write the softest words and kiss them

by allatraka

Full title: write the softest words and kiss them that i may at least touch my lips where yours have been Summary: "I'm trying." "Try harder."

4. Chapter 4

iv. "I don't know who I am yet. But I'm going to find out. I hope you and mom can accept it and love me."

Nadia turned to face her father. He stood across the length of the front of their family grocery from her, eyes wide and glaring, lips in a grim line. Behind him, her mother crouched, picked his cane up from off the floor and placed the handle in his palm. But he didn't lean on it. He kept gripping the ledge of the counter, using that to keep his balance, as if it was more dignified than having to rely on his cane. Nadia stared back at him so long without moving it bordered on insolence. Any other time he wouldn't have to say a word. She would apologize quietly, head bowed to show deference, excuse herself and bury her thoughts in her studying. She would bide her time, count the hours until she could go to school the next day. But now she knew that was no escape, and that all she'd do at school was wait again for something else, a scholarship or university or New York, all the things that were other escapes, no matter the names she gave them.

"Go to your room."

Her father spoke to her in Arabic. It was the language Nadia used with her family and when she prayed, and sometimes with some few elderly women who visited the shop, women who may have emigrated from Palestine, like her family, or from Morocco, or Kuwait, or Jordan. May had spoken it before she'd spoken Spanish, and Nadia and Omar had learned it right alongside Spanish, mixing the languages up so that for a few years, before they'd started school, they'd spoken to each other in a kind of patois that used words and phrases from both. When they got older, when they still lived under the same roof, she and Omar would slip into it sometimes to tell each other the most banal things, like when they needed more toilet paper or when there were leftovers in the fridge. For Nadia it was a language of trust, of faith. It grounded her when she spoke it. But there was no trust in the words her father used with her now, and Nadia couldn't see the trust she usually found in it. Spanish didn't have the capacity to express how upset her father was with her, didn't have the nuances to make plain how she'd fallen in his eyes. Arabic had the weight of their family, the ties between them, the history, the love, to make Nadia know how hurt he was by her. And so he used a familiar language to make her know she was estranged.

Her heart stuttered in her chest at his tone, but Nadia didn't look down. She reminded herself that she was angry, too. She was hurt, had been hurt for a long time, and she had words of her own for her father. She kept her head high, and with another steadying breath she walked across the shop, over the threshold that separated it from their home, and into the small, darkened hallway that connected the two. She walked with measured steps, counting them to keep herself from running away. Instead of turning and walking up the stairs to her room, Nadia turned left and entered their small living room. She sat on one of the couches, keeping her back straight, and waited for her mother and father to come to her.

May had told Nadia her secret upstairs in the room they'd shared back then, the room Nadia now had to herself. But May's very last fight with their father had been held here. So many of them had—May smelling of alcohol, May with her midriff bare and wearing shorts that only just reached the tops of her thighs, May coming home early mornings and not even bothering to sneak in through a window because she and everyone else in their family knew their father was staying up to meet her. Those had been the worst fights, the ones that happened right before their father would have woken them all up with gentle pats on their shoulders so they could complete their morning prayers. Instead of gathering as a family to pray, she and May and their mother together, Omar and their father together, a ritual Nadia had always looked forward to, that calmed her and helped her prepare for her day, there would be screaming and crying, threats in Arabic from their father and accusations in Spanish from May, and it would all end with slammed doors and heavy silence.

That very last night Nadia had lain in her bed and listened to the shouting for what seemed like hours. Her heart had been in her throat, and with every passing second she'd wondered if her sister would tell their father what she'd told her just a few days before, that she was pregnant, that she wanted an abortion. She'd stayed huddled under her covers, shaking with fear, hiding until her anxiety was so much that it made her rise up and tiptoe to the door to finally face what was scaring her. She'd poked her head out her bedroom door, only to find Omar doing the same. She'd rushed over to his side then, and they'd linked hands, and silently, without needing to discuss it, they'd crept halfway down the stairs and crouched down to listen. They couldn't be seen from their position, but they could see partway into the living room, see their mother seated behind their father where he stood, and May standing opposite them both. That night their father hadn't said the words out loud, those words that he would never be able to take back. May had said them for him herself. "You don't like what you see, do you, Babba? What do you think of me, huh? Tell me."

"May, please," their mother had said.

But May had continued as if she hadn't heard.

"You think I'm a whore, don't you?"

Nadia had gasped. In all the years of fights between her sister and father, there had never been a vulgar word spoken between them. Omar had slapped his hand over her mouth, but his eyes had been wide, too, and bright with tears. Nadia's had already spilled.

"You think I've failed you, and you're ashamed of me. You think you deserve a better daughter."

There'd been no striking, no raised fists, but it had been the first definitive tear in Nadia's family, and so it'd been even worse than the night their father had thrown Omar out.

It wasn't the only thing that had happened in this room. Guzmán had once kneeled in front of her parents in it. Back then Nadia'd thought all she was to him was some kind of game that fed his ego. She hadn't yet understood that he'd been trying to show her what he would do for her, trying to tell her that his pride and his arrogance, the things that so defined him, were less to him than what she was. Maybe then he hadn't completely understood it himself, either. But Nadia understood it now. She repeated the words he'd told her at the beach to herself. I love you. You won't lose me. I promise. Nadia knew how seriously Guzmán took his promises. A promise made by him was tantamount to fact. A promise made by him could hold her up, give her strength if she felt herself flagging. She remembered the words he'd told her father just earlier. She shouldn't have to choose. He'd said he knew what she wanted because she wasn't afraid to tell him. Nadia held his words close to her. She would speak to her father, even though she was afraid. She would be honest with him and tell him what she wanted so that he would know the truth of who she was. She would not cry.

She heard her father's cane down the hallway, her mother's light steps behind it. He stopped in the doorway when he saw her. "Didn't you hear me?" he said. "I said go to your room."

Her father still spoke in Arabic. But the language was hers as much as it was his. Hers to think in, hers to pray in, hers to speak with. She would not give it up, and she would not let her father have it for himself to shame and discredit her with.

"I heard you," Nadia answered him, and her Spanish accent gave the Arabic words only a small lilt that was absent when her father and mother spoke it.

Her father was quiet for a moment. He took up the whole space of the doorframe. "So what is this, then," he said quietly. "Are you disobeying me?"

Nadia pressed her lips together and remembered. You won't lose me. I promise. "No," she said. "No. This isn't disobedience. This is me wanting to talk to you."

"Talk? What can you possibly have to say for yourself?" He sounded disgusted.

"Yusef," said Nadia's mother. "Let's listen to her."

Nadia's father looked down at his wife, his features softening when his eyes met hers. He walked into the room, sat down opposite Nadia. Nadia's mother followed him in, but she didn't sit next to him. Instead she took a seat next to Nadia, close enough that their knees touched. She passed her hand over Nadia's head in a caress and let it fall to her back, where she let it rest. Nadia looked at her mother, surprised. A line creased the space between her mother's brows and her eyes were wide with an emotion Nadia couldn't name.

"Imán," Nadia's father said.

"Let's listen to her," her mother repeated. Nadia had never heard her sound so severe when speaking to her father before.

He took a breath and stared at her mother for a long moment, then looked back at her. "Fine," he said. "I'm listening. Go ahead and apologize."

Nadia looked at her mother again, and her mother gave her a small smile, nodded at her.

"I have no apology to give," Nadia said. Her voice was small, but it didn't shake.

"Excuse me?"

"What do you see when you look at me?" Nadia said. "Are you ashamed of me?"

Her mother pulled in a sharp breath, but Nadia didn't take her eyes off her father. His face transformed before her. She saw the pain that twisted it, the blood that rushed to it, mottling his skin, and she saw him steel himself, watched as his features turned stony.

"And you?" he said finally. "Have you done something to make us ashamed?"

"No," Nadia said. And now that she'd said it aloud, she believed it. Her voice became stronger. "I haven't done anything to bring shame to you, or to myself. I—I'm not who I've always been. I'm not who I was two years ago. But I have always been a good daughter. Because I love you and Mama, and I respect you."

"Bringing that boy into our home behind our backs is respect?"

"Speaking to you now, like this, honestly, is respect. Walking into Las Encinas every day and being the best student they have even though no one thinks I belong there is respect."

Her father made a dismissive gesture with his hand, but Nadia continued. "Working at the shop is respect. And I've never once complained because I love it. I want to be there, I want to help, I want to be a part of this family. And I know what the shop means. I remember what it was like before we had it and how hard you and Mama worked to get it. I—" Nadia stopped herself. She'd been about to apologize. I'm sorry came so easy to her when she spoke to her father. But an apology wouldn't help her, and it wouldn't be honest. "I shouldn't have lied," she said. "But the only thing wrong with Guzmán's being here is that I was too much of a coward to tell you, nothing else."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"You think we don't know how long he's been coming here? That we don't hear the neighbors talking?"

Nadia pressed her lips together. Omar had only ever let Ander come to the door of their family shop, and even May had never brought someone, not any of the boys or girls she saw, into their home. But Nadia had spent countless hours with Guzmán inside the shop, had even taken him up into her room. He hadn't kissed her in there, but he'd held her, and she'd shared with him how she and her family lived.

"He helped me with unpacking and with deliveries," Nadia said evenly. "And he's been nothing but a gentleman to everyone who's come into the shop. Why is that the only thing you hear the neighbors say? Do you hear them ask about Omar? Did you when they used to ask about May?"

