I go through my last-minute checklist, organizing staff to check in the guests, ensuring the photographer and photo booth are both ready to go, and then chug a passionfruit martini for liquid courage. There’s nothing left to do, so I run laps around the space, searching for anything to distract me.
They have the first episode running in one theater, testing it before the full viewing, and I slip inside, slumping into a seat. I’ve watched it a dozen times, but it’s nothing short of incredible. Funny, informative, exciting. Jett and Doug did a masterful job of cutting and editing and adding in all the small interviews they did.
I’m so proud of him.
Another chime sounds, and that’s my cue. I straighten out my dress, readjust my boobs, and tuck my hair behind my ear.
Showtime.
Charlie appears in the lobby, and she gasps when she sees me. “Holy shit, you look smoking hot.”
A blush hits my cheeks. “Think so?”
“He’s going to lose his mind. Spent the whole car ride talking about you.” She winks. “He bought my dress. Amy’s, also.”
She spins, showing off the long gown, a deep teal covered in intricate beadwork. Long sleeves made of gossamer cover the majority of her scars, but her hair is pulled back into a loose bun of curls.
“It’s gorgeous,” I tell her. “You look beautiful.”
I haven’t forgotten he bought dresses for my sisters and mom as well.
“Are you ready?” Amy asks, gripping Charlie by the shoulders. She yelps, and Amy laughs. “The boys are coming in now.”
One by one, Mateo, Oliver, and Jett enter the lobby, each with varying expressions. Mateo spots his girlfriend and lights up, sliding beside her and resting his hand protectively on her hip. Oliver cautiously stands beside Amy, and she steels her shoulders, taking a deep breath before offering him a bland smile.
But it’s Jett’s reaction I study. He scans the space and lands on me, his throat bobbing as he tugs at the cuff of his blazer.
It’s now or never.
In twenty minutes, he’ll be surrounded by fans and guests and won’t have time to talk.
“En el amor, el que se duerme, se pierde,” Mateo says.
I wave a hand at him and his philosophical “if you do nothing in love, you lose” bullshit. Sounds like my abuela when she would yell at the characters of her telenovela when we visited her in Monterey as children.
“Hike those tits up, and go get ’em, girl,” Amy cheers.
That’s a much better pep talk.
I intercept him halfway between the door and our small group. The panic on his face is another slice to my heart.
“C-can I talk to you for a minute?” His eyes flicker around, likely looking for an escape or a barrier or someone to mediate. “Please? For a minute.”
He nods, and I scurry out the back door, propped open to help the air flow. The noise fades, and then it’s him in his suit, me in my dress. A girl standing in front of a guy, ready to tell him she’s fallen in love with him. The knowledge from the phone call spurs me on, gives me the courage I need to do this, but a lot can change in a few weeks.
“Is everything okay? Is there an issue with the media file?”
I wring my hands together, fingers stiff with nerves. “No, I-I wanted to talk to you.” I rip off the bandage. “You never asked me my deepest, darkest secret,” I say, my heartbeat in my throat.
I’ve imagined this a million times—what I would say, how he would respond. Every scenario played out in my mind. The good, bad, and heartbreaking. I’m prepared for it all.
But no matter how terrifying the potential outcomes, he’s worth the risk.
“Sofía, I—”
“Ask me,” I demand.
Please ask me.
