The place her mother had been born was genuinely hilly, Isabela thought, as she took in the long slopes and layered streets of Colinas de la Mesa, rising east of downtown Tijuana. In the evening light, despite the gray, dust-colored hillsides, it could be beautiful—but not in a postcard way. The neighborhood inhaled a healthy breath; there was plenty of vegetation along the streets, with trees lining the sidewalks that snaked through the hills, they were the veins carrying oxygen through a quiet, living body.
Jealous of the neighborhood’s steady breathing, Isabela walked into its entrails. The evening light stretched and displaced her shadow, merging it with the slowly settling darkness. Her demeanor was quiet, but her emotions were still in a whirlpool.
The journey down here had done little to ease her unease, which lingered like a small but persistent sting.
Her traveling baggage was as light as the air at the top of the hills. Breathing felt awkward; her lungs reacted instinctively to the familiar substance, yet its thinness altered the rhythm of her breaths, as if the motion—like blinking eyelids—had turned mechanical.
“You’d better not move around too much—the air up there is hard to breathe,” Isabela recalled her mother telling her. “It will do you some good, getting used to being more still.”
Carrying her bag and her memories, a quiet, lingering anger settled in her. The argument had long passed, but the resentment stayed lodged.
A breath on the downbeat and a step on the offbeat pushed her forward, the houses dimming around her as the neighborhood knew which family belonged to which square of land, guiding Isabela toward the place her mother’s family called home.
Despite the faint echo of her steps, several dogs lunged at improvised gates along the houses, barking as she ascended the street. There was no discernible pattern: the old streetlights functioned in odd pairs—one block bathed in artificial light, the next absorbed entirely by the settling darkness. One of those blocks emitted its own bright spark, guiding Isabela toward her destination.
The orange coat of paint had dulled with the absence of sunlight and the passage of time. Small lengths of exposed rebar protruded from the rooftop; at least all six windows remained unbroken. Isabela dragged herself forward with heavier steps toward the two-story house. The only detail beyond her mother’s retelling still stood atop the flat roof: a blue satellite dish angled toward the dark sky.
Dainty knocks were enough to announce her arrival. The old, colorless wooden door seemed fragile against the sturdy concrete block it was set into. The sound produced no echo; her knocking landed dry.
“Ay, ya llegó la niña,” someone called inside the house. The muffled voice barely escaping the wood, as the door opened, it revealed the older face of the aunt she had seen as a child greeting her, the echo of the memory inside Isabela slowly adjusting to the older iteration of the same person.
She couldn’t understand much of the greetings, but she didn’t need to; she was being welcomed inside. All she carried was her backpack and a whirlpool of emotions, which made her presence feel light.
“Ve y háblale a tu hermana—pa’ que me ayude con la niña. Córrele.” Her aunt said to one of the children at the table. Barely past six, he was all legs and arms; his youthfulness bursting into motion as he ran, as if her aunt had threatened him.
She had yet to utter a word, yet the people inside were already accommodating her, the pair of kids previously sitting at the table were moving around obediently at the commnads of her aunt, her bag being carried by one of them. She was unaware of how many people were living here, despite the two stories, the house itself appeared rather small. The kitchen was immediately adjacent to the entrance, and it was filled with all sorts of objects: clocks of every kind; porcelain mugs scattered across a plethora of wooden shelves; handmade dolls occupying nearly every surface, dressed in traditional attire; and family photographs framed with cardboard and masking tape.
The image alone radiated warmth inside Isabela; even though the house was unfamiliar, this was a home.
A dainty child descended into the shared kitchen–living room space, followed by the lanky boy from before. She appeared to be the oldest—taller than the rest of the children—yet she was barely eight years old.
The girl moved swiftly across the kitchen, her steps free of hesitation. She planted herself in front of Isabela, looking directly up at her.
“Hello” the greeting from the child saturated with treble, despite her thin body, her voice tinged with controlled pronunciation. “My name is Sofi. It’s very nice to meet you.”
The child remained still, her expectant eyes fixed on Isabela, clearly finished with her part and waiting for her partner in the exercise to continue the conversation. The stillness and the rehearsed greeting were particularly endearing to Isabela, who returned the girl’s smile.
“It’s very nice to meet you too, Sofi. I’m Isabela—you can call me Isa,” she replied in the same formal tone, as if reading from a greeting exercise in a workbook.
“Mira, mija, dile que ya tenemos listo el cuarto donde se va a quedar,” her aunt said to Sofi. Leaving the other children behind, and without letting Sofi translate, she turned to Isabela.
“Mi niña, cómo está usted. Me contó su mami que ya venía pa’ acá.”
“So—she is saying your room is ready and is asking about your trip down here.” Sofi cut through in the last beat, just one breath after Isabela’s aunt had finished.
“Thank you,” Isabela answered. “It—well, it went fine coming down here. It wasn’t as long as I thought.” Her pause came from the need to hide her earlier anger, and from not knowing what to say that might make it easier for Sofi to translate.
Her aunt kept switching glances between them, warmth in her smile as she listened to Sofi relay the response, then almost immediately asked more questions, urging Sofi with her eyes to continue.
“She says you’re so big now,” Sofi said. “She used to hold you with one arm when you were a baby. She wants to know how old you are.”
“I’m seventeen,” Isabela answered. Unsure whether to keep the formality, she added anyway, “Seventeen years old.”
“She wants to know if you would like to join us for dinner—we are nearly done setting the table.”
Isabela was far from hungry; the unrelenting whirlpool of emotions had been momentarily distracted by the sudden interactions in the house, though the persistent sting still dulled her appetite.
“She says, ‘please come join us,’ and that she wants to introduce you to my brothers.” Sofi finished, then removing herself from the spot she had been, with the same poised movements from when she first descended.
All the bustle from the children had subdued the emotions inside Isabela. Keeping up the conversation with Sofi and her aunt had pushed her anger aside, leaving only tiredness behind.
Her room on the second floor had once belonged to her mother and aunts; the three sisters had slept there together as children. There was not much to unpack—only a few clothes had accompanied Isabela. Unsure of how long she would remain, she figured it would be more convenient to buy whatever she might need. The nature of her departure had not allowed for much deliberation.