"Don't," Nadia's father said, but Nadia kept on. "Is it respect when you say Omar's gone back home? Is it respect that there are people who don't even know you have another daughter?"

Beside her, Nadia's mother had started to cry silently. But her hand stayed on Nadia's back, steady and warm.

"Am I the only one who can do something wrong? Is it only me who can hurt us? Can you not hurt us?"

Nadia's father closed his eyes and turned his head to the side, as though if he couldn't see her then he wouldn't hear her, either.

"Is it only Omar who can hurt us?" Nadia said. "Only May?"

"Don't say her name!"

"Why not?" Nadia cried. "It's been four years. I was still in middle school. And it's been four years since I last said her name in this house. You think there's something wrong with Guzmán coming here, with his being here with me, but I've spoken to him more about May than I have with you. Isn't that shameful? Does it make sense to you? Because I can't understand it."

"You're too young—" her father began.

"How old do I need to be? I could be engaged now, be married in two years. My only sister isn't here. I grew up without her. She used to sing me to sleep and I have no idea if she's alive or dead."

At that word Nadia's mother moved closer to her. She took Nadia's hand and clasped it between both her own. Nadia could feel wetness on her palms from the tears she'd wiped from her cheeks.

"She left on her own," her father said.

"Only because she felt she couldn't stay. She thought we didn't want her."

"She could have come back at any time."

"And Omar?" Nadia said. She almost stood from the couch, she was so full of desperation. She was speaking, but her words weren't changing anything. She felt the direction of the argument slipping from her hands, slipping into simple accusation. But she wanted her words to be more than an unburdening. She wanted them to have consequences, to engender something. What, she wasn't yet sure. But if she said all this to her father, then she wanted it to leave them with more than just a chasm between them. She wanted her words to take the mess her family had become and clear a path before them, so she, her father, her mother, and Omar could walk through without being hurt, and without hurting each other.

"What about him?" she said. Her voice was loud in the small room. Her father flinched. Nadia swallowed and brought her voice down. "Can he come back? Because he didn't leave. You threw him out. You didn't even know if he had a place to go."

Nadia's father shook his head, but he didn't answer her.

"Do you know Omar's boyfriend?"

"Nadia, please," her father said.

"No, listen to me," Nadia said. "His name is Ander. Do you know what his father did after he found out Ander was gay?"

Her father said nothing, kept his face averted from her. "He left," Nadia said. "He left his wife and son. Would you do that?"

"Of course not. I would never leave my family." Nadia's father raised his hand, made a gesture to his wife. "I would never leave you."

"Then how could you make Omar leave?" Nadia asked. There was pleading in her voice. "Don't you see how ugly it is? That you chose something else over Omar? You miss him, I miss him, Mama misses him, and it's useless, because he doesn't even want to come back to us."

Nadia's father said, "No," his voice low and guttural, and he shook his head.

"Yes," Nadia said, "Because he found another family. Ander is his family now. That's what happens when you forsake people. They find others who don't."

"Omar and that boy—"

"His boyfriend. His name is Ander."

"And that Spanish woman?" Her father sounded disbelieving. "The one who said he's gay?"

"Because he is."

"And she had to telegraph it to that entire school? Drag Omar's name out so people could point at us, point at him?"

To this Nadia said nothing. It was true that Muñoz had outed Omar.

"I'm supposed to believe that woman is family to my son? That she knows what he needs and can care for him?"

"She's been kind to him," Nadia said quietly. "Kinder than you—kinder than we've been."

"It takes more than kindness to raise children. She's kind to him because he isn't her son. And kindness, that's cold, that's not love. Even a stranger can give you kindness."

"You love Omar?" Nadia asked.

Her father cut his eyes at her and didn't respond. She didn't understand if his silence meant he thought her question was too insulting for an answer, or if it meant the worst, that he'd learned a truth about his son, and had cast him not only out of their home, but out of his affection.

When he finally spoke, his voice was so full of contempt that Nadia felt like someone had spit at her. "All this, condemning me, telling me I've been a bad father, just because I told that boy to leave?" he said. He made her sound so small, so petty. She worked her jaw, exasperation coming over her.

"Please, just—forget Guzmán," Nadia said. "Yes, he's Spanish, and yes, he's Christian. Fine. I understand. But he won't hurt me or lie to me. He won't betray me. And—and that's—that's important. To me."

There was more to what she shared with Guzmán than that, an entire world of friendship and tenderness and belonging. But Nadia was very protective about what she felt for him. It was precious to her, because it was something she'd wanted and risked herself for. She hadn't had to forgive Guzmán. She could have seen only that he'd tried to humiliate her, and not seen anything of him that came after, his sincerity in apologizing, followed by his devotion. She'd never before been reckless enough to fall in love, had always been too serious, too focused on family and school for it, but something about Guzmán touched her and made her want to chase how much she could feel for him. Though she'd taken a long time to come to it, though she still hadn't told him exactly what she felt for him, she knew it for herself. Nadia couldn't bring herself to tell her parents more than what she'd already said, that she trusted Guzmán; and if they couldn't accept him, if they asked her to give him up, and if she agreed and did, she still wouldn't be able to give them more reason or justification. She just loved him, and that was all.

"Do you know I can't recognize you anymore, Babba?" Nadia said. It was the first time she'd called him by the familiar name she used even when she spoke to him in Spanish, and it made her voice somehow softer. "Back in there, what you said about Marina—" Nadia stopped herself and held her mother's hand tighter to hers. "She was my friend. I knew her. She was good to me. And she was just a girl, younger than I am now. Why would you use her death like that? Just for spite? Just to make a point? The father I've known all my life, the father I love and respect, would never use a girl's death like that."

"You don't recognize me?" Nadia's father said. She couldn't make out the tone that crept into his voice. It was strained, and as he spoke he looked at her like she was the unrecognizable one.

"You really don't understand," he said. Nadia wanted to protest, but stopped herself when her father gestured between himself and her. "You and me, you and May and Omar and me, we're not the same. We bring our kids here, to this strange country with strange people and a strange language, we try to teach them and protect them, give them what we came here for without losing ourselves, and they become strangers. They start thinking we're an enemy, they start calling us the same names the people in this country call us. They start thinking we're archaic and backwards and hateful."

Nadia wasn't foolish enough to say something stupid like 'This is your country, too.' Her own difference, when she had been born here, when she had lived here entire life here, was made too stark to her every time she stepped out into the street. But she didn't accept her father's words.

"I don't think you're my enemy," Nadia said.

"You think what I said in there was cruel. But I said what I meant. I don't want what happened to that girl—"

"Marina," Nadia said softly.

"—to … Marina," he said her name with seeming difficulty, "to happen to you."

"But Marina didn't bring that on herself. Someone hurt her on purpose, there was nothing she could have done to avoid it."

"Her parents should have watched over her closer."

"But they couldn't have…" Nadia furrowed her brow, trying to find the words. "You can't protect me."

"What?" Her father sounded startled. "That's my job."

"No, let me finish. You can't protect me by telling me not to be something. 'Don't be gay.' 'Don't be Spanish.' But Omar is, and we are. You have to let us—you have to let me grow. You have to let me change. What's the point of family if there's no space in it for who you really are? Why not just be alone, then?"

Nadia searched her father's face, but she couldn't find an answer there, and he didn't speak.

"You're…you're scared I'll go down the wrong path and get hurt, but do you know what scares me? That instead of taking the chance to discover who I am, I'll just follow you blindly. I've already done it once, to May, and you know what, Babba? All I did was hurt us both."

Her father didn't ask her what she'd done to May. No matter, because Nadia didn't think she could tell him. She shut her eyes against the memory that came to her then, of how cold she'd been, how cruel and unfair. She'd told May it was wrong to want an abortion, let alone get one, had said she wouldn't go with her to any clinic. May had shut herself off from her in response, not saying another word to her; and so before that last awful night with their father, before her sister had disappeared, all Nadia had had with her had been days of estrangement.

Nadia took a deep breath. "I've been accepted." She said it as if she were confessing something terrible. "To every school I've applied for. Including Columbia. In the States."

"Nadia!" Her mother gasped her name, but Nadia kept talking. She had to in order to get through all she had to say. "I got a full scholarship. I didn't even need the one from Las Encinas. Me, I did it. If I go I'll be gone from you and Mama for a very long time. And I do want to go. No. No, I—I am going. And I want you to trust me, trust that I know what I want and what's good for me."

Now her father's answer came swiftly. "Or else what," he said. "Is this an ultimatum?" His voice was quiet, grave.

"No," Nadia said.

"Is this a threat?"

"No."

Why couldn't he understand? Why couldn't she explain properly? Why couldn't he see that everything she'd said so far, it was to show him that what he thought mattered to her? She'd told him something she'd achieved, and she wanted him to share with her in her joy and pride in it. But she wanted more than that. She wanted his blessing.

Nadia fumbled for words. Finally, voice trembling, hands clasped in fists on her knees, she said, "I'm not like May and Omar. I'm not as strong as they are."

Her father nodded, long and slow. "You want me to tell you not to go, so you can blame me for keeping you here? Or do you want me to tell you yes, so you can go there and forget about us?"

"I won't forget you. I promise, I promise I'll come ba—"

"I'm finished. Do what you want." Nadia's father stood, and without even a glance towards her, left the room.

Nadia'd told herself she wouldn't cry, but she felt tears stinging at her eyes, hot and urgent.

