Chapter Twenty

Zoe

T he one.

I never believed such a thing—I still don't. But as I stare ahead, I understand it a little bit—the concept.

It's a feeling that erupts from the very core of my being, a powerful recognition that's equal parts certainty and belief.

This is the one.

The house of my dreams. From the first time I saw it, as the second option the realtor showed us weeks ago, I knew there wasn't a place more made to my image than this.

It's in the way I look at walls and windows and see more than structure and cement. In the way I exhale and feel more than just now .

I can hear it, the soft tapping of little paws in the marbled tile, giggles and tantrums, and the pitter-patter of rain in the high ceilings freezing into soft snowflakes only to melt and bloom into green that rustles beneath the warm, whispering wind.

This house was designed to be a home through countless changes of seasons .

But not mine.

Alone in the middle of the driveway, I stare at my first love at first sight. White and beige brick stone crawls in irregular rectangles to sharp slopes of asphalt shingle. As black as the roofs, thin mullions and transoms of aluminum frame the oversized paneled windows in multiple small squares that let natural light filter in and fill every room.

Lost in my perusal, I don't notice a third presence until the skin of my nape heats up—I'm not alone at all.

From the main entrance, Miles watches me looking at a dream I never knew I had. He descends the three beige marble steps and stands behind me, resting his chin on the crown of my head.

"Ready, love?"

I'm ready. I'm excited. I'm anxious .

Until I remember.

This house won't truly be my home.

Only for the breath of an expiration date, for the stretch of a glitch in the timeline, a moment suspended in between dimensions—reality and illusion—before real life catches up and intervenes, dragging me back to the life I'm supposed to live.

But for now, I'll forget.

I'll live in this beautiful place for however long, so I'll close my eyes and pretend I belong, pretend it was truly mine—everything in it. I'll seize and savor each little moment, each little minute, and maybe when the time c omes, I'll steal some more for myself.

In the air, his palm awaits, lines in which future and fortune reside. I can't read them, so I cover his hand, and squeeze without meaning to .

"Yeah. I'm ready."

Hours later, I'm overwhelmed, sifting through boxes and boxes, separating them according to floors and rooms and any category that can offer me some semblance of order.

As promised, Camila arrived earlier with Nicholas. Last I saw her, my bestie was somewhere in the kitchen pretending to dust the cabinets. In reality, she was sticking her nosy nose in every compartment, snooping or searching. I don't know what she expects to find in an empty house.

Nicholas was off with his best-friend, pushing heavy furniture around to the tastes of the new homeowner—and mine.

The house is fully furnished, except for a couple of completely bare rooms, which Miles wants to redo and personalize according to our tastes. When he asked for ideas, I didn't miss a beat.

"I'd like that one." I pointed to the last door down the hall. "For my home office. If that's fine."

He smiled with his dimples and said, "Of course, love."

Then he was off with my desk, the one Grandpa built for me when I started first grade, until his friend arrived—leaving me to organize the mess of his unlabeled boxes.

"Família! Heard you've been missing me."

In strut kilometers of tattoos and the sweetest, dirty smirk known to mankind.

Hands planted on my waist, I hide the smile that blooms, selecting my best frown instead. "I thought you weren't coming."

With an arm around my shoulder, Rodrigo traps me in his embrace to muss my hair with his free hand. "I was told there would be food."

"There's no food." Miles soundlessly materializes next to us, scowling at my friend—at the arm that surrounds me. I jump and stomp on my friend's foot—unwillingly but perfectly timed. "We're in the middle of a move."

"What?" Camila's steps come thundering, somehow overhearing us from fifteen rooms away. "What do you mean, no food? I might faint!"

To complete the party, Nicholas joins, at last, his glare settling on Miles, otherwise mute— shockingly .

"There is food." I step out from under Rodrigo's side-hug with calming hands in the air before tempers can flare. You're angry when you're hungry , and all that. "There will be food. We just have to buy it. Or order takeout."

"What's he doing here?" Miles demands, crossing his arms.

"Not sure." I shrug. "But another pair of strong arms and broad shoulders an—"

"Love?" Miles interrupts, jaw so tight it pops. "Your point?"

"Just saying another pair of arms won't hurt. In fact, it'll make sure mine won't be sore tomorrow."

His teeth clench and unclench, and damn, the sharpness of that jawline could slit me open. "Well, then. I'm gonna head out. Buy the food."

"Wait!" Camila hollers halfway out of the room, hurrying back and hopping on one foot as she puts her left cow-slipper on the wrong foot. "I'll go, too. Someone has to supervise or he'll buy only the healthy stu— "

"Camila, n?o ." Rodrigo's word sounds awfully like no , she's not allowed to go.