She had been standing by one of the many windows belonging to this home. It showed the road, filled with trees and grass, the power lines cutting through the thick foliage in the trees.
The soft murmur of the living neighborhood reached her ears. She did not try to understand it, she knew it wasn’t any language she recognized. Those murmurs stopping, the neighborhood slowly quieted, then drew in a breath and held it. The trees stopped swaying—waiting.
“Isabela, mija—is that you?”
Sofi’s muffled voice filtered through the door, drifting softly into the room.
Isabela, departing from the window reached the door, expecting to find a child, but she instead was greeted by an adult—far older than a child.
“Nana?” unsure of the identity revealed from the open door, Isabela asked again. “Nana, is it you?”
“Oh, my niña, how I missed you so, so much.”
Her nana spoke through Sofi’s voice.
“That mother of yours—without any warning, sending you down here. I only just found out. Can you believe it, mija? Leaving something so important for the end of a prayer. When did I go wrong with that girl?”
Her nana’s reprimand of her mother warmed Isabela, as if she had found an ally. A smile formed on her face for the first time, one she didn’t need to rehearse.
“I’ve missed you too, Nana.”
“I wanted to go pay you a visit all those years, but I could never fix that thing with the papers. Back in my day, we’d just walk with the cows—no fences, nothing. That was so long ago; your mother hadn’t even been born yet.” Her nana retold the memories warmly. “I did try to get it fixed, you know, but your grandfather—he wouldn’t let up. ‘We got no business up there,’ he’d say, always getting so angry. Wouldn’t let me fix it myself.”
“We too, Nana. We could have come down here more often—to see you.”
“I know your mother. She’s a stubborn one—came out just like her father.” Her nana grinned softly as she cupped Isabela’s right hand, tapping it once with her finger. “But you,” she added gently, “you came out like me, mija.”
The soft breathing of the neighborhood resumed its course, the sound of the breeze drawing in and exhaling through its grassy veins and rumbling softly in the darkened room. Despite the chill, Isabela felt warm, clasping her hand still suspended near her chest and holding the warmth of the earlier touch on her skin.
“Thank you, Nana,” she said before closing the door, too tired now to keep gazing.
The whine of a rattling air horn woke Isabela. Unsure of the nature of this sound, she peaked through the window beside the bed. A few blocks before the house there was a truck carrying dozens of plastic water jugs settled in the middle of the street, the other houses in the side had their doors opened by the neighborhood.
Two men that had been riding on the sides of the truck, as if they were garbage collector, descended and began carrying the heavy jugs into each house.
Isabela observed their work pleasantly.
A shout beneath her window drew her attention.
“¡Dos!” her aunt called, holding up two fingers above her head. The driver answered in kind, lifting two fingers in front of the windshield, acknowledging the request.
As the men hoped back into the truck, the driver began blasting the air horn again before slowly rolling the tires, putting the truck and the water jugs into a slow drift. Annoyance grew instantaneously within her, as the horn grew louder, each blast tightening with the truck’s slow approach toward her window.
The pair of men climbed down from the truck. Just before moving with the same practiced efficiency as before, the shorter, older one stopped the taller man, murmuring something into his ear. The younger man nodded once. Adjusting his worn, faded baseball cap, pulling it lower over his head, he reached into the back of the truck and lifted out two of the water jugs.
He lifted both jugs, one onto each shoulder. Keeping them steady with his arms wrapped around the plastic bodies, he walked slowly toward the house. The shorter man had lit a cigarette and was already lighting another for the driver, leaning into the open passenger door.
“Good morning, Isa.”
Sofi’s voice cut through the silence of the room. Isabela turned around and was greeted by the child clad in pink pajamas, holding an orange cat in her slim arms.
“Morning, Sofi.”
The interaction envigorating Sofi, tightening her grasp in the cat.
“Is it a girl?” Isabela asked, nodding toward the cat.
“This is a boy,” Sofi remarked proudly. “His name is Señor Whiskas.”
Isabela was impressed by the unperturbed expression in the cat, letting itself melt into the child’s arms.
She approached the pair, bending at face level with the cat. The unimpressed cat simply staring with sleepy eyes at a void.
As she began to pet it, the sound of laughter drifted up from below, an easygoing conversation unfolding.
“We have begun eating breakfast—please come join us, Isa.”
“Got it.”
She descended a few minutes after Sofi, having changed out of the clothes she wore the previous day into one of the two outfits she had brought. A white hoodie kept out the early-morning chill, leaving only her legs cold in faded denim shorts.
Her aunt stood outside, pointing toward the walls of the house, while the tall man who had carried the water jugs listened beside her, commenting on each detail she brought up.
Isabela took a seat at the table. The children were already eating sweet bread, each holding a concha of a different color. Sofi knelt in the living room, a packet of dry cat food in her hand, watching Señor Whiskas eat from a blue plastic bowl.
She hadn’t noticed it the day before, but the kitchen looked pristine. Feeling slightly embarrassed, Isabela realized she had expected clutter—with so many children—but there wasn’t a dirty pan or dish in sight. The children, she thought, might be more well-mannered than she had assumed.
The conversation from outside grew louder as her aunt entered, still listing details to the tall man.
A rough stubble framed his jaw and chin. His gray cap shadowed part of his eyes; up close, the image at its center became clearer—a baseball encircling the red letters TJ. Isabela assumed it belonged to some local team she hadn’t heard of. Loose waves of hair escaped from beneath the cap, and faint beads of sweat had formed along his brown-skinned temple.
“Ah, caray—¿vinieron a visitarla, doñita?”
His rough voice rasped through the shared kitchen–living room, carrying toward the table. Though she couldn’t understand his words, the volume startled Isabela.
Irritation rose in her; she hadn’t appreciated the abruptness of the sound.
“Es la niña de mi hermana, la güera—me la mandó pa’ acá, aquí va a andar unos días.” Her aunt replied.
“Pues… es que todavía está muy llena de vida, doñita.” he replied, glaring directly at Isabela.
She had resolved to keep her feelings subdued, but the man’s abrupt turn and glare unsettled her composure. She met his stare in return—the noise had been one thing, but the rude staring did not sit well with her.