"Nadia," her mother said gently, but Nadia shook her head forcefully, stood, and made her way brusquely from the room.

Distantly, as if it were the thought of another person, Nadia understood she had choices. She could leave, like her siblings, go to Guzmán's or Rebe's. But closer to her were her experiences of being the one left. She didn't have the practice of leaving to help guide her steps out the door of her home. She had May and Marina and Omar, and how each of their abrupt absences from her life had made hollow spaces in her that had left her feeling powerless. The dread and the sudden disillusionment that came over her now were so familiar, like they had never been too far from her, like they'd just been waiting for the right moment to reintroduce themselves. And so instead of leaving, Nadia did what was familiar and took the steps two at a time. She shut her door behind her when she reached her bedroom and she sunk down, down, down. Down until she was small on the floor, small so her heartache could be small, too, insignificant like she felt, and so easier to accept and manage.

She'd done it. She was going overseas to attend the university of her dreams. She'd kept her promise to Guzmán. She'd kept her promise to herself. She'd spoken to her father, told him what she wanted and what she planned to do. And she'd lost him.

She held a fist against her mouth to keep her pain from coming out in sobs, screwed her eyes shut and held her other fist against her chest. She felt a pain there so sharp it was as if she'd been stabbed. What had she thought would happen? It was Guzmán who'd made a promise to her, not her father. He'd dismissed her so easily, as if it cost him nothing to brush her aside, as if her asking him for his trust meant nothing. She'd made so much of it, raised being his daughter to an entire identity, hiding from him and lying because she didn't want him to be disappointed in her, and working, always, always working so hard to be good enough, letting it take up almost all of her. Who was she without her father's love? She couldn't imagine that person, but just a few words, and she was no longer tied to him. He hadn't even given her the chance to choose him over herself.

Nadia hadn't been thrown out like Omar. Their father was just down the hall. But he was farther from her then than he'd ever been. His rejection had taken less than a moment, and already the memory of it was fading to be taken over by the rush of her future coming at her, a future where she stood untethered to a family. It hurt more than anything else in her life had ever hurt her because she'd seen it coming and could have avoided it—all she'd had to do was remain silent as she had for years. But she'd chosen not to. Now her relinquishment was here it pulsed bigger than her body, outsized even as she struggled to shove it down and fit it in her fist. The fear that had been anticipation was now reality. It yawned before her like a maw, gaping and dark.

Behind her, just beyond the periphery of the dark panic that gripped her, Nadia heard a knock. It was so quiet she almost didn't hear it over the sounds she made against her fist. She wanted to ignore it. But even now she was still dutiful, though to whom she wasn't sure. She hiccuped and called out weakly, "B-busy."

"Nadia, sweetheart." It was her mother. Her voice was as soft as her knock. "Open the door for me. Please."

Nadia wanted to crawl into bed and hide. She felt stupid and humiliated. And she was disappointed in herself, because now, when she thought of the future she'd worked so hard for, instead of joy all she saw was being alone. She hadn't been lying when she'd told her father she wasn't like her siblings. Omar was flourishing without them, and she, with Columbia secure in her hands, was crying in her bedroom.

Another knock came, and Nadia tried to compose herself. She didn't want her mother to see her like this. She had to be stronger than this. If she was going even farther than Omar, to a foreign country, with no one she knew beside her, she couldn't start crying just because she wasn't wanted. She swallowed down her next sob, and it went down her throat hard and slow like a stone, cutting off her breathing until it reached her lungs. She wiped at her face with shaking hands. She'd been sitting crouched on the floor so long her legs had fallen asleep, and she had to stretch them out painfully before she could stand. She kept her head down when she opened the door, turned before her mother could see her face. She crossed her arms over her body, held herself, and sat on the very edge of her bed.

She heard her mother close the door behind her, and then she felt her bed dip with her mother's weight. A patch of warmth came to her back—her mother's hand. The weight of it was light but firm, the way it'd been before downstairs, when she'd been facing her father. Nadia's mother rubbed her back without saying anything for a long, long time, until Nadia's shoulders fell, and her arms loosened, and she turned and let herself fall against her.

Her mother spoke to her in Arabic, too.

"My beautiful daughter, our baby girl." Her mother's voice was so gentle, the words she spoke were so tender, that Nadia couldn't keep ahold of her pain anymore. She unclenched her fists and her sobs came out from somewhere deep in her, ugly and wretched as she felt.

"Shhhhhhh." Her mother's arms around her were strong and fierce. She clasped Nadia to her and rocked her back and forth, one hand cradling her head and the other rubbing her back. Nadia felt moored in her arms, and she clutched at her. She hadn't been held by either of her parents like this since she was a small child, when just a hug from her mother or father could fix any problem.

She cried for a long time, until all she felt was exhaustion. Through it all her mother held her. She told her, her voice soothing, "Shhh. It's all right. I've got you." In her embrace Nadia remembered the earliest days of her childhood, how when her father had spent days and nights working in factories downtown, it'd been just her and Omar and May at home with their mother, watching her as she cooked and folded laundry, listening when she called family back home, crowding around her on the front steps of the apartment building they lived in when she went out in the early evenings to watch the sun set and get some fresh air. Back then Nadia's understanding of herself hadn't been totally clear, the lines around her had still been wobbly, and she'd felt as close to her mother as she had to May and Omar. She had been her family, and her family had been her. They'd been very poor, but they'd been whole, and when their mother had been too busy, it was May who'd held her like this and wiped away her tears. Her sister had held her unselfishly, unflaggingly, as if she could do it forever. And no matter how large her fear or her anguish, it would dissipate in May's arms. May'd taken her embraces with her when she'd left. Being held by her mother like this made the longing Nadia always felt for May deepen, but it also made her think that this was where May must have learned to hold her like that, in their mother's arms. The thought reached through Nadia's hurt and fear to touch her. It calmed her.

Her mother held her even after she fell quiet. She held her until her heart stopped pounding against her ears, until her face was no longer heated and she no longer had to take her breath in gulps. And it was only then that her mother pulled Nadia's arms from around her. She did it with care. She used her fingers to wipe the tears from Nadia's cheeks, and then she held Nadia's face in her hands. Nadia couldn't look her mother in the eye, but she was too tired, too empty inside, to turn her face away.

"Our baby girl," her mother said again. It'd been so long since either of her parents had called her that endearment. "Now you're done speaking with your father, will you speak to me?"

Nadia glanced up at her mother. Her brows were drawn together and her face was grave, but she didn't look angry. Nadia made an unintelligible sound. She'd spoken so much already today, and it had brought her loss. She couldn't trust speaking right then.

"If you can't talk, can you listen?"

Her mother didn't wait for her to answer. She pulled her hands from Nadia's face with a caress and turned from her, twisting on the bed to reach for something in her pocket. She pulled out an envelope, unmarked, wrinkled, its edges worn, folded, and fraying. Nadia's mother held it in her hands for a long moment, holding it as if it were something precious, and then, without a word, she reached for Nadia's hands. She placed the envelope between them, then held Nadia's hands clasped between her own.

"Mama," Nadia said. Her voice was raw and small from her crying. "What is this?"

"Read them," her mother said, "They're yours, too."

But her mother didn't move her hands. Nadia waited for her mother to let her go, and when she finally did, Nadia moved slowly, opening the envelope without looking at it, keeping her eyes on her mother's face. When she looked down she saw she was holding some sheafs of paper, all folded into one another.

Apprehension spiked through her. "Mama what is this?"

But her mother just nodded, gestured at the papers. Nadia unfolded them and gasped.

She recognized the handwriting immediately. The script, in Arabic, tilted as if written with the left hand, the letters cramped close together, the indentation in the paper deep from where the writer had pressed her pen down—this was May's handwriting, and these were letters from her.

Nadia read them like a woman gulping in air after clawing her way out of a well. Her eyes ate her sister's words up before her mind could make meaning out of them, and she had to read each letter over and over before she could think anything other than It's May, it's May, it's May. The first letter was only a few lines, just a note.

—Mama—I'm well—Don't worry—May—

The second was hardly any longer.

—Mama—I miss you—I want you to be well—It's strange to be growing older without you near me. I have questions I feel I would turn to you to ask, but instead I have to find the answers myself. And yet I know if I were next to you, I wouldn't ask you at all, but make up my own mind anyway.—I'm not yet ready to speak to you, but I think can be, one day. That wasn't something I thought was possible.—I miss your voice, I'll write again—May—

The last was another note, like the first two. But it made Nadia's heart stutter because in it she saw her name.

—Mama—How are you? How are Omar and Nadia? I'm asking you questions, but not giving you any way to answer me. It's selfish of me, isn't it? But I've always been selfish, and you never faulted me for it. Thank you for that. I won't ask you to tell them, but I want to let you know sometimes I remember Omar's laugh and Nadia's cuddles and your touch so much it's almost like I'm not away from you at all. Is that strange? I want you to remember me, too.—Your daughter, May—

Nadia's hands trembled. All she had was feeling, an ocean of it, and she in the middle. Wonder and shock and some kind of sadness she didn't know how to name. Her body reacted before her mind and tears streamed down her face. Not crying, but her body needing some way to let out so much tension. Her tears fell on the pages in her hands to mix with those her mother had cried. She could tell where because the ink was smeared and the paper bumpy from where they'd dried. She trailed her fingers over her name that May had written while thinking of her, while asking after her. And her heart broke all over again, along different fault lines this time, that her sister would have something so soft to say about her, and not only anger and recrimination. May's name was a heavy thing for Nadia. When she thought it, and the few times she'd said it aloud since May had left them, it held so much—love and anger and loss and longing, and always, always, a not-knowing. But now she knew. May is alive. She wondered, was her name heavy, too, for May? When her sister thought of her—she thinks of me, Nadia thought, and it was like thanks to an answered prayer—was her name inscribed with their history, secrets they'd shared and meals they'd eaten together, the time they'd spent apart? Was her sister curious about her? Did she only remember her, or did she wonder, like Nadia did of her, what her life was now?

