I silently sob while she holds me, whispering soft affirmations, before another set of arms surrounds me. Then another, until all three of them are hugging me.
“We missed you,” Luisa says. “Also, we’re here to thank you for helping with our college applications.”
Another sob rips out of me when my mom adds, so softly I almost don’t hear her, “Estoy aqui, mija.”
“And the dresses.” Maria pauses. “They’re gorgeous.”
“Dresses?” I stumble out of their grip. “What dresses?”
They give me an odd look, and my mom says, “For the docuseries premiere? We got your invitation. When we went to pick up our dresses, they were paid for.”
“I didn’t pay for them,” I tell them.
But I know who did.
It only makes the tears worse, the regret stronger, and the heartache more intense.
I miss him, and I love him, and I want him back.
Holy shit.
The center of my diaphragm tightens. Somewhere between here and Australia, I fell in love with Jett.
Instead of panic or fear, there’s only calm recognition, my body aware of what my brain has struggled to identify. With him, I am accepted. Heard. Understood. Days are filled with joy. I never worry over voicing my opinion or that my emotions are invalid.
When he asked about my dream partner…I was describing him.
Love with Tommy was stressful, messy, toxic. Love with Jett is transformative, settling,warm.
“Who paid for it, then?”
My mom loads the dishwasher, directing my sisters to pick up the laundry and throw it in the wash. It’s weird—having them pick up my space and offer help. I want to tell them to stop, that I can handle it, but I know what they’re doing, and it makes my heart pang.
They’re trying, and I love them for it.
I answer my mom’s question. “Jett.”
In a blink, my space is clean and I’m hounded by my sisters.
“Who is Jett?” one asks.
“Is he your boyfriend?” the other questions.
“He’s her boss,” my mom replies, unloading a bag full of Tupperware containers. My head snaps to her, and with a lifted brow, she adds, “I follow him on social media.”
Containers full of food—salsa verde, birria, rice, beans, enchiladas, mac and cheese—cover the kitchen island. Dread fills me as she makes a plate of food, mostly mac and cheese, and slides it across the counter. After she’s made plates for Maria and Luisa, she surveys us while we eat, eyeing me I spear beans onto my fork.
I avoid her gaze, focused on the noodles on my plate, pushing them around. I haven’t had much of an appetite. Other than working on the premiere and release party, I haven’t done much of anything except wallow in my decisions and think about texting Jett, only to chicken out.
Truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I brushed my hair, and it shows.
“Are you sleeping with him?” Maria asks.
My mother chokes. Luisa gasps.
I try to melt into the barstool and disappear. This isn’t something I want to discuss with them. They might be seventeen, but our mom is here, and I’d rather she pretends I’ve never had sex in my life. It would be best if they assume that forever. Even if I have children.
They can believe it was an immaculate conception.