“Ya sabra su madre que estaba pensando. Es que ya esta con nosotros la hermana mia.” Her aunt commented with a soft laugh.
The man removed his hat, the soft waves of his curly hair falling toward his temples. With his head uncovered, his exposed eyes gave away his youth. A young adult now locking eyes with Isabela. He was studying her with clear consternation—near sadness clouding his dark brown gaze.
Turning to her aunt, he spoke carefully. “Con su santo permiso, doñita. ¿Podría?”
He held his worn cap between both hands, lowering his head just slightly as he asked.
He looked taller than she had first realized as he approached the table, his clouded expression softening into a boyish grin.
“Disculpe mi atrevimiento, muchacha, es que no tenemos mucha gente que pase por aquí, ¿sabes?” he said. Though he stood closer now, the force of his voice still made her uncomfortable.
“I, um—sorry,” Isabela trailed off. “I don’t—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice no softer than before. “It’s fine. May I ask your name—if that’s okay?”
The switch to English brought her a brief sense of relief. When he sat down beside her, she answered without giving it much thought.
“Sure. Thank you,” she said, appreciative of the change.
Without letting a beat pass, the young man interjected, “So—then it’s okay for me to ask. You’re welcome.”
Isabela’s eyes drifted half-closed; she was not sure what he meant. “Sorry—could you repeat that?”
“I was just saying,” he replied, scratching the bronzed nape of his neck with the hand still holding his cap, “I asked if it was okay to ask your name, and you said yes. And I mean—after a ‘thank you,’ a ‘you’re welcome’ usually comes next. Right?”
“Can I help you with something?”
Isabela did her best to keep her composure.
“Me?” His once long-lidded eyes widened slightly; his gaze drifted to the side. “Nah. Don’t need anything.”
“Then why are you asking for my name?” Isabela said, her patience thinning now, no longer bothering to hide it.
“¡Chin!” he replied, a playful note in his voice as his eyes closed with a smile. “Yeah, you got me there, muchachita.”
Isabela simply stared at the man, refusing to dignify his joke with a response.
“I’m only kidding, muchachita,” he added with a grin, his long eyes springing back to life. “My name is Alfonso.”
“Do you need something?” she asked, pretending to be busy with breakfast, though the table was empty.
“You see, we don’t get many visitors down here—folks around these parts have been forgotten,” he began, his voice suddenly dropping. Isabela couldn’t help but be drawn into the sudden seriousness of his expression. “It’s quite rare to see people like you in this little old colonia, muchacha.”
“People like me?” She leaned back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Colinas de la Mesa doesn’t see many people throughout the year,” Alfonso said as he put his cap back on. “So when he does, the neighborhood gets restless.”
Without letting her answer, Alfonso stood up, turning his gaze once more toward Isabela.
“A lot of souls—but not people,” he said, before studying Isabela’s face, his eyes shifting slowly from one eye to the other. After a second of deliberation, a soft smile formed on his lips. “Especially not as charming as you.”
He grinned before pointing at the empty table while standing up, “buen provecho.”
His polite tone seemed far from sincere to Isabela.
Alfonso continued walking toward the exit; the exchange had given her new airs to the anger lingering inside her.
The memories of her mother’s outburst began rushing through her mind, her slender fingers tightening into a fist.
Forgetting about breakfast, she stood up and headed back to the bedroom on the second floor, the steps ringing with a low thump that echoed widely as she reached the top.
When she closed the door, the tears she had held back the day before caught up with her; she began to cry, unable to stop. Giving up on stifling her whimpering, she headed to the bed and lay down, letting her tears pass through her. The horn of the water truck pierced the air once again, along with the sound of pebbles crushing under the tires. She felt some respite, the sound of the truck masking her sobs in the room.
A heavy weight on her chest woke Isabela. Señor Whiskas’s fur tickled her neck, the old cat curled atop her.
“Move along, muchacho,” Isabela said, mimicking Alfonso’s accent, though her voice couldn’t reach the same volume as the young man’s.
Once she sat down on the bed after removing the elderly cat, stabbing headaches arose in her temples. She softly caressed the top of her head, while noticing the quietness engulfing the house. Only the soft breathing from the neighborhood could be heard.
Feeling hungry and thirsty, her eyes wandered over the decorations in the room. The walls were covered with pictures framed with cardboard cut from cereal boxes, pasted onto the wall with masking tape. Vestiges of objects that seemed to belong to children lay atop the shelves: dolls, small colorful notepads, and a variety of glass prayer candles scattered across the walls.
The sound of a damp cloth hitting the walls carried through the room. Isabela turned toward the window, finding Alfonso with a long-handled paint roller, applying a coat of orange paint.
This man had been delivering water jugs just a few hours ago, she thought. Now he was doing this. She kept staring at the young man at work. With his cap backwards, his grey shirt with droplets of orange paint and his narrow-set eyes she found him impish. Her chest tighten for a brief moment when the young man locked eyes with her from above, his eyes stretching even more at the corners after forming a smile.
Setting the paint roller in the tray, he motioned with both hands toward Isabela, telling her to stop—or so she gathered from his extended, open palms. Alfonso turned around and sprinted toward a pickup truck parked next to the house’s wooden fence. She had noticed the orange paint on his arms.
After leaning into the passenger’s window, Alfonso took out a plastic bag carrying what appeared to be takeout. Turning around, he dangled it above his head, showing it to Isabela. Every motion from this young man kept reinforcing her impression of him as immature. She showed no reaction, only her gaze fixed in his general direction, as if judging him from above.
Noticing her stillness, Alfonso shook the bag and pointed at it, as if Isabela hadn’t already seen it. Then, with his other hand, he mimed bringing food to his mouth.
Isabela couldn’t stop the thought from slipping out in a low murmur.
“I know what it is,” she said. “Is this guy an idiot?”
Her chest began to race as she saw the young man sprinting straight toward the house.
A low grunt escaped her lips as she wondered where her aunt was, bracing herself for the interaction.
The knock at the front door reverberated through the house, sharpening the ache in her head.
“Buenos días.” His voice remained unregulated as Alfonso stepped into the house, leaving Isabela planted beside the open door. “¿Cómo amaneció la muchacha?”