She shifted the pages in her hand, reading them again, memorizing them. The turns of phrases May used, the words she chose, and even her tone—her irony, her honesty and straightforwardness—they were so familiar, so very May.

"Nadia—" her mother began, but Nadia cut her off.

"Since when?"

"It's only been a year," her mother said.

"Only?" Nadia asked. She almost choked on the word. A year ago Omar had been living with them. A year ago Marina had been a alive. "A whole year? How could you not say anything?"

"What would it have changed?"

"So much," Nadia said, and her voice broke. For a year she could have felt relief when she thought of her sister, instead of only regret and fear for her.

"I thought it would make things harder for you," her mother said, "to have so little of her and not be able to speak with her. Sometimes it's better to have none of something than to have just a bit and long for more."

Nadia looked at her mother then. She'd just been comforting her, holding her like a child, and even now she was trying to protect her. But in her words Nadia heard her mother's longing and saw she was speaking of herself. All of a sudden she wanted to be bigger than she was, so she could hold her mother, and wiser than she was, so she could counsel her mother, and stronger than she was, so she could support her mother.

"Does Babba know?" Nadia made her voice soft, made sure no trace of accusation was in it.

Her mother hesitated, then shook her head. "No. He was…very hurt when May left. He felt like coming here was a mistake. He felt like a failure, like his life was a failure. It was…"

Her mother hesitated again, and in it Nadia saw a distance between them. She wanted to bridge it. "Tell me," she said.

"…It was a frightening time," her mother said slowly. She turned her head and it was like she wasn't speaking to Nadia ta all. "My daughter gone from me and for some time I feared my husband would be, too."

Nadia's eyes went wide. She struggled to match her mother's words to what they could mean, and all the while her mother was transforming before her. She wasn't only her mother, but Imán, a woman who was choosing to keep something so monumental a secret from her husband, a woman whose life and history stretched back far longer than Nadia had known her, and who had a relationship with her father that for the first time Nadia realized she had little insight to. But then Imán shook her head again and seemed to remember where she was.

"I'm not sure he can handle his daughter not wanting to see him."

"But he and May were always fighting," Nadia said.

"Sweetheart," Imán said, "May wasn't always seventeen years old, and that's not how they'd always been. May was, she is, our firstborn. We moved here for her." Imán gestured around her, to Nadia's room, to their home, to the store beneath. "This is for you and Omar, but it started with May."

Imán took May's letters from Nadia's hands and read them over even as she spoke. "He used to dote on her, spoil her, even. I had to talk him out of naming the store May's Groceries. And he would always take her side in anything, even when he knew she was lying."

"Then when did it change?"

"When May started to change, I think," Imán said. "When he started to feel she was drifting away from him. Like you are now."

"Mama—"

"It's not an accusation, so don't take it as one." Imán's voice was gentle. "Did you mean what you said downstairs?"

Nadia laughed weakly. "Which part?"

"When you said you're not strong like your brother and sister."

Nadia shrugged.

"Do you honestly believe that?"

"It's not about belief," Nadia said. "It's just the truth. I can't do what they've done."

"And what have they done?"

"Chosen their own lives and are living them."

"Maybe." Imán bobbed her head from left to right, as if she didn't agree with Nadia's words but didn't want to argue. "Maybe it's harder for you to leave people," she said, and she touched Nadia's chin lightly. Her touch was gentle, but she made Nadia look at her. "I'm glad for that."

A sharp pang of guilt shot through Nadia. So often in the past few years she'd realized how big everyone in her life was, how what she saw of them was only what they let her see, and even more than that, was only what she herself, with her own worries and preoccupations, her own biases, was even able to see. And it was happening again, another revelation, another person becoming an entire unknown world of their own before her. But Imán didn't let her feel her guilt for long.

"Nadia," she said, and Nadia's name in her mother's voice was like an endearment, "I see your life. Do you understand? I see your work. I see how you've grown and changed these last few years, even since going to Las Encinas, and I'm not scared for you. I'm excited. For who you are, and for who you're working to be. And I'm so, so proud. I'm proud of you for speaking up. I'm proud that you have something you want, and you know how to work to get it."

Imán drew Nadia into another hug, her embrace as fierce as before, but Nadia wasn't crying now. Her sister was alive and her mother was proud of her. She was bewildered. She wanted to know everything, but she didn't know what questions to ask. The wretchedness was gone from her, and so was the fear. She felt bolstered, fortified. Her heart beat fast and she felt like there was a fire in her chest.

"Congratulations," Imán said. She pressed a kiss to Nadia's cheek and squeezed her tight. "You're going to do so well in New York. I can already see it."

"Mama."

"Shhh." Imán gave her a final squeeze, then pulled away and smiled. "I'm going to tell you everything I know about moving to a new country."

And again Nadia saw anew. She hadn't thought in her going to New York there would be anything familiar for her parents to recognize.

When Imán got up to leave, Nadia stopped her. "What about these?" She held May's letters up.

"Keep them," Imán said.

"Can I tell Omar?"

Her mother smiled and nodded. "I trust you with this."

That night Nadia didn't call Guzmán, though she knew he would be worrying. She sent him just a short text saying goodnight, and that would have to be enough. She knew he'd accept it as such, like he accepted so much about her. In her bed, she lay awake thinking of her mother, and of May, of her father and their family. She went over the events of the day—such a strange, unexpected, impossible day. Her quiet, unassuming mother, who Nadia had thought was so different from herself, so much so that when she confronted her parents she only thought of her father and barely figured her mother into it at all, had brought her back into the fold of their family when she'd thought she'd been pushed out, when she'd thought that power rested only with her father. Just a few words and her father had left her outside his love and consideration. Just a few words and her mother had welcomed her again into hers. Her mother, who had no Spanish friends, and who spoke mostly only Arabic, even after over two decades in a country she now called home. Her mother, who loved being a mother and a wife, and who let her husband do most of the talking. And Nadia saw now that it wasn't because she couldn't speak, and it wasn't because she didn't speak—it was because she chose when to speak, and because she listened. And Nadia realized, quiet as her mother was, that she was the one who'd started the Muslim business association years ago, when they'd first opened the shop. She was the one rehabilitating her father after his stroke. She was the one who kept in touch with their family back in Palestine, calling on birthdays, holidays, and other days for no reason other than to say hello, to remember they had roots and came from somewhere, that there was a place where they would not be seen as foreign. And now, it was their mother to whom May returned. The relief, the certainty of May's life, it was known now because of their mother.

Nadia slept with May's letters in her hands. They crumpled a little, but they'd held up over the countless times her mother had read them, and they'd hold up now. She read them again when she woke, though she already knew each word by heart, folded them and carried them with her.

At school Guzmán was waiting for her by her locker. She spotted him before he saw her and she stopped a few feet away to consider him. He was letting his hair grow back out again to the length she liked best on him, the way he'd had it when they'd first met. Nadia thought of how her mother had transformed before her just the day before and she wondered how much more of Guzmán there was for her to see. She felt she knew him so well, the vicissitudes of his moods, but like with her mother, and like with Omar, too, he was more than what she knew of him. She'd only just begun hoping for a future with him, but now she put that down. She thought instead of what was possible—because in the hours since she'd last seen him, possibility had become so much larger. Now it encompassed things she'd never allowed herself to think, never dared even to dream. Her sister was alive, and so she could see Guzmán meeting her. She was going to New York, and though her father had turned his back on her because of it, she wasn't cast out of her family. She hadn't had to choose them over herself, or herself over Guzmán, or a future without him and without them. Her own shortcomings and her father's anger and willingness to hurt those around him were not enough to make Omar a stranger to her, and so she could see herself and her brother spending time together with the boys they loved, Guzmán and Ander. She could see herself and Omar and May together again as they had once been, siblings in a family. Just a few hours before these would have seemed like things out of some fairy tale version of her life, but now they could happen, and it wasn't silly of her to want them, so she did.

Guzmán looked around and found her. He waited as Nadia made her way to him. She thought he'd be angry for having pushed him out of the store the day before and for not returning any of his calls, but he didn't look it at all. He looked tired, like he'd only gotten a few hours of sleep.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Nadia nodded. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You can tell me."

Instead of answering, Nadia put her arms around him, closed her eyes and lay her cheek against his chest. Without hesitation Guzmán held her, one arm steady against her back and a hand cradling her head. She felt the kiss he placed in her hair and she sighed into him. Students streamed past them and the last bell signaling the start of classes rang, but Guzmán didn't move, and neither did she. She felt like she could spend the day in his arms.

"Excuse me!" A voice rang out across the empty hallway and Nadia turned her head over her shoulder to see a teacher staring sternly at her and Guzmán. She didn't know him by name, but recognized him as one of the new, younger teachers Las Encinas had hired.

