Page 26 of A Curvy Girl’s Hurricane Survival Guide

As we finish, we lean back, stuffed, breathing a little heavier. Once or twice, Trevor is brought up or asked about, which I quickly dismiss with excuses about “work” or “he wishes he were here.” Thankfully, no one pushes further, and Sonny doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looks quietly amused every time I deflect.

The night feels wonderfully nostalgic, like so many gatherings I’ve grown up with. My family has always loved telling stories. Long, colorful tales of our history, our quirks, our mistakes, and even our triumphs. Listening to them is one of my favorite traditions. It’s the reason I’ve always wanted to become a writer: to capture moments like these, to make them last. For a little while, with the rain drumming on the roof and the table full of familiar voices, it feels like one of the best nights in recent memory.

That is until Crispi leans forward with a mischievous smile.

“This reminds me of that one time, during Hurricane Gustavo, remember?”

My stomach drops. God no. Please don’t tell this story.

Alex nods excitedly. “Yes! Cai was hiding food and then eating it in private.”

Crispi picks it up. “Yeah, and then we had Gatorade, which we were never allowed as kids, and we were going to town on it!”

“Crispi, I think we all remember. Can we just leave it there?” I look around nervously, hoping they stop.

“Then we heard a noise in her room, and she had gotten sick, and it was blue everywhere! Like on the walls and everything!!” Crispi says. Alex is nodding along, waiting for her chance to get tagged in for a line. “It must’ve been like the scene from The Exorcist. We only got to see the aftermath!”

“I don’t know how she had that much liquid inside her! They had to paint her room because they couldn’t get it out of the walls!” Alex adds. She and Crispi were both nearly in hysterics over a story that I honestly never saw the humor in, despite it being about me.

I sit there wishing I could think of anything else to say to change the subject.

I feel Sonny grab my hand under the table and give it a tight squeeze. His body is rigid and tense; like a wild cat poised and ready to pounce. I catch his eye and give the slightest shake of my head. I see him release the tension in his body and settle slightly back into his seat.

Abuela is straight-up frowning.

Rey chimes in, his signature smile still on his face, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t get why you guys love this story; it’s not even that funny.”

Alex ignores him, continuing, “And remember that hurricane was like nothing, and people saw Papa with a ladder and paint, and they were like, ‘Oh, did you have storm damage?’ And he had to say no; my daughter decided to go all Jackson Pollock on her walls!”

Crispi and Alex reach the punchline, slapping each other on the back and tumbling into a fit of giggles.

My cheeks burn hotter with every word. The story is a favorite of theirs, another Cai anecdote to roast me with. To me, it was just another reminder of how I’ve always been the odd one out, the one who can’t handle things the “right” way. And here I am, doing it again: lying in the kitchen, defending a ghost, while the one person who actually makes me feel seen sits right beside me, quietly taking it all in.

Sonny lets go of my hand, and I immediately want to claim it back. The loss of its warmth makes my stomach flip, followed immediately by a fresh wave of longing.

I know that Trevor and I ended things (sort of), but it’s only been days! Hours even, if you count from my text. And here I am, lusting after someone else? I shouldn’t be noticing how steady he feels next to me when I’m still tangled up with someone else.

I force a light laugh that sounds fake even to my own ears and reach for my water glass, just to have something to do with my hands. The storm outside howls louder, as if agreeing with the chaos inside my chest.

SONNY

I am in a dream, transported to a world of loud voices, laughter, and the exotic smells of food made with tangible affection. Growing up, so many of our meals were on our own. My mom had a demanding career, and there was often an activity for my sisters to attend. We might have a meal like this, all gathered together, for a holiday, but I’m not sure even in holiday dinners that I have ever felt this fellowship and connection around a plate of food.

In place of a TV show, which would have been my companion during dinner, Cai’s family is sharing stories so vivid I feel as if I were there. Cai’s father is telling of the bombing of the Bay of Pigs and how, as a little boy, he hid under a table piled high with mattresses, a makeshift bomb shelter put together by his father. He tells the story with the ease of a man who weaves tales for a living, and I am transfixed.

“I love this one,” Cai whispers to me.

It was only now that I realized she wasn’t hearing it for the first time. The family has told these stories before but still enjoys sharing them. It’s magical. No wonder Cai has grown up wanting to be a writer. It’s part of her.

I find myself wondering about the stories and outcomes and weaving them into a future game. I want to ask Cai about it; getting her point of view as a writer on the decision branch I can program, but due to her obvious aversion to games, I keep my mouth shut.

I don’t love the ribbing; I know this is playful sibling joking and it isn’t meant meanly, but I could sense Cai’s discomfort. Her anxiety is palpable.

The laughter around the table swells again as someone launches into another story, but I could barely hear it over the roar of the wind outside. The lights flicker once, twice, then hold. For now.

Cai forces another laugh, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She is still smiling at the Gatorade story like it was just harmless, but I can see the way her shoulders stay tight and the way her fingers twist the edge of her napkin under the table. Every time someone brings up Trevor, even indirectly, she stiffens. Every time she defends the idea of him, even if I know it isn’t true, it hits me like a quiet punch to my gut.

I want to lean over and tell her she doesn’t have to protect a guy who clearly doesn’t deserve her. I am right here, choosing her messy, loud, beautiful world over a conference call that could decide the future of my company, but the words stick in my throat. How can I say any of that when she still doesn’t know who I really am? When the one thing that defines my life was something she seems to despise?