Setting up the bag in the table, he didn’t need to turn around to make himself heard, “You, young lady, must be hungry.”
Isabela kept staring at his back; flecks of paint had somehow reached the collar of his shirt.
“Going for a siesta without eating breakfast,” he said, letting out a short laugh. “You’re going to worry your parents sick, muchachita.”
Her impulse spoke before she could stop it.
“You don’t know anything about my parents.”
Almost as soon as the words left her mouth, heat rushed to her cheeks, her ears growing in vivid red. Regret washed over the sudden burst of anger.
The rustle of plastic paused for a moment. However, Alfonso went on unpacking the bag, setting its contents on the table.
Alfonso turned around and studied the downcast Isabela.
"Tripa vacía, corazón sin alegría" he said in a softer tone, “That’s what my abuelo said nearly every morning.”
Taking the opening his words offered, Isabela mirrored his unexpectedly mellow tone.
“What does it mean?”
“It means you gotta eat, muchachita.” Flashing his boyish grin, Alfonso opened the takeout containers. “Hope you like it—we’ve got some great Chinese food down here in Baja. We give you folks up north a race for your money.”
“A run for your money,” Isabela said, eyeing the food. “It’s a run for your money.”
“Yeah,” he nodded grinning. “That’s what I said.”
Isabela took advantage of Alfonso moving toward the cabinets, reaching for plates and slid into a chair at the table. The smell of fried rice immediately grazed her nose; the scent alone stirred her hunger, lifting her mood.
“How come you know where everything is?”
Alfonso’s long-lidded eyes met hers.
Isabela tightened her mouth slightly, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy.
“You see, muchacha, I take care of these houses,” he explained matter-of-factly as he set a blue porcelain plate on the table, its weight landing with a heavy thump. “I painted your aunt’s house years ago. She said the orange reminded her of the sunset.”
“Weren’t you delivering water earlier?”
The question came out more like a statement; she still wasn’t sure how Alfonso fit into the houses around here.
She startled slightly when he set a fork and a pair of disposable chopsticks in front of her.
“Thanks,” she said, while reaching for the fork.
Her body was already growing tired of how reactive she’d become to his every movement.
“I’m a todólogo, you know,” he said, his unending chuckle sounding like a nervous tic to Isabela. Why does everything seem like a joke to him? she thought as she watched him serve her food. “I do a little bit of everything—here and there.”
Isabela was astonished at the size of the portions; the amount of rice for a takeout order was entirely different from what she was used to. While scooping the rice, she noticed the large chunks of meat and the minimal amount of vegetables—this was meant to feed entire families. A different type of dish than in San Diego.
Alfonso pointed toward her with his chopsticks. “Put some pepino—make sure it’s cold,” he said, making small circling motions with the utensils. “They help with the—you know, the hinchazón.”
Unsure of the word he was looking for, Alfonso touched the skin beneath his own eyes with the chopsticks. Isabela understood he was talking about the puffiness she most likely still had after crying earlier in the day . She hid a laugh when she noticed a single grain of rice stuck to him after he’d touched his face with the chopsticks.
As they continued eating, Isabela’s glances toward that singular point on his cheek were accompanied by stiffened laughter, some of which she was unable to fully hide.
“That’s more like it,” he said with his usual loud volume. “It’s better to start the day with a laugh, muchachita.”
“I’ve got a name—you know,” Isabela said, now more seriously.
The reminder of her youth made her think of her mother’s overbearing attitude.
“Yeah, we all do, right?” Alfonso took a quick glance at Isabela’s figure before returning to his plate, pouting as if he had been rejected. “But you wouldn’t let me ask you, muchachita.”
Now that she felt full after eating, Isabela had enough energy to try and outsmart the young man. “I did give you permission—to ask.” She rose to take her finished plate to the sink, but Alfonso firmly caught it, motioning with his arm for her not to worry.
“Alright, then—” His voice grew even louder, rising above the sound of the rinsing sink. “May I know your name?”
The polite formality didn’t match his impish nature.
“Isabela,” she replied, glancing toward the door as the scent of paint reached her nose. “People call me Isa.”
“Which people?” Without missing a beat, he asked, as if it were a normal reply.
Isabela had only needed one interaction to know what his deal was, without being sidelined into his jokes again.
“Family. Close friends. That kind of people.”
“That’s a beautiful name, muchachita.” She could see the grin on his face even as he faced the sink, washing the plates. “Just like the British queen, right? Though I think you’re far more charming than her.”
Something in his tone made her feel like he was treating her like a kid—the kind of compliment one gives to a child.
Before drying his hands, he took off his cap and set it between his knees; using his wet hands, he ran them through his wavy hair. His curls parted naturally in the middle, despite the dampness at the ends.
The way his short curls framed his forehead drew the eye to his almond-shaped eyes. He could be a strikingly handsome young man if only he stayed quiet, Isabela thought after a brief glance, before returning her gaze to the door.
“They’ll be back in a while—don’t worry,” Alfonso said as he slipped his cap back on, gathering the disposable container and the bag. “Your aunt—I just wanted to finish a bit of painting before I set the ofrendas.”
Isabela met the young man’s gaze, a flicker of embarrassment rising as she realized her feelings had shown.
“Either way, this viejo chismoso neighborhood would’ve ratted me out if I wasn’t doing my job,” he laughed. “I’ll be around, muchacha—no, Isa.” His grin showed how proud he was of learning her name. “Lo que la princesa quiera.”
She knew he was teasing her somehow. Wanting to one-up him, she found some energy for the first time since she came to Colinas de la Mesa; she stood up and reached the young man’s side.
“Hold on—you’ve got rice stuck on your cheek,” she said, looking up at him. “No, the other one.”
Alfonso studied his fingers after wiping his left cheek, then gazed down at Isabela. “Could you do me the honors, princesa?” He leaned his right cheek downward.
“The other one—just wipe it off.”
“No, no, no—look at this.” He softly shook his head. “After bringing food to the queen, she won’t even spare me the embarrassment.”
She let out a short, exasperated huff, already regretting the whole ordeal.