"Class has started," he said pointedly. "Don't you think you have somewhere you'd better be?"

"Fuck off." Guzmán's answer was quick and easy, and full of the entitlement he still thought of as his, even after his father had lost their family money. A look of shock and affront came over the teacher. He opened his mouth, but with another look at Guzmán snapped it shut, turned without a word, and went back into his classroom.

Guzmán held Nadia until she as the one who pulled away. "Do you want to be here?" he asked. "We can skip. I can take you back to mine."

Nadia shook her head. "No," she said, "I want to be here."

"All right," Guzmán said, but still he didn't leave her. He followed her into her class. She was late, and so the eyes of all the other students were on her as she walked in and took her seat, but she was used to being stared at. Guzmán was, too, though it was for other reasons—when she'd first met him, because he was an Osuna, rich and full of the swagger he wore so well, and then, after she'd come to know him better, after she'd fallen for him, because he was the brother of a murdered girl who wore his grief like pride. Nadia's movements were deliberate and practiced under the scrutiny of her classmates. She pulled her notebook out, sat with her back straight, and kept her yes trained on the board at the front of the classroom. Guzmán took an empty seat in the back. He flung his backpack on the desk, folded his arms and perched his chin on them, stared the professor down silently until he simply turned back to the whiteboard and continued the lesson he'd been giving when Nadia had walked in.

Guzmán accompanied her to each of her classes that morning. When he didn't find an empty seat he simply took one from another student, ignored their protests with a shrug of his shoulders and an "I don't give a fuck where you sit." Nadia knew what he was doing. It came so easily to him, protecting the people he wanted in his life. He was conspicuous with his care, gave it in abundance and without calculation, whereas Nadia kept hers close to her, as if it was what merited safe keeping, and not the people she felt it for. She sometimes wondered what Guzmán would have done if Marina had come to him with the secret May had tried to entrust her with, what he'd have done in her place when their father had kicked Omar out. She placed the same importance on family that he did, but he'd always spoken up in a way Nadia had never been able to before. She didn't think she could ever be as loud as he was, but she'd found something to admire in him, something maybe even to learn from him.

At lunch she asked him to stop, though she tempered it with her appreciation.

It made Guzmán grin, the way he did when she said something that pleased him. "You're welcome," he said. "Why do you tell me to stop even though you like it?"

"Why do you do things I don't ask and then need me to get you out of them?"

"I only do what you won't do for yourself."

Nadia rolled her eyes and shook her head, but she was holding back a soft smile. "Did you plan it?"

"Plan what?"

"The stunt you pulled yesterday."

"I did." There wasn't pride in Guzmán's voice, but there was determination. His brow was drawn and his mouth set in a stubborn line the way it was when he told Valerio not to snort coke around her and when he spoke about his father's shortcomings. Everyone he'd ever loved had been on the receiving end of that look. Marina, Lucrecia, Ander, Polo, herself. He was so protective, and he always thought he knew best. Sometimes it was overbearing, and sometimes it was condescending; but right then it was neither of those. Before Nadia could respond he said, "I won't apologize for standing up for you."

"Thank you," she said.

It stopped Guzmán up short. He was uncertain for just a moment, but then a grin unfurled on his face, slow and lush. He looked smug and satisfied, but also delighted, like a kid who'd just gotten what he wanted for his birthday.

"Thank you for coming to the shop these past few weeks," Nadia said. "Thank you for yesterday. And I'm sorry about what my father said about Marina."

"Don't apologize to me."

Nadia cocked her head to the side. "Why don't you ever let me apologize to you?"

Guzmán shrugged. "Apologize to me when you do something wrong. Don't apologize for someone else." He reached across the table for her hand and threaded his fingers with hers. He was so affectionate. His touch was simple, but intimate. "I thought you'd be mad," he said.

"Guzmán," Nadia said, "you probably don't realize this, but most kids our age, everyone in my neighborhood, really, works after school. And I'm not even really working, I'm just helping out."

"Twenty plus hours a week isn't 'helping out,' it's a part time job. I'd think someone so preoccupied with the plight of the oppressed would recognize this."

"Don't be sarcastic," Nadia chided him.

Guzmán sighed. "I don't care if other kids our age work," he said. "You shouldn't."

"Why? Because you say so?" Nadia said. She was teasing, but he was serious.

"Don't do that," he said.

"What?"

"Put distance between us." His face was open, guileless, and he looked at her with such care that Nadia's heart ached with it. "I get it. The store's important to you, and to your family. But I know you, Nadia, and I know if your parents just ask you'll give up your life for them because you think they deserve it. I don't want anyone keeping you from what you want. I don't care if it's your father or anyone else."

Nadia didn't know what to say. It touched her, that he wanted so much for her, that he wanted for her what she wanted for herself, and that he'd safeguard it even when she wasn't able to.

"You want me to apologize to your father?" he asked.

"No."

"Was he very mad?"

Nadia thought of her father's back, the way he'd walked away from her the day before. She thought of her devastation after it, how her pain at his rejection had been nearly more than she could carry. She didn't know if she had the words yet to explain that to Guzmán. It was still so close to her. He'd asked only about her father's anger, but it'd been much more than that. There'd been something else in his rejection, too, as if he'd turned away from Nadia after she'd already turned away from him. But even if Nadia could sense a hurt in him, even if she remembered what her mother'd told her about how fragile he'd been after May had left—after he'd kicked her out—what she felt more was how her father had deliberately hurt her, hurt her to punish her. Had he been angry? Yes. He'd been angry and uncomprehending and callous and ugly. But Nadia didn't tell Guzmán so. Instead she pulled their intertwined fingers apart and held his hand in hers. She rubbed her thumb across his knuckles, and, for the first time, she asked him for his help.

"Can you take me home today? After school?"

He agreed with no hesitation.

That afternoon Guzmán drove her home and stopped a few blocks away, like he usually did. Without looking at him Nadia said, "To the door, please."

His surprise was in the long pause he took before he answered, and in his voice. He'd taken her home countless times before, but he'd never dropped her off at her front door. She'd never let him. And he hadn't pushed her because an unspoken but acknowledged tenet of their relationship was that there were other people who had claim on her love and her time, and so she only gave him as much as she could of herself.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Guzmán drove the few blocks to her family's store and parked right across the street, in plain view of the shop front. The reflection of his bright red car, so different from the old sedans that drove down the streets of her neighborhood, gleamed in the wide shop windows. Nadia's mother stood behind the register and her father was rearranging fruit just a few feet from her.

Guzmán got out. Nadia's parents turned at the sound of his door closing. Nadia was aware of her parents' eyes on them as she watched Guzmán walk around the front of his car to open her door for her. Their scrutiny felt like a physical thing, like humidity in the air on a hot day that made you sweat without even needing to move, or an injury that didn't immediately hurt, but made you careful of how you placed your foot when walking. Guzmán got her backpack from the back seat and handed it to her after she stepped out. The whole time Nadia watched her parents watching him. They were tracking his movements, but they were also taking note, as Nadia was, of who else saw them, nearby shop owners who noticed Nadia being dropped off, neighbors who recognized Guzmán as the boy who'd been in the Shanaa shop on weekends when Nadia's parents had been out. He didn't reach for her, didn't place a hand at the small of her back, but shoved both his hands in his pockets. Nadia pressed her lips together and held her books to her chest to keep her hands from shaking.

"Nadia."

He had a way of saying her name that made her feel braver and kinder and better than she knew herself to be. It pulled her away from the weight of her parents' judgement and made her focus on him. He caught her eye and held it. Encouragement was etched in his face, in his stance. She hadn't told him what she was doing, but he knew. He nodded at her, asking her silently if she was ready, and after a moment more of taking in his steady gaze, she nodded back.

Nadia crossed the street, and Guzmán stayed by her side, matching his steps to hers. At the door to the shop she fumbled, and they were both awkward for a moment. They usually kissed goodbye. They usually found more to say to each other after they said goodbye because they didn't want to part. But they couldn't do that now. Guzmán reacted first. He gave her one last look and she watched him change his features, watched him soften himself. The determination left his face and was replaced with what Nadia recognized as the look he wore when he wanted to influence people who didn't know the truth of what he thought or felt—he looked cordial, carefree, and ready to charm. He opened the shop door and the chimes jingled, announcing someone was entering. Nadia stepped in before him. Her eyes were on her father as his eyes were on her.

"I'm home," she said. Her voice was weaker than she wanted it to be, but she was resolute. Neither of her parents answered. They weren't convinced by her play at normalcy.

Behind her, Guzmán spoke up. "Hello, Mrs. Shanaa. It's nice to see you."

At first Nadia thought her mother wouldn't say anything, but then, after glancing at Nadia's father, she smiled a small smile and returned Guzmán's greeting. "Hello, young man."

Guzmán smiled, too, but his was wider, relieved and barely guarded. "Guzmán," he said. "Guzmán Nunier Osuna. I'm a classmate of Nadia's."

"Hello, Guzmán," her mother said.

He took a deep breath then and turned to Nadia's father, whose eyes were on his wife. He was frowning at her, as if he was confused by something, and it took a moment for him to turn his attention to Guzmán. He looked at him with distaste, but he held it in check, this time. Guzmán gave a him a quick, stiff nod, then looked at Nadia. He wanted to say something to her, he probably wanted to hold her. But he only said lightly, "I'll see you at school tomorrow, Nadia." She heard the promise in it.

