in the crowd.
I called his name and he came alive.
If I had any sense of self-preservation, I would’ve kept silent. I’m under no obligation to cheer him on. Not after last weekend. He made it quite clear he wants to fight his battles without any help from me.
And yet…
Watching him struggle inning after inning… Watching him begin to lose faith in himself with the entire town there to witness it…
Torture.
No matter how angry I am at him, no matter how much he’s hurt me, I can’t stand to see Archer in pain. I’d break my own heart a thousand times rather than watch his shatter.
Is that what it is to love someone? I wonder. Sacrificing your own feelings to protect theirs?
I’m so caught up in my thoughts as I cross the parking lot, I don’t notice Miguel and Flora until I’ve bumped straight into them. They’re parked one row over from the Range Rover.
“Josephine!” There are tears in Flora’s eyes, but she’s smiling. “Isn’t it just wonderful? Undefeated!”
I smile back. “You must be so proud.”
Miguel’s eyes are red-rimmed. He manages a choked grunt. “Hell of a season they had, huh?”
Reaching out, I squeeze his arm. “Hell of a son you’ve got.”
He looks up at the sky, blinking rapidly.
Flora grabs me in a warm hug and whispers in my ear. “Thank you, for what you did — for calling out to him. You’re always there whenever he’s struggling.”
I clear my throat awkwardly. “What are friends for?”
“I don’t know what he’d do without you.”
“I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”
Pulling back, she peers into my eyes. As usual, I’m sure she sees far more than she lets on, but she doesn’t say anything. She merely pats my cheek and murmurs, “Don’t stay out too late celebrating, mija.”
“I won’t.”
With a nod, she turns back to Miguel. He winks at me before they turn to leave. He slides his arm around her shoulders, steering her gently through the crowd toward their junky old truck — stunningly out of place in an ocean of designer vehicles. My heart pangs as I watch them. They fit perfectly together, their edges aligned like two puzzle pieces.
“Were those Archer’s parents?” Odette asks from behind me, her voice laced with incredulity.
I jolt in surprise as I turn back to the twins. I’d forgotten they were there. “Oh. Um… yep, that’s them.”
“Huh.” Ophelia’s eyes are narrowed on Miguel’s truck. “Not exactly what I expected.”
My spine stiffens. “What exactly did you expect?”
Odette giggles. “Personally, I always assumed Archer was the son of Mexican drug lords or something.”
“His family is Puerto Rican.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying, I was picturing Pablo Escobar… not the guy who cleans Pablo Escobar’s pool. You know what I mean.”
“No, actually,” I say with overt enunciation. My rage is boiling to the surface, threatening to spill over. “I really don’t know what you mean, Odette.”
Her lips twist into a pout. “Whatever.”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Josie.” Ophelia sweeps her bangs out of her eyes and starts walking. Her voice drifts back over her shoulder. “By the way, Ryan texted me earlier — he can’t drive you to the party anymore. Apparently, he wants to do shrooms with Andy beforehand or something. So you’re coming with us.”
“Oh.” I take a steadying breath. “Then maybe I should just go home. As long as you guys don’t mind dropping m—”
“Don’t be crazy!” Odette cuts me off. Her arm loops through mine as she drags me toward the bright pink SUV. “You’re coming to the party. Everyone is going to be there!”
“Everyone,” Ophelia echoes.
My teeth grind together as I climb into the backseat. We wind through the tiny downtown area, blasting music as we cruise past the railroad station and circle the harbor. Behind the wheel, Ophelia puffs her vaporizer and bobs her head to the beat. In the passenger seat, Odette chugs a spiked lemonade and howls out the windows until her throat is hoarse.
I try to muster some of my earlier excitement, but it’s vanished on the wind. I stare at the twins, seeing them in a different light than I did mere moments ago.
Ophelia’s judgmental stare.
Odette’s offhand racism.
No matter how many times I tell myself they don’t mean anything by it… that they’re not bad people, merely products of their own privileged upbringing… I can’t shake the apprehension that’s blossomed within me.
I stare resolutely out my window, wishing I was home in my room, sketching out a new sewing pattern instead of on my way