Her timid hand reached his right cheek, pinching away a single grain of red rice. Despite the light touch, his brown skin felt firm.
“You got it?”
His voice was too loud for the short distance between them.
“Got it. Don’t worry.”
“Gracias, Isa.”
As he finally stepped back, Isabela realized she had been holding her breath for several seconds. As if there hadn’t been a pause at all, Alfonso resumed his painting.
The layout of the kitchen, or the space that was used from the living room to make the kitchen, was too different from the houses she had been in before. The amount of cabinets looked as if they were meant to block any inch of paint in the wall, there was no space left in the oven filled with old pans and plates.
Some of the fruits she had been used to seeing on the counter were inside the fridge. Despite the lack of electricity, the items in the small rectangular fridge remained frozen in time.
She finally found a quarter inch of cucumber in the back of the freezer. She took it out and cut wedges with a bread knife that she had taken too long to find.
Carrying a chair from the kitchen, she set up a space next to the door; just a couple of feet away, Alfonso was working around the house. She sat down and placed the cold cucumber slices over her puffy eyes.
The sharp scent of paint, the neighborhood’s rumble, and the cold feeling in her eyes settled her body firmly into the chair.
She thought of her grandmother, taking care of her children in this home, apparently built from the ground up by her grandfather. Somehow, all the older couples from decades ago always seemed mismatched—two people with completely different personalities, yet forced together by external forces. Surely it must have felt that way for her grandmother, a kind woman.
No matter which picture you looked at, the dainty woman stood next to a straight, rigid, mustached man, the kids none the wiser in their expressions.
Maybe it was because of how these couples were forced to exist that the children they produced grew up to be difficult parents, taking out their own misgivings on their kids. It wasn’t that she was perfect—Isabela recognized she was thinking, deep down, of her relationship with her mother—but it had been that same mother who raised her. The ripples from the strange coupling of Isabela’s grandparents had surely carried over to their generation.
In this whirlpool of anxiety, a feeling of pity for what her grandmother’s life had been stirred sadness within her heart. It had been her mother who had left, not her grandmother; she had remained instead. It couldn’t have been for love—duty, perhaps. If she could, Isabela would ask her.
Would her grandmother visit her again? She wouldn’t know.
Despite sitting in the same house her grandmother had lived in, Isabela no longer felt her presence. Had she been forgotten too, just as the peculiar, tall young man had said?
If she were to remain in this house, like her grandmother once had, would she have lived the same life?
Marrying someone as cold as her grandfather seemed impossible—unless forces beyond her control pushed her into it.
Maybe that was what had happened to her grandmother. Maybe that was why her mother had left this place.
Heat rushed to her face as the thought crossed her mind: if she were to have children with Alfonso, someone so different from herself, would they turn out as maladjusted as her mother had?
The cucumbers were only mildly cold now, made even more so against her flushed cheeks.
The drift her mind had settled into was interrupted by a child’s shriek piercing the air outside.
Isabela recognized the shrill sound. She removed the wedges from her eyes just in time to catch a glimpse of an orange cat darting across the house and into the hills of the street.
The animal had bolted at such speed that she didn’t think it could be the old, weary body of Señor Whiskas. A cat that old and fat moving that fast seemed unlikely—but her thoughts were broken when, just a second later, she saw the slim body of a child running in the same direction the cat had flashed by.
Recognizing the figure of Sofi, Isabela stood up.
However, the moment the child started down the hill the house sat on, her small body vanished in a blur—only her yelp reverberating through the air.
“Sofi—”
Isabela sprang to her feet.
“Hey! Sofi—where are you going?”
Stepping onto the road she had traversed to reach the house the day before, Isabela saw, through the haze, the returning figure of the child running carelessly down the middle of the road, her small feet carrying her downhill in a straight line toward the main boulevard. Where the bus she had taken from the border had left her, unlike this colonia, the street was full of life—and vehicles.
“No—hey, ‘pérate Isa, quédate ahí—”
Alfonso noticed the once-languid young woman already rushing down the hill. His loud calling only bouncing back to his own ears. The air of the neighborhood rejecting his involvement.
“¿Qué demonios quieres con ella, cabrón?—todavía está viva,” he shouted toward the house before rushing forward, the paint roller splashing against the tray and streaking orange across his cheeks.
The hair on her body stood up; the shaking of the houses and trees wasn’t the relaxed movement of the neighborhood. Instead, it resembled an uncontrollable, excited trembling. Her feet nearly caught on each other; Sofi’s figure moved as if unaware of the heightened state of the overbearing neighborhood.
She could’ve sworn the palpitations in her temples had left her deaf but the crying of the child begging for the cat to stop reached her above the sound of the speeding cars.
The air felt heavier than ever, but the pressure in her lungs was forgotten when she saw the child launching herself toward the still cat. Catching it in her arms, a dainty thump echoed as her small body scraped against the concrete road.
“Ah—” Sofi’s small gasp was cut short by tears as she noticed the faint droplets of blood oozing from her scraped knees and elbows. The cat had already surrendered within her frail arms.
Isabela’s legs gave out as a heavy force dropped her to her knees, the pebbles biting into the space between the hill and the pavement.
“No—” she tried to stand, but Alfonso’s weight was too much. “Get away!”
She twisted against him, shouting past his shoulder toward the child in the road.
“Sofi—move! Get out of there!”
The headlights engulfed the mirage of Sofi and the cat; a second later, a speeding car cut through their bodies as if passing through a projection. Sofi disappeared, along with the blur of the vehicle surging forward, unimpeded.
A sharp gasp tore from Isabela’s chest.
“Sofi—”
Despite her wailing calls, there was no trace of the bodies in the road.
The rest of the vehicles proceeded unaware of Isabela’s thumping heart; along with the speeding wind, her whimpering echoed through the base of the hill.
“God—”
Her body began to shake uncontrollably, sobs cutting into her breath until breathing itself became difficult.
“Isa—Isa, breathe.”
Despite the overwhelming volume of Alfonso’s voice, Isabela’s eyes remained locked on the road.
“Listen—” He turned her toward him, rough enough to sting her knees as they scraped the ground. “Listen to me.”
Alfonso forced her to look at his face.