Nadia watched him leave, her breath stopped up in her chest, and let it out slowly after he'd driven away. She turned to her father and asked, "Do you need me here today?" and it was her mother who answered.

"No, we're all right. We'll take care of the store today. Just be on time for dinner."

Nadia nodded slowly. Disappointment replaced the tension that had stiffened her shoulders since she'd first asked Guzmán to drop her off. This was it, then, her father's response to her questioning him. He wasn't speaking to her. She stared at him and he stared back, face grim, and then, again, turned his back on her. Nadia turned to her mother. "I'll be upstairs," she said softly.

In her room Nadia went through her schoolwork methodically. She'd gotten into Columbia, but she still had to maintain her grades to keep her admittance. Her mind was somewhere else, though. A day ago she'd been afraid of her father, though she'd never used that word with herself. She felt her father's silence keenly, felt the loss of him in her bones, but—strangely, surprisingly—she wasn't afraid of it, wasn't afraid to be without him. Because throughout the day she'd had Guzmán with her, and May's letters tucked close by her. And when she'd come home she'd had her mother there to greet her, and on her calendar she had a lunch date with Omar to tell him about May and share with him what their mother had shared with her. She was finally finding an answer for who she was without her father's love.

He wasn't speaking to her, and later on he'd probably ask her mother why she'd spoken to Guzmán when he felt their family had been disrespected. But he wasn't speaking to Omar, either. And he didn't know his once beloved daughter, his firstborn who he'd doted on, was alive. So often Nadia felt singular, alone; but her father made her realize what isolation really was—cutting yourself off from those who would stand by you; choosing to hurt someone in order to safeguard your pride; asking a person to be what you want of them instead of allowing them to be who they are. Her father had lost so much, all through his own actions, and if he wasn't careful he'd lose her mother, too.

For the first time since May had left their family, Nadia didn't wish she could go back in time to fix her mistakes. For the first time, she wanted the future, and not just as an escape. She didn't know if May could ever forgive her, but in her letters she'd found that there was more to them than how she'd failed. It wasn't hope. That was too fragile, too ephemeral, and could be taken away so easily. It was the thought that something wonderful may happen, something unexpected, like her mother knocking on her door to tell her a secret, or Guzmán falling in love with her when he'd meant to hurt her, or her being a better friend to Omar than she was a sister—something wonderful, like possibility.

Guzmán didn't get sleepy after sex. He'd stretch and become languid. The tension that was usually curled up in his body, ready to unfurl at any moment in cutting words or a burst of violence, dissipated. He'd lay next to Nadia with his eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a smile, satisfied and self-satisfied all at once. Nadia liked to trace a finger across his eyebrows, down his nose, and over his lips, where he'd suck it into his mouth past the knuckle while looking her in the eye, then grin around it while holding it between his teeth. He liked sex so much, was so enthusiastic about it, that he made Nadia feel easy with it, with her body and thoughts, and with what she wanted. When she'd first spied him with Lu in the showers, naked and shuddering, she hadn't been surprised or perturbed, but curious. She'd been drawn in by him, by the expanse of his back, the width of his shoulders, his hair grown dark beneath the water, his hands on Lu's hips. He and Lu had been so focused, even though they'd been in a place where anyone could see them. Their minds had been drawn down to just one point that excluded everything else—what they could get from each other and what they could give to each other. She'd imagined what it'd be like with him, not knowing that one day she'd know he was playful and wickedly submissive, that he liked to nip at her ear and hear her talk, would goad her into telling him what she liked and then tease her with it before giving it to her.

The night of Samu's party Nadia'd felt loose-limbed and like she could see everything in more detail than she was used to—the lights from the police cars bright, the suede of Guzmán's jacket smooth, the water in his pool clear and inviting. She'd felt adventurous and on the brink of discovering some luscious, unexplored part of herself, one that took delight in demanding to be pleased. She'd noticed how long Guzmán's brows were, and she hadn't been put off by his sneer or his insult. She'd been amused by them instead, like he was inviting her to some silly game they could play together. And right alongside his sneer had been something else; a weight to his gaze that spoke of an interest in her that was more than the flirtation he'd been laying on so thick since the night of Marina's party. That was the moment Nadia became fascinated with looking at him, to take in the emotions that were there on his face for anyone to see, to watch them animate his features and make her want to know more about him. He was so transparent, and it was so different from herself, from what she was used to. She'd wanted to ask him how he could stand letting people see so much of him.

In his pool she'd wanted him to kiss her and he'd refused. She'd been confused. She hadn't understand why he'd turn her down when she was offering him something he'd asked for. Instead he'd swum away from her and urged her out of the pool. She'd asked him why he was angry, why he wouldn't touch her. He'd placed a hand on her shoulder and another on her elbow to help her down onto a bench and said, "See, I'm touching you." But that wasn't the kind of touching she'd meant. He'd brought over towels, laying one across her shoulders and using another to help her dry her hair. And then he'd carded his fingers through it, combing the tangles out. He'd walked her to a taxi, one hand on her elbow again, the other this time at the small of her back, helped her into it, climbed in after her. He'd given the cab driver her address. The one thing Nadia didn't remember from the night was how she got up to her room. She assumed Omar had helped her, but was too embarrassed to ask.

The next morning she'd woken up with a horribly dry mouth and piercing headache. She'd touched her head and found her hair in a loose braid, tied with a small ribbon she recognized as Marina's. And that was when she remembered the softness of Guzmán's fingers against her scalp. In the locker room later that day, when he'd said that horrible thing to her, she hadn't been scared of him, but of herself, because it had been the first time she'd ever wanted someone like that, and she hadn't known then if she had it in her to deal with wanting even more than she already did, and wanting it from someone like Guzmán of all people. She hadn't known then how easy he would make it for her to want him.

Months later she'd taken him back to his pool because what stayed with her even after learning of the bet was the care he'd given to her that first night. She could have woken up feeling scared because she'd been drugged without her knowledge and instead she'd woken up feeling safe. She'd gotten Guzmán to stop losing himself in drugs and alcohol, but he'd still been in the grip of his grief over Marina's murder. She'd been, too. But when they were together there was a tenderness between them that shielded them from the worst of it. She returned the care he had for her, and somehow that allowed them to lay their burden down, if only for a moment.

That night, she started by confessing her fear. Guzmán let her know he was scared, too. But he said it with a smile, and it made her feel like fear wasn't such big thing. They kissed in his old pool, and then Nadia and Guzmán stood opposite each other and stripped. Guzmán started, and they each took turns removing their clothing until they were both bare. Guzmán's eyes grew dark, but his gaze was still the same, full of the warmth and adoration she was so used to from him. He smiled again, easy and wolfish all at once, and it made Nadia flush and grin back at him, giddy with how lovely she found him. He pulled her close. He took her hand and kissed each of her fingers and she pressed a kiss at the base of his throat where she could feel his pulse. He kissed each of her eyelids and she pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips. He kissed her nose and threaded their fingers together, and then he kissed her with lips parted, sweet and hungry to make her ache, and Nadia let the feeling flood through her. He pulled away and Nadia chased after him, but he nudged his nose against hers, his eyes barely open, kept his mouth close to hers and asked her if she knew what she wanted, sucked her upper lip into his mouth before she could answer. Nadia said yes. He told her to tell him. She showed him instead.

She pressed a kiss against his shoulder. She stepped around him, skimming her fingers over his hip, and lay kisses all across his back. She pressed herself all up against him, her front to his back, lay her cheek against him and heard the thump of his heartbeat. She closed her eyes, brought her arms around him, hugged him close, pressed her palms flat low on his stomach and ran then up to his chest, and he tipped his head back against her, a sound she loved leaving him. She trailed her fingers from the base of his neck down his spine and kissed his other shoulder, then drew up close to him. His lids were heavy with both desire and satisfaction. He cupped her cheek and rubbed his thumb over it and looked at her with wonder. Nadia kissed him. There was no hurry to their movements, and somehow, though she knew it couldn't be true, she felt like they weren't stealing time away to be together, but had forever. Guzmán's hands were as pleasingly greedy as his mouth, grasping her and holding her so she knew he wanted her. Nadia made him shudder under her hands and that itself was gratification. They sunk to the ground together, Nadia on top of him. She braced her hands against his chest and he held her by the waist. He looked so serious. He looked so soft and open. He asked, "Are you ok?" and Nadia nodded. Nadia asked him the same and in answer he broke out in a grin.

It was intense, and not as dramatic as Nadia had imagined. But it was so good it made her weak. She squeezed her eyes shut and curled over into Guzmán with it. They lay like that for a while, weak limbed and warm and satisfied, Guzmán rubbing a hand lazily up and down her back. His hands were so big. They held each other throughout the night, refusing to fall asleep. They spoke until their voices become hoarse with it. They gave in to sleep just as the sky was becoming light outside, but Nadia woke soon after. She wanted to wake him up with a kiss, see what he looked like when she was the first thing he saw. But she'd stayed away from home an entire night to be with him, and she knew if she woke him up, even if he didn't ask her to stay, it'd be too difficult for her to leave.

