and only dried husks remain in the hedge from the door to the driveway.
Dad, in his Yankees sweatshirt, is standing next to the car, opening the passenger door. He’s holding—my college binder. I’m comforted by the very sight of the turquoise plastic and the perfectly hole-punched pages between the covers. Pages containing the details of the coming week, the seven days I’ll spend driving to the University of Virginia, with stops in Boston, Providence, New Haven, New York, and D.C. on the way. I could have easily spent two weeks on this trip if it weren’t for the cost of hotels and needing to be home in time for Matt’s mom Shanna’s birthday. I did my best to maximize schools and cities in the time we have.
Hearing me close the front door, Dad glances up, and his eyes find mine. He holds up the binder. “The girls were eyeing it. I figured it would be safer if I—” No doubt noticing my watering eyes, he places the binder in the back seat and closes the car door. “Go,” he says gently, knowing exactly what I need right now. “Before Tía comes out and finds you,” he adds with a wink.
I place the box on the roof of the car, then walk into his arms. The fabric of his sweatshirt is soft, and he smells like the mountain-scented deodorant Mom once said she liked and he’s worn ever since. I exhale into his chest. “Sometimes I feel like there isn’t enough room for me in that house, you know?”
He holds me closer. “For this mind”—he traces his thumb along my forehead—“there isn’t room enough in the whole world.”
I hug back, hard. I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t for him.
Hearing footsteps, I pull away and find Matt coming up the driveway. His house is ten minutes from mine, and he walks over here often for movie nights and family dinners. I feel the familiar flutter in my heart I get whenever I’m with him. He’s tall, with broad shoulders from baseball, sandy hair, and a chin Michelangelo would’ve given his left hand to carve. His smile is wide enough to fit the universe.
He’s carrying a duffel bag, and he waves to me and my dad. “I was serious about you getting out of here,” Dad says. “Sofi’s on the warpath. Don’t worry, I’ll cover for you.” He winks again and walks forward to meet Matt. “Don’t do any stupid shit on this trip, got it?” he says, shaking my boyfriend’s hand.
Matt swallows. “Of course, sir.”
Dad claps him on the shoulder. My dad and Matt have a relationship of their own born of baseball and Die Hard movies, even if Dad likes to pull his “intimidating father” act every now and again. “Tell Mom bye for me,” I say, opening the rear door while the guys load the luggage into the trunk.
Instantly, I’m hit with an unmistakable smell, the smell of every Christmas since we moved to Springfield. Memories of Abuela blindside me until I push them away. I notice a foil-covered platter on the back seat.
“Tía,” I groan.
I stow the box on the floor behind the driver’s seat and close the door, waving to my dad as I get into the front. Matt gets in the passenger seat, and we pull out of the driveway.
“Whoa,” Matt says, eager curiosity crossing his perfect features. “What’s that smell?”
I nod to the back seat. “Tía’s stubbornness. Also known as tamales.”
Matt reaches between our seats and pulls out the platter. He opens the glove compartment where—of course—he finds a plastic fork. I roll my eyes. Tía’s thought of everything. Matt takes a bite of tamale and groans in ecstasy. “Oh my god,” he moans through a mouthful, “I love your family. When can I marry into them again?” he asks casually, giving me a sideways look.
I feel my eyes widen. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Matt shrugs. “Seventy percent,” he says.
I shake my head, silently scolding. Yet I can’t help stealing a glance in his direction. He’s wearing his Springfield High baseball T-shirt. I remember how, when they went to the state playoffs, the whole team threw a huge house