“She’s gone, Isabela. She’s not here,” he said, his voice dropping. “I’m sorry.”
Her chest rose and collapsed rapidly in Alfonso’s arms, each gasp giving her little to no air.
Convinced she was suffocating the claustrophobic sensation set alarms blaring in her mind.
“Don’t touch me!”
With what strength she had left, Isabela pushed herself off the ground, the dizziness swaying her body to the side.
Alfonso moved faster, catching her arm as he rose beside her.
“Get the fuck away from me!” she bellowed, her voice tearing out of her chest.
“I won’t—I’m not going to touch you. I promise.”
His voice was the quietest it had been since she’d met him.
“Now you promise me—you’re going to breathe.” His long eyes studying her completely. “That’s it, princesa. Just breathe.”
Despite her wavering vision, she mimicked Alfonso’s slow breaths, feeling the air fill her lungs—cold and heavy, yet clearing her head.
The slow breaths stretched on for a span she couldn’t measure, but her reasoning was returning.
You liar, she thought, noticing the firm hold Alfonso kept on her arm, steadying her so she wouldn’t tip sideways. Too tired to argue against his shrewd maneuver, she let her heavy arms fall, along with a fresh stream of tears.
The senseless comfort of Alfonso’s touch inadvertently reached her mind—she noticed how long his hands were—and she shut the intrusive thought away at once.
“What am I doing here,” she said between tears. “I wanna go.”
“C’mon, princesa,” Alfonso said. “It’s too windy out here.”
Despite the wind, the trees remained still.
No sway at all.
All the leaves in still position.
Walking slowly across the hill, the neighborhood had been holding its breath, the light poles and vegetation shared the same rigid posture, as if painted.
“Can I see them?”
Isabela uttered, downcast, not to anyone in particular—as if the question were meant for herself.
Alfonso turned around, hesitating as he weighed what to do with the young woman.
“All right—” He reached for her hand. “I did promise. Lo que la reina quiera.”
Guided by his hand, she glared at the young man’s back; he had been talking about promises, yet he hadn’t kept a single one.
Instead of reaching the summit of the hill, where her aunt’s house lay, they turned into the vegetation, past the trees at the side of the road.
They were met with empty, dusty vacant lots—some with old, beat-up cars missing tires and windows, left to rust.
Just a few blocks east of the hill they were traversing, the view of the city shone through. Evening was already setting in, the lights of the buildings slowly beginning to sparkle from the altitude they were at.
In front of her lay the ofrendas—a small group of headstones packed together, marking the resting places of several people.
Alfonso knelt down in front of the stone markers, pulling a lighter from his back pocket; he slowly lit the prayer candles at each of the gravesites.
“Perdónenme—no les traje comida,” he murmured, low enough that only Isabela could hear. “Aqui su pariente ocupa una ayudita… pa’ que entienda.”
Without prayers or ceremony, he simply stood.
She had sensed his eccentricity from the moment she met him, but the young man’s casual callousness still took her aback. He was already heading back toward the house, reaching for Isabela’s hand once more—as if it were necessary—despite the fact that she felt strong enough to walk on her own now, at least for a few blocks.
“You keep your promises,” she said as her eyes dropped to their clasped hands, “but only the ones that suit you.”
In response, Alfonso shifted from a clasp and threaded his fingers through hers instead, tightening his grip as they walked westward down the hill.
The house was alive with light now, the lights on both floors were back on.
Isabela lifted her free hand to cover her mouth. Heat rose at the corners of her eyes, stinging once more.
“Te voy a acusar con mi ama.”
“Deja de andar de llevado—no aguantas nada.”
The children were frolicking in a loose circle just outside the door, their bickering cut short by the presence of a much taller kid.
“Ya compórtense, chamacos.”
Sofi’s shrill voice snapped them into stillness.
“Si no se ponen en paz, se van a ir a dormir sin comer. ¿Me entienden?”
Alfonso watched Isabela’s back as she timidly approached the house. Standing just outside the entrance, he could hear the lively voices of the family mingling. At some point, Sofi’s thin body had been gathered into Isabela’s arms, her straight black hair being gently patted. There was nothing to cook or prepare, yet the figure of Isabela’s aunt nonchalantly traversed the kitchen.
He stepped back, surveying the walls of the house with his head tilted to the side. The fresh coat of paint he’d worked on since morning had completely melted away, all his work pooled in a glossy puddle at the base of the house.
In feigned exasperation, he took off his cap and rubbed his forehead.
“Te pasas de lanza,” was all he muttered, a defeated grin tugging at his face.
His truck still outside the house, he reached through the window and opened the center console. He had to stretch to reach a pack of cigarettes.
Feeling stupid for a brief moment, he turned around and leaned against the car door while smoking.
Even from afar, he could clearly see the redness around Isabela’s eyes. Ever since she had come here, all she had done was cry.
It’s a good thing she is beautiful, he thought.
He looked down at the hand that had held her arm a while ago; despite her thin body, she was rather forceful in her movements. There was no grace in her body.
He looked up, catching Isabela’s glare from the open doorway. She sat at the table, watching him through the haze of his cigarette smoke, before turning her attention back to Sofi, who carried Señor Whiskas in her arms and placed him gently in Isabela’s lap.
A genuine smile took hold of the young woman’s face.
Alfonso exhaled the smoke slowly.
In that moment, he understood the neighborhood’s sudden fixation—she really was charming, and it wanted her here.
“Lo que no es pa’ uno, no es pa’ uno,” he murmured toward the house.
The trees beside it answered with a brief shudder.
As the hours passed, their eyes kept finding each other. Isabela noticed the young man made no move to leave the property; after smoking a single cigarette, he had settled into the driver’s seat of his truck, staring everywhere at once, like a restless child waiting for his mother in the plaza.
She finally slipped outside.
The children’s murmurs had settled; they lay collapsed together on the sofa, the TV still on, her aunt washing unused dishes in the kitchen.
Night had fully fallen with shadows stretching in from the streetlights.
“You’re still here?” Isabela asked calmly through the passenger window.
“Couldn’t end a date without saying goodbye,” Alfonso said, shifting his stiff body where he’d been reclining in the seat. “Bad manners, right?”