In her typical chaotic fashion, Rebe threw her party right before finals. Her theme was Bacchanalia, even though Nadia didn't think she needed to give anyone at Las Encinas any more reason to walk around half-dressed and drink themselves into crazed murderous orgies. Val dressed like Caravaggio's Bacchus, complete with a wreath of grapes in his hair and a bared chest. Omar wore tiny white shorts and a barely-there white mesh shirt and carried around a stick he insisted Ander call his staff. Lu took her inspiration from The Bacchae and painted her lips and nails a deep shade of red, the better to represent a woman ready to tear a man to pieces. Carla ignored the theme and wore a Mugler minidress that cascaded off her breasts and hips and left Samu speechless and looking pained. Nadia ignored the theme, too. Her dress hugged her close like Carla's but was long-sleeved and reached down to her ankles. It looked dark at first, but shimmered like the night sky when she moved. She wore a matching head piece and sparkly stud earrings, but the real focus was her face. Her makeup was simple, but glamorous and had a dramatic effect. Midnight black liner to compliment her eyes and mascara to make her thick lashes even longer; her brows long and thick, too; glimmering eyeshadow to match her dress and a dab of gold on the inner corners; just a touch of blush high on her cheeks; lipstick a rich shade of pink and gloss over them.

Rebe's party spilled out of her house and onto her lawn and the street outside. Cars were lined up for over a mile alongside the road and it was so crowded that Nadia's cab had to inch its way up along the throng. She could hear the music even before she saw the house and finally she decided to just walk the rest of the way there. She had to pick her way through groups of people she'd never seen before, many older than her and way too many younger, and when she made it inside Rebe greeted her with a huge grin and a bottle of Hennessy in one hand. She yelled over the music and asked her, "What do you look so gorgeous for?" but Nadia was so overwhelmed that all she could do was shrug and laugh in response. When Guzmán spotted her he grinned wide, broke away from the group he was with and made his way to her. He was in his element, barely dressed and wearing a slip of fabric that looked more like a joke than an attempt at a toga. He hugged her tight when he reached her, and then he gave her a strange, delightful little kiss just at the top corner of her lip, his tongue darting out to lick her there. It was at total odds with the party around them, which had people making out in all stages of undress. "What was that?" Nadia asked him. She had to bring her mouth to his ear so he could hear her over the music. "For your perfect little mole," Guzmán said into her ear. He brushed his thumb over the tiny dot Nadia had on her lip, grin softer, eyes full of wonder, and kissed her there again.

He took her by the hand and wound through the party with her following behind until they reached a room further from the DJ. It was just as crowded as all the other rooms, but it was smaller and darker and not as loud. The party was less frenzied here. Guzmán turned to her then, tugged her arms over his shoulders, and pulled her close to him by the waist. "Hey," he said, greeting her again now that she could hear him without his having to shout.

"Hey," Nadia said, suddenly a little shy.

"You look beautiful," he said. Warmth bloomed inside Nadia at his compliment.

"Thank you," she said. "You look beautiful, too."

Guzmán grinned so wide his dimples showed and his eyes went small. They danced together, Guzmán's gaze on her steady, luscious, and unbroken. Nadia watched him taking his pleasure in taking her in. He didn't even try to hide it. She was a little thrilled by it, a little scared of it. She was curious to know if that was what she looked like when she looked at him. He didn't break his gaze—not for people passing by, not even when the music changed—until he dipped his head to kiss her and tucked his face in the crook of her neck and murmured "I love you" against her skin. Nadia stilled in his arms and he kissed the side of her neck, then kissed that sweet little space right behind her ear. It wasn't his first time telling her.

They were surrounded by classmates and strangers, but whenever they spoke like this, quiet and serious, he liked to touch his forehead to hers and fill their conversation with sweet kisses. He'd kiss her after he asked her a question, kiss her in answer to one from her. He'd kiss her if she said something he liked, kiss her if she said something that upset him. It was heady and intense, the affection he showed her, and it made Nadia feel cherished, but also like she had a responsibility to care for what he was giving her. Nadia ran her nails along the nape of his neck, which always made his eyelids dip, made him soft like flour in her hand, relaxed in a way he rarely was outside of this intimacy. Up close like this, she noticed how clear his eyes were, and how so much of his bravado came from how he looked at a person.

"How do you know?" she asked, and it wasn't just to distract him from what she didn't say.

"Because these past two years my best memories have been with you. I know you, and the more I know you the more I want you. When I'm upset I want to talk to you, and when I'm happy I want to share it with you. And I trust you."

His words set Nadia's heart to thudding. It was no small thing, for him to say he trusted her, after Polo, and after Ander, and after his father. It meant more to her even than his love. It was so easy for him to say it, to show it. She knew she loved him, but she felt like she needed to protect what she felt for him, and not naming it out loud was one way to do so.

She started to pull her arms from around him, but Guzmán caught them and held them there.

"You think I don't know how you feel about me?" he asked, and kissed her. "I know," he said, and gave her another kiss.

"How?"

"Who else are you this good to?"

"Am I good to you?"

"Yes." Another kiss, harder this time, like he wanted to convince her with it. "I know you went to Muñoz," he said, "after I was suspended."

Nadia shrugged. "She never would have expelled you anyway. The whole point of Las Encinas is for rich parents to send their kids there to do as they please without having to worry about them." She nodded her head to the side. "Just look around us. Finals are in two days and half the people here are on coke."

"Doesn't matter," Guzmán said. "You went to her for me anyway."

Nadia shook her head and looked away. It was difficult for her to tell him she loved him, but it was difficult, too, to have him know it and acknowledge it to her.

"No, don't do that," he said. "Stay with me." Guzmán used a finger to tip her chin up, but Nadia still kept her eyes lowered. "I went to Muñoz, too, remember? When I tried to get her to get your dad to let you to stay."

"Was that before or after you swore to him you'd never speak to me?"

He ignored her question, kissed her and continued talking like she hadn't interrupted. "You know why I went? I hated the thought of not seeing you every day. I didn't think I'd be able to stand it."

"So it wasn't because you were so concerned about my education?" Nadia said ironically.

"Did you think you'd miss me? Is that why you went to her?" Guzmán asked. He was being so open, so needful, Nadia couldn't hold on to the reserve she used to keep herself from feeling how deep her love for him went. She closed her eyes for a moment and stepped closer to that precipice Guzmán always brought her to, edged around it so she could become more comfortable with it.

"Nadia, you should know by now I don't give a fuck about people who don't want me." How was it that his spitefulness came across as sincerity? Nadia remembered then that he was adopted, thought of how vicious he'd been with Polo, and how he struggled with forgiving Ander. He was so foreign to her, not at all the person she had ever imagined for herself, but still somehow the exact person she needed in her life then, someone who wanted her even through her doubts and hesitation, someone who was loyal but pushed her to do the things she was afraid of, someone who spoke up for her and stood by her when she spoke up for herself. He gathered her up close to him again, and they were holding each other more than they were dancing. He tucked his face against the crook of her neck again and said, "You're my dream girl."

Nadia had to lean her head back and laugh. Now he was just being brazen. "I'm your dream girl? When you thought of the girl of your dreams you thought of a girl like me?"

Guzmán shook his head. "No. I think of you during the day and when I sleep at night I dream of you." He said it so seriously he seemed almost angry, and the laughter died on Nadia's lips. Was what he said so very different from what she'd just been thinking of him?

"Kiss me, then," she said, and he did.

She told Omar about May over brunch. He took it so well that he left Nadia bewildered.

"Aren't you at least surprised?" she asked.

Omar shrugged. He leaned back in his chair, pulled another close, and crossed his ankles on it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. His forearm glistened with the ointment he'd applied earlier over a new tattoo he'd gotten, a blooming flower with loud colors.

"I don't know," he said. "I mean, I left, right? And I haven't wilted away." He lit his cigarette and took a drag, turned his head so the smoke he blew out wouldn't catch Nadia in the face.

He was right. Far from wilting, Omar was thriving. He'd cut back on his hours at the bar because he'd started DJing. He'd played a set at one of Lu's parties and since then his IG had blown up, students at Las Encinas and San Esteban and further messaging him to work their own parties. He had his first club gig lined up for the next coming weekend, and he'd made Nadia promise to come see him. It made her think of just how big their world was, that just by stepping outside the circle their family—their father—allowed them, he could find not just Ander, but work that seemed to suit him more than anything else she'd seen him do. He was still his languid self, but the listlessness was gone. He looked genuinely excited and pleased. If he could do it, find someone and something to love, then May, the most tenacious between them and the first Shanaa sibling to rebel, could, too. It reshaped the narrative in Nadia's head, made her think maybe it wasn't only that he'd gotten kicked out, but that maybe he was walking a familiar path, was following in their big sister's steps.

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "You make me seem so melodramatic."

"Nah," Omar said. "We just put a different weight on things. If I put the weight on Babba's acceptance that you do, I'd be in the closet. And if I played around with Ander like you do with Guzmán, we wouldn't be together."

Nadia's jaw dropped. "I do not play with Guzmán," she said hotly.

Omar raised one eyebrow and let out a curl of smoke. Nadia huffed. "It's complicated. And he's okay with that."

"Oh yeah? Is that what he was telling you at Rebe's when he was all over you?"

Nadia scowled at him and took a prim sip of her orange juice. Omar let out a loud laugh. "You really make the slut jump out of him, huh?"

For an older brother, he really could act like a younger brother sometimes.

They spent the rest of their hour ordering more desert for breakfast, teasing each other about their boyfriends, wondering about their futures, and slipping in and out of musings about their family. There wasn't anyone else Nadia could talk to like this, who knew what she meant without her having to explain, who could joke with her one minute and speak about their family's pain the next and still make sense. It was amazing—so many years of near estrangement and now being with Omar was so easy.