It sounds like unannounced thunder on a summer day, charging the air with stillness as we watch the standstill between the siblings.

Camila is unruffled, like this discussion is far from new, but I decide to intervene before the situation escalates. "Miles and Camila, you get the food. Rodrigo stays and puts those muscles to work."

"Maybe he should go," Miles retorts. I don't think he means Rodrigo should go to the store.

These men-children are getting on my nerves.

"He stays." My voice raises, ending the discussion. "Everyone stays, everyone helps, everyone eats."

The sharp angle of Rodrigo's jawline is cutting, as he chews down the remark. "Damn," he finally says. "Put a slipper in her hand and she's ready to be a mother."

"Or a broom," Camila suggests.

"That's a witch." Nicholas is alive.

"Works just as well. With those witchy eyes." That's Rodri again.

Peace successfully achieved, I shoo them, witchy eyes narrowed. "Get out of here. Get to work."

"If you insist," Miles mutters, twisting his car keys on his fingers, stomping his way out.

"I got you, babe." Camila winks at me over her shoulder.

Nicholas vanishes as quietly as he arrived, leaving me with the troublemaker.

"Castro." I kick two random boxes in his direction. I have no idea what's inside, but I'm going to make him work. "You're on box duty. "

The boxes slide like butter over the tile, stopping in front of him. "Where are your manners, Westwood?"

"You're here, which means you signed up to be my bitch today. Which means you do as I say. Come on, let's put those ridiculous muscles to work." I nod my head in the direction of the boxes. "Take those upstairs."

One on top of the other, he piles the boxes. With a dramatic groan, he bends to grab them. I roll my eyes, giving him extra space on the stairs in case he tumbles down. He appears stable and not in the slightest distress, but who knows.

The wall that faces the L-shaped stairs is a mess of colors, lines, shapes. I'm far from an art connoisseur, but, for a moment, I think I understand.

Maybe art is a mirror of the mind. A depiction of the chaos of our thoughts. The struggles, the uncertainties, the insecurities that war within the confines of our minds. Maybe it's choice, a series of decisions that open new paths and lead to new possibilities. One brushstroke after the other—none right, none wrong. Just one more and one more until the last.

Like life. Wasn't that how I got here? One small step after the other, the destination was this house. A kiss that never happened turned into a fake relationship that soon turned into a new house, picket fence and the entire American dream.

For now .

But why did I take these steps? Why didn't I stop when the path first veered in this direction? Why couldn't I?

My love for my Grandpa brought me here. But was it only my love for the old man?

The painting stares at me, silent. No answers, no epiphanies .

"Z?"

I welcome the distraction, going to find Rodrigo upstairs. "Yeah?"

"Where do you want me to—" With his fists on his waist, he raises his inquisitive gaze from the cardboard to me. "Why do you look like you're sick? Are you sick? Stay away."

"I'm not sick. What was that all about?" I tip my head in the vague direction of the stairs, referring to the interaction downstairs

"Then why does your face look like that?" Rodrigo ignores my question, retreating backwards as I walk inside the bedroom.

Apparently, I'm not the only master at avoidance around here anymore. Our eyes lock in a war of wills. For the first time in my life, I lose a battle.

"I'm not gonna pry," I say. "But if you want to talk, I have two functioning ears and plenty of time, since I've got myself a slave." His devilish smirk dissolves into chuckles when I raise an urgent hand to stop the innuendo that's surely halfway out of his mouth. "Don't!"

With a sigh that whispers exactly how inconvenient he finds me, he shoves his fists inside the pockets of his shorts. "You win—only because you're sick. And your eyes are fucking scary."

All I hear is I won, so zero complaints on my part. I do roll my eyes, but they freeze halfway when he speaks.

"Our dad died in a car accident. Guess I don't really trust anyone to drive her around. I get… anxious."

Astoundingly, it isn't the words that choke the breath out of my lungs. It's the tone with which he says them. Such deliberate steadiness, as though the slightest tilt of his voice will tip a balance, and the weight he's carried will collapse on him.

Sympathy and sorry's mean nothing in the grand scheme of pain, so I keep them. I want to ask about the two-inch scar on the corner of his mouth angling towards his chin and the thumb-sized one on the corner of his eye, both bigger and deeper than mine, and less angry with time, but I keep my curiosity too.

"I've driven her around," I point out instead.

"You're not anyone, are you?"

"Yeah." I tap the box with the tip of my sneakers. "I've been told I'm a reckless driver."