His teasing had no effect on Isabela’s expression, her puffy eyes remaining perfectly still.
“Besides—”
“No.” She cut him off. “What is this? Who are you? Why am I here?”
Alfonso’s quick mind leapt toward a handful of jokes, but common sense smothered them. All he managed was a short exhale, a faint smile touching his lips.
Isabela watched him, waiting for any answer at all. Her steady gaze drifted to his fingers as he scratched at his temple, then snapped back to his face just as quickly—she didn’t want her mind wandering back to the warmth she’d felt when their hands were intertwined.
“I told you, Isa.” Finding some words, his gaze resumed back toward her. “I take care of the houses around here.”
Isabela’s expression hardened further.
“Why can’t you take anything seriously?” she said, gripping the edge of the open window. “I don’t even know you.”
“I am serious.”
Somehow, her anger had been worn down by exhaustion. The simmering ache in her chest no longer occupied her thoughts.
“I’m leaving,” she declared.
“I understand.”
She waited for a retort—for anything—but he only kept his gaze on her.
The wind had returned, brushing through the trees, the foliage carrying the faint scent of grass.
“If I may ask—”
“Ah—” She cut in, a tired smile touching her lips. “There it is.”
Alfonso’s laugh burst out—too loud for the short distance between them. She startled for a split second.
“You said you didn’t know me,” he exclaimed once the laughter faded. “I think you know me better than you think.”
“Well—because you haven’t left me alone since I got here.” Her grip tightened on the edge of the window. “What—do you like me or something?”
Despite her challenging tone, the accusation made her seem far more childish than her age.
The decisive smile that settled on Alfonso’s face sent a sudden rush to her head, leaving her momentarily lightheaded.
“I do find you very charming, Isabela,” he said, as casually as if he were giving the time. “Is it so wrong to want to know more about you?”
“My legs are killing me. I’m hungry, tired, and hurt—and I’m leaving.”
Isabela let go of the edge of the window. “There. You know enough.”
She had braced herself for another burst of volume, but his response was only a silent grin. His raised eyebrows signaled how endearing he found Isabela’s curtness.
In the silence, she stood watching Alfonso brush his upper lip with a finger before scratching his cheek. A wave of embarrassment surged through her as she realized she had declared her intention to leave twice, yet was still standing beside some man’s car, studying his gestures.
“I joke around a little too much sometimes, right?” he said calmly, his tone dropping lower than usual. “But I think I know why you are here.”
Isabela’s face tightened; she crossed her arms, unsure what to expect from this man, but she let him continue.
“You were sent here—right?” His serious expression made him seem older. “Your mother did. Am I right?”
At the mention of her mother, Isabela averted her eyes from his.
She let out a frustrated sigh, tightening her crossed arms as she looked back at him—her eyes daring him to continue.
“So, la suegra—”
She made a sharp tongue click, letting him know her patience was running thin.
“Cut it out.”
“I’m impressed,” he said with a tone showing his amusement. “You caught that, Isa,”
“Excuse me—I do know some Spanish,” she said, a hint of pride in her tone.
“Thank you, Isa.”
“Now what?”
“For telling me more about you.”
“Which part of ‘cut it out’ didn’t you get?”
“Alright, I get it—” he said in a neutral voice, reaching toward the passenger seat and opening it from inside.
Isabela’s frown showed her confusion.
“I can tell you’re cold—c’mon.” He pushed the truck’s door open. “I’ll tell you everything—I promise.”
She had more than enough of his promises, but she had spent enough time interacting with this man to recognize his serious tone.
She entered the car, setting herself in the passenger seat. She tried to close the door gently but the sound had come out a little to loud, she felt guilty for a brief second.
Alfonso rummaged around in the backseat.
Taking his coat, he draped it over her chest.
The immediate contact with the fabric made her realize how cold her body had become. She pulled it closer, curling into it like a blanket, the smell of cigarettes immediately filling her nose.
Before he could say anything, she cut in, trying to get ahead of him.
“What—no ‘don’t worry, I won’t bite… unless you want me to’?” she said, mimicking the accent she’d practiced earlier that day.
He turned toward her with a foolish grin.
“No, I’d just bite you and see if you’re into it by your reaction,” he said. “I mean, you never know until you try, right?”
She answered only with a sidelong glance before closing her eyes, letting the warmth of the car seep back into her body.
Alfonso’s gaze traveled over her.
The faint swelling around her eyes was only just beginning to subside.
“It’s strange,” he said, his voice dropping. “You’re even more beautiful up close.”
“Sure.” Her eyes remained closed as she let her tired legs rest. “Whatever.”
“I knew her—your mother.”
Isabela, wary of his intentions, slowly turned her head toward him. Opening her eyes, she found his gaze cast beyond her, fixed on the house beside them.
“I must’ve been around five,” he continued. “I remember because everyone got together—we held a raffle, passed around envelopes, found any way we could to help your mother with some money before she left for California. She was a couple of months pregnant.”
His gaze returned to Isabela. Her expression remained calm.
“She wanted you to be born there. And since we’re all family in this neighborhood, we helped her out.”
He took off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his hair, brushing it back with his fingers before settling the cap on again.
Isabela felt a flicker of disappointment—she’d hoped he might leave his hair like that.
“After she left, we stopped hearing from her.” His long liddled eyes had turned to the front, facing the top of the hill embarked in darkness by the failure of the broken street lights.
“At first—yeah we got worried. No one had any news at all. I mean, she had gone there legally and all but still—you know? It was weird to not receive even a call after a couple of days at least.”
“But how come my—”
“Your Nana?” A crooked smile rose across his face. “Esa doñita—she was always gentle with everyone, but—she was shrewd.”
Confusion took hold across her face. Isabela had distinct memories of crossing into Tijuana, of meeting her grandmother a handful of times when she was a child—just across the pedestrian bridge.
“She did all of it—for your mother to leave, and for you.”
A note of pride softened his expression.
A genuine warmth lifted into his smile, and when Isabela caught it, she couldn’t deny how drawn she felt to him.
“For me too. Years later, she helped me cross—put me in touch with some relatives up there. I got a tourist visa and worked for a couple of years.” He glanced sideways at Isabela. “That’s how I picked up a word or two of English, you know?”