After their check came Nadia pulled May's letters out from her purse.

"Here," she said, and pressed them into Omar's hands. He looked at her curiously. "Maybe we don't put the same weight on things, but I think these will mean as much to you as they do to me."

"You're letting me keep them?" Omar asked.

"They're not mine," Nadia said. "May was yours, too."

In the Shanaa home, Nadia still woke alongside her mother and father for morning prayers. This was what reached all three of them, through the strain of anger and distrust her speaking up had brought to them. Her father met her with silence and she and her mother held a secret from him, but this they shared.

On weekday mornings Nadia would leave for school before the store opened, but while she braided her hair, pulled on her school uniform, and ate breakfast, her parents would usually start the process of opening—sweeping if they hadn't done so the evening before, bringing the cash drawer to the register. Her mother or father would unlock the shop door for her, and she'd leave after giving them a kiss on the cheek and telling them she'd be back later. This routine changed after she asked Guzmán to come into the store with her; it was only her mother, now, who greeted her before she left for the day. And then the routine changed further. One morning Nadia walked through the corridor connecting her home to the store and through the stands of fruit and vegetables she saw Guzmán leaning against his car, parked right outside the door. She smiled at the sight of him. She couldn't help it.

Guzmán smiled when he saw her, too. He made to move towards her, but Nadia's mother came down the corridor, then, and saw him. A moment stretched between the three. Her mother's presence made Guzmán seem out of place. Nadia still didn't know how to feel or act when her two worlds, Guzmán and her family, Las Encinas and her neighborhood, came together. She was used to being in love with Guzmán when she was with him, and being Imán and Yusef's daughter when she was with them, but she still had to figure out how to be both when she was with both.

Quietly, Nadia's mother walked past her and to the door. She unlocked it, opened it, and hesitatingly, Guzmán took a step forward, then entered the store.

"Good morning, Mrs. Shanaa," he said, a picture of politeness.

"Good morning," she said.

"I'm here for Nadia, to take her to school."

"That's thoughtful of you," Nadia's mother said. Her accent was thick, but she spoke clearly. "Nadia," she said in Arabic, "Are you ready?"

And finally Nadia felt she could move. "Yes, Mama," she said. At the door her mother pressed a kiss to her forehead and told her to have a good day.

This became a new routine at the Shanaa home. The atmosphere was uneasy because Nadia's father knew what happened each morning in their store, and yet he said nothing. He didn't raise his voice to forbid it, but was no trace of acceptance in him, either.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Nadia told Guzmán one morning.

"What, be a part of your real life?"

"Las Encinas is just as real as anything else. This…" Nadia waved her hand, unsure of how to name it, "You don't need to do it."

Guzmán took her hand and kissed her knuckles. "But I want to. I think your mom likes me."

Since he'd first started picking her up, Guzmán and her mother had started exchanging more than just greetings. First he brought her coffee, and then he brought her pastries to go with it. Then her mother asked after his parents—"They're well, thank you."—and, then, gently, in a hushed voice, gave her condolences for Marina—"Th-thank you." And, so brief Nadia might have missed it, her mother placed a hand on his arm—a small act, but still an offering of consolation. Their greetings became conversations—halting, sometimes embarrassingly painful ones because Guzmán knew how to impress Spanish parents but not her own, and he tried too hard to establish commonalities—but the conversations began to lose their effort and awkwardness and edged toward ease.

Nadia didn't know if she had room enough in her for what all this made her feel, that Guzmán and her mother were taking steps toward each other, with no reason to do so save for the love of her. She could barely comprehend it. For so long she'd thought—known—that the work would be hers, that she'd have to be the one to find some way to bridge the parts of herself that seemed so disparate because she was the one who was greedy enough to want so much. But here Guzmán was, and here her mother was, doing it without her having even asked.

Nadia was speaking to Guzmán late into the night. It was one of her favorite things to do with him because she sometimes thought this thing between them lived only when they saw each other, when they were together. It made her worry what would happen when she left for New York. She hadn't even yet told him she'd been accepted to Columbia. But speaking to him over the phone pulled her in just as much as seeing him did—she enjoyed him any way she could have him.

They were each refusing to hang up, speaking quietly and teasing each other, when Nadia noticed a shadow moving in the crevice beneath her bedroom door. Someone was pacing outside it. Her father. She recognized his footfalls, which were heavier than her mothers. She'd first memorized them from when he would come into the room she'd shared with Omar and May when they were kids. He'd come from a day at the factory and kiss them each goodnight, though their mother had put them all to bed hours before.

"Guzmán," Nadia said, "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," he said, "Goodnight." He had a way of sounding like he was saying something more.

After hanging up, Nadia opened her door. She didn't say anything, just watched her father as he watched her. They hadn't spoken to each other in weeks. And maybe it was petty of her, maybe Guzmán was rubbing off a bit too much on her, but she didn't want to be the first to speak. He looked so tense, his brow drawn down ferociously, but Nadia remembered how she and Omar had each other, how May hadn't mentioned their father at all, and she wasn't afraid. He was the one severing ties, and he was the one left alone, like a tree with all its branches shorn off. And all of a sudden Nadia realized he'd never had this kind of aftermath with May and Omar. He was so used to making decrees, and he'd never had to answer their questions.

In the weeks since her mother had shared May's letters with her, Nadia had thought about how much of who she was was made up of May's absence. It was almost like a fresh wound, despite the relief. She realized that alongside missing May, she'd been missing what her life could have been, the person she would have been, had May never left. Someone less guarded and less ambivalent about love; someone who wasn't aware of her own faults and limitations; someone perhaps less ambitious; a person who didn't abhor failure because she'd never had to live up to an ideal someone else hadn't been able to maintain. Someone who could have had a chance to apologize for her mistakes. Just a little sister. She wondered who her father could be, if he could apologize for his mistakes.

Nadia stepped out of her doorway, made space for her father to step in. He did.

He hadn't been in her room in ages. He walked around it slowly and stopped in front of a vase of full of flowers Guzmán had gotten her.

"He comes into my home almost every day," her father started, "and he doesn't even have the courtesy to greet me."

Nadia recognized it for the feint it was. Guzmán was the smallest of what lay between them. But still she said, "He can't greet a person who never shows his face."

Nadia's father turned to her.

"You're really going to fight me for him?"

"Not fight," Nadia said. "But you should judge him based on the truth of the situation, and not based on misgivings you have about him that have nothing to do with him." She paused and in a smaller voice said, "Our family—" she faltered "—the way our family is, May and Omar, they have nothing to do with him."

Her father nodded slowly, like he was indulging her. "What's the truth, then, other than that you've lied because of him, and he's rude and looks down on us?"

"I'm not on the way to school," Nadia said.

"So?"

"So he wakes an hour earlier than he otherwise would have so he can pick me up and drop me off. He lives closer to Las Encinas, but he goes out of his way. For me."

"And that's…what? Enough? Enough for you to go behind our backs? Enough for you to…" her father lifted his hand, gestured to her, and let his hand drop again. "…change who you are?"

And Nadia thought she was starting to understand something. "Babba," she said slowly, and the familiar name brought a stricken look to his face, "I haven't changed for Guzmán. Who I am right now? Whatever it is in me that you don't like? It's not because of him. I'm not at Las Encinas because of him. I'm not going to New York because of him. The lying—I'm sorry for it, but that's not because of him, either. It's because…I don't know how to make myself be what you want anymore. I don't want to be what you want. I want to be me."

"What do you mean, what I don't like about you?"

Tears sprung suddenly to Nadia's eyes. Was he going to make her say it?

"I don't know," she said, her voice accusatory. "The same thing you didn't like about May. The same thing you don't like about Omar."

"You tell me you're leaving home to go to school overseas," her father said, "You inform me. You don't ask my opinion, you don't ask for my help. And now you tell me I don't love my children?"

"Do you?" Nadia asked.

"Of course I do," her father said. "Do you understand that I'm your father?"

"What does that even mean?"

"What am I supposed to do when you tell me you don't need me anymore? When you tell me what I think is useless to you?"

Nadia had no answer for him.

"Nadia," he father said. He was shaking his head and looking down at his hands. His voice was so low Nadia could only just hear him. "I thought raising you would be easier because you're our third, and I thought after having two children I'd know what to do. But each child is their own lesson. Can I tell you what I know?"

Her father was not apologizing. He was barely addressing the decisions he'd made that had turned their family so small. But he was speaking to her. He was telling her about doubt when for so long everything he'd said had been in absolutes. She looked at him standing by her dresser, and she didn't recognize him as the father from her childhood memories, but she didn't recognize him looming large and horrifying as the father who'd thrown her siblings out, either. Somehow those versions of him were true, and what he was showing her now was true, too.

"What do you know?" Nadia asked.

"You're not responsible for your sister or for Omar."

Nadia gasped.

"I see you…struggling. You're not responsible for—for what ha—for what I did. Those are my burdens. And they have nothing to do with you. New York… It feels like you're running away. From me? From our family? I don't know. But Nadia, I'm your father, and one thing I know is you will be wherever you go. So yes, you should be yourself. And whatever it is you want that self to be, you'll still be my daughter."

Carefully, Nadia's father reached into his pocket. He walked over to her. He took her hand and turned her palm face-up. He placed an envelope there. Nadia flipped it open shock shot through her. Her father had just given her a one-way plane ticket from Madrid to New York.