"With those witchy eyes, you would either scare the devil away or strike a deal with him. She's safe with you. She likes you."

"She has impeccable taste." I raise my chin, but it soon tilts in thought. "She came here with Hale, though."

And she likes him, too, though I can't tell if it's reciprocated. With Nicholas, it's a fifty-fifty chance, and I don't know which outcome I should hope for, for her own sake—but she likes him.

Rodrigo seems to follow the same trail of thought, nose scrunching in a way that can only be described as adorable. "Let's not go there."

Camila Castro is a ball of sunshine, blinding everyone with her light. I wonder what else she's blinding us from seeing underneath unmarred skin.

Rodrigo is not as skilled at hiding. He says, "She's the only person I have in the world."

Again, there's no distinct inflection to his voice that would give away the magnitude of the matter. To anyone else, we could be discussing the weather or the deforestation of the Amazon.

"Not anymore," I say.

The muscle in his jaw jumps, drawing in a slow steady inhale.

I don't falter from his stare, his silence. I give him all the time to make peace with the fact that I'm here, I'm his friend, and I'm insufferable.

"Why did you look like you were about to puke?" he asks after a moment.

For a moment, I consider what to reply—what to reveal. With a sigh, I kick the box away and plop down next to him, staring at the modern dresser.

"I think I like him." My voice isn't loud but remains even. We're two of a kind. "I think I really like him."

A beat of utter nothing as he listens to my words and hears them.

Then Rodrigo looks around to see , noticing all the many card boxes are labeled as Miles's something. He won't find any with my name—all my things are packed into three huge suitcases in my Jeep.

He does the math in his head, arriving at the correct conclusion. I'm barely in, and one foot is out of the door, already.

He lands on his ass next to me, folding his legs weirdly since he can't sprawl them next to mine in the mess of boxes. "Well, shit, little Z." Yeah. Shit . "Sounds like you're fucked. And not the nice kind of fucked."

"Your eloquence is entirely enlightening," I deadpan with another roll of my eyes that only the ceiling sees.

"Girl, shorten your words. English isn't my first language. "

I snort. "I can tell."

"You're making fun of my accent? How many languages do you speak?"

What an effective way to sober me into silence.

"Exactly what I thought." Rodri pinches my arm. It isn't meant to bruise, but I slap him away all the same. "I won't pretend I have any good advice for you. I don't know shit about love or relationships, so it'd just be a waste of my time."

Not really offended, I reciprocate the pinch of his muscle. It's made of stone, but I manage to do some damage because he quickly yelps, shying away.

"And yours! But," he says as he rubs his bicep. "I'll teach you all the painful ways to kick his ass if he ever hurts you. And I'll kick it again, after you do."

I don't know what I hoped for or what I expected. Somehow, his promise of pain is more than all of that.

"As long as it doesn't get blood on my nails."

Now he looks actually sickened—and sounds sick too. "I didn't say anything about blood."

On the first floor, the door demands our attention with a slam. "Honey, I'm hoooome."

We depart in search of food, turning to the last flight of steps just in time to see Nicholas relieve Camila's hands of the bags she carried.

Behind them, Miles's smile from this morning is entirely gone, mashed under his working jaw as he looks between me and Rodrigo, and without a word, follows Nicholas to the kitchen.

I swat Rodri next to me. "I get the feeling they don't like you very much."

"It's fine." He grins as we make our way to the open-floor kitchen. "I got the girls on my side, who else would I need?" One heavy arm around my shoulder, the other reaches for Camila to offer the same treatment. "Two little sisters."

"I'm two weeks older than you." I elbow his ribs to escape him.

"I said little —not younger." Rodri flattens a palm on top of my head. "You're little."

For the umpteenth time in the hour he's been here, he musses my curls, hiding behind his sister when I try to pinch him in return.

My boyfriend and his best-friend have cleared the island, uncovering containers upon containers of food. I spot Thai, Mexican, the traditional burgers and salads.

"You could definitely be his long-lost twin," Camila supplies, as she pecks at the fries Nicholas extends for her.

"I'm funnier," Rodri says, dead serious.

Camila considers this for a second, chewing and nodding. "That's true."

"Clowns are funny, too," Miles quips, mimicking words I once used to insult him.

"They're not ."

Rodrigo's disagreement is strengthened by my agreement. "Nope."

"Yeah." The word blends into a moan as Camila dives into her quesadilla. "Twins."

Miles places my nutritionally balanced plate in front of me. I look up at him. "I thought you were afraid of—" Clowns , I don't say. His pleading eyes stop me.

I stare at the dramatically vaulted ceilings, asking the sky for patience to deal with these people.