“And you came back?”
“When she passed away.”
She felt the sadness in his uncharacteristically dry tone.
“Nana was my connection to this place—how I would learn about everyone’s lives back home. She would meet me regularly across the border. I couldn’t cross back with an overstayed my visa—so she would make the effort to meet me every so often—in the park around Playas, we would talk and talk—until it stop, like that—suddenly.”
Isabela focused on his words as they poured out; this was more than just another one of his incessant monologues. She could feel the emotion carried in them.
“So I knew something had happened. I just knew it—so I crossed back.” He huffed through his nose. “It was way too easy. I literally just walked back like nothing, like walking out of a Walmart. Ironic, isn’t it? There’s hell when you’re going there but coming back is mundane, and yet it’s just a line in the sand.”
She remisced in the few times she had seen that old woman, her nana. The amiable grandmother she had seen as child, she never heard her complain of anything. But apparently she had made sure some of her family had left this place.
“But he didn’t like that—not at all,” Alfonso said, looking past her toward the neighborhood, its outline swallowed by shadow. “I didn’t understand it at first. When I came back, it was only our grandmother who had been taken. But the neighborhood caught on soon enough, and one by one—they were gone.”
He paused.
“As if to make sure no one else would leave the way your mother did, the neighborhood kept them—made sure their memories stayed here, in this colonia.”
“Everyone here?” She leaned slightly into his arm. “They’re gone?”
Alfonso shifted away, resting his head against the window.
“More like forgotten.” He lifted a hand and rubbed beneath his eye, almost absently. “When they died, I buried them. There was no one else to do it—and after all, we’re family.”
His gaze returned to her, as if pressing the truth into place.
“We’re all children of Colinas de la Mesa,” he said. “This land is our father.”
Isabela lowered her eyes to her hands; she had tightened her grip on Alfonso’s arm without realizing it.
He appeared unbothered.
“I don’t want to be the one to tell you this, Isabela.” Shame clouded his eyes; for the first time, he looked diminished in her gaze. “I’ve shot myself in the foot, joking around like this—you probably don’t take me seriously. But I’m not sure it was your mother who sent you here, Isa.”
Her head snapped toward him, but he had already turned away, offering only the clean lines of his profile.
“I’ve been here long enough to learn all his tricks—the ways he moves.” He paused. “I don’t know what happened up there between you and your mother, but I’m sure he wanted you both back here. One way or another.”
She felt the pull of the arm she was gripping, drawing her closer until her face pressed against his chest. As he shifted to steady her, she realized he was comforting her—she was crying again.
“It was my fault,” she murmured into him. “We were fighting—it was something stupid. She came to pick me up and—”
The sentence broke apart in her mind, finished instead by the memory of impact: the collision slamming into the driver’s side, like an earthquake knocking the air out of her, her body thrown hard against the door.
“I had no idea,” she went on, her breath hitching. “She was fine the next day. She said it was my fault—that I needed to learn to behave.”
The gasps began to cut into her words. “She was always angry—blaming me for everything. So I thought… I thought this was normal.”
“He told you to come back here—convinced you.”
His tone left no room for doubt.
She clutched at Alfonso’s shirt, her tears soaking into his chest, a broken sound escaping her.
“She’s gone,” she said. “She’s gone… Mom.”
“I am sorry.”
He let her cry in his arms, remaining silent.
The murmur of the neighborhood lingered in the wind, brushing through the vegetation—unashamed of the life it carried, drawing breath freely, insistently alive.
Alfonso idly stroked Isabela’s straight hair, patting the warmth of her head.
They stood embraced until she stopped shaking, the minutes stretching out in the windy night atop the hill.
“I want to go home,” she said, her voice muffled by the pressure of his embrace.
“I’ll make sure you do—I promise.”
More of your promises, she thought, exhausted.
“Don’t talk,” she whispered. “At least you’re handsome when you’re quiet.”
The electricity in the house was long gone. The continued murmur droning away in the neighborhood was overtaken by the sound of an ignition.
The truck with a low start seemed quieter for its size.
Isabela walked through the solitary house, no presence occupying the space. She went up to the room she had slept in, slowly gathering her scarce belongings.
The dim beams of the truck’s headlights shone in the air, slightly reaching the window.
Her worn out backpack filled with clothing and carryover items, unlike the backpack she had begun to feel empty.
She was taken away from her interior feelings with the low thump of steps raising the stairs.
Alfonso came into the room observing photos that he had taken from the kitchen, the masking tape still stuck to the sides.
Isabela hadn’t taken the time to look at them closely, but she recognized the familiar figures the moment she saw them. Her mother’s family stood at the center, the hills behind them, a one-story version of the same house rising in the background.
He passed the photos to Isabela. She studied the faces in them—the rigid eyes of her mother already present in those young adult years. She had always been the same woman, it seemed.
“It’s hard to imagine—so many people in such a small house,” she said with a faint smile. “I don’t know if I should keep these.”
Alfonso only shrugged, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth.
His uncharacteristic silence drew her gaze to his face.
He met her questioning look with a sheepish smile.
“What’s gotten into you?”
“You said I looked handsome when I was quiet, so—”
She shook her head. “You’re something else, you know that?”
He answered with a proud smile. “Keep them. They’re memories.”
Alfonso took a few steps closer to Isabela, his hand lifting as he pointed at the people in the photograph.
“We weren’t even born yet—that’s Nana on the side. She always looked that old.” He recounted while his finger drifted to the house behind the group. “This was before they built the second floor.”
“Now they’re all gone,” Isabela murmured.
“They’re here.” Alfonso tapped the house in the picture. “In this colonia. It’s all memories.”
She remembered Nana’s visit—she had come around this hour. The thought tugged at her chest, warming her mood despite herself.
Isabela turned to face the tall man beside her.
She had to strain her neck to meet his gaze from such a short distance.
“You,” she said, her lips tight.
“Me?” He met her look with a faint smile. “Or is it ‘I’?”
“Are you even alive?”
His long-lidded eyes opened a fraction wider.
Her puffy gaze did not waver.
“Would it make a difference,” he asