My alarm’s been going off for twenty minutes, but I haven’t moved. Mostly because the second I do, I know I have to face the real world. But also because the mind-numbing blaring almost manages to block out all thoughts of last night. Of what last night means for today, for tomorrow, for prom and graduation and the rest of my life.
If the sunlight pouring in from the crack between my curtains is any indication, it’s far too bright and sunny out. I hear shuffling outside my door and imagine Dad pacing the hall, building up the courage to say something to me. I wonder if he and Mom argued over this too.
“Ophelia?” Dad raps twice on the door. “Necesitas levantarte.”
“I’m awake!” I reply. “Don’t come in. I’m changing.”
“Bueno,” he says, but I don’t hear him leave. “I’ll give you a ride today. I already told Samuel.”
Great, Sammie stopped by already. “Okay!” I wait until his footsteps fade down the hall to dig around in my bed for my phone and finally turn off my alarm.
I open Instagram. Might as well see what this damned Wes and Lindsay post is all about. I’m prepared to be annoyed by it, but a smile naturally tugs at my face when I pull up Linds’s profile and see the photo of them. She’s in pajamas, hair in a bun and the glasses she never wears in public perched on her nose. She’s gripping a bouquet of lilies (inferior to roses, but still sweet) and Wes’s drawing. As happy as she looks, her smile is nothing compared to Wesley’s, his cheeks stretched so wide his face looks ready to burst.
I get a little choked up at the image, despite everything that’s going on. Or maybe because of everything that’s going on. Because at the end of the day, I think Wes and I are more alike than I wanted to admit. Sure, he’s a lot quieter, gentler, and altogether better than I think I am, but we’re both waiters. We wait for love, wait for the people we love to see us the way we see them. And in the face of waiting for one of the most popular and loved girls in school, who already had a funny, kind, loud, and attractive boy with his sights set on her, Wesley went for it.
He stopped waiting for change and made it happen himself.
I get out of bed, rushing to wash my face and brush my hair. The bags under my eyes will just have to be my accessory for the day. Dad knocks again, warning that we should leave soon, so I slip into an old pair of jeans with roses stitched on the back pockets and a plain white tank top.
“?Lista?” Dad asks as I enter the kitchen. I grab a banana off the counter and not-so-subtly check for Mom. “She left already to pick up groceries,” he says, reading my mind.
I plug my earbuds into my phone when we get inside the car, but Dad places a gentle hand over mine as I fumble to unravel the cords. “We should talk.” My stomach turns, but I nod. “?Recuerdas algo de tu abuelo?” he asks suddenly.
I shake my head, confused at the subject change. Abuelo died when I was a baby; all I remember about him are stories.
He presses his lips together as he drives. I wonder if that’s the end of it. But he sighs and turns to look at me quickly, allowing me to notice the tears welling in his eyes. I’m too stunned to speak.
“Después que falleció mi padre, mi madre me dio sus cartas y documentos personales. Ella me dijo que necesitaba leerlos para comprender las cosas que él no podía compartir conmigo cuando estaba vivo. En los documentos, encontré un poema para mi padre de un hombre en Santa Clara, la ciudad donde creció. El poema era romántico. No leí todo porque … porque no era asunto mío. Pero entendí la intención de mi madre.”
My brain rushes to catch up with his words, his Spanish faster than I’m used to. But when their meaning hits me, I’m left even more confused. After my father’s death, my mother gave me his letters and personal papers. She told me I needed to read them to understand things he couldn’t share with me when he was alive. In the papers, I found a poem for my father from a man from Santa Clara, the city he grew up in. The poem was romantic. I didn’t read it all because … because it wasn’t my business. But I understood my mom’s intention.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Not the Spanish, I understood that, but … what are you saying?”
“My father, tu abuelo, was loved by another man. And from what I read, I think he loved him back. I didn’t read any of the other letters, and I never asked my mother about them or who that man was. And I don’t know why he never told me, why my mother wanted me to know after he passed, or what happened between him and that man.
“I heard you last night. I’m not going to ask any questions. I want to show you the same respect I showed my father. But I needed you to know this, to know about your grandfather. Not even your mom knows, but I felt like you needed to.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why haven’t you told Mom?”
He runs a hand over his face. “En mi familia, I was taught not to talk about these things. It’s how my amigos grew up too. We all knew someone like that, un tío who had a male “roommate” or primo who never brought una novia around but always wore that look of being in love.” We pull up to the drop-off, and I see Wesley waiting at the front gate. The car behind us honks as I hesitate to get out. Dad still won’t look at me.
“Did you mind? When you found the letters about your dad? Or when that girl turned you down because she had a girlfriend?”
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t mind at first. I just didn’t understand,” he says, and my stomach sinks. As a single tear slides down my cheek and onto my lips, Dad places his hand atop mine. “But I loved my father. I loved Paola. And I love you. None of that changed, mija. I did.”
I kiss him on the cheek before getting out of the car, whispering, “Gracias.”
Wesley shoots me a tentative smile as I approach him, stuffing his phone in his pocket.
“So I came out last night,” I say plainly, and his smile drops instantly.
“What?” He takes a step forward, placing a careful hand on my bent elbow. If Lindsay could see us now …
“Oh yeah, congrats on the promposal,” I say as genuinely as I can muster, my thoughts reminding me.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m—can we not go to school today?” I ask, and he frowns. “I know, I know. We’re graduating soon, and AP testing is around the corner, and … look, this’ll be the last time. I promise.”
He bites his lip, considering, but we both already know what his answer will be. “Got anywhere in mind?”
* * *