks, and the ball would go skidding into the kitchen. We'd be grinning ear to ear as Aunt Mari scolded us.

"I'm going to bed, I have sunrise yoga very early. I am happy you came, ni?a preciosa . Buenas noches ."

" Buenas noches ," I say.

She hurries off with a little wave over her shoulder, and I know I'll never be able to thank her enough. She is a mighty woman, and I can't imagine my life without her.

The darkness and loneliness settles around me in a way that's peaceful and calming. I grab my phone and google recreational soccer leagues in the area. I'm here to do what I love, and I swear it's going to be my best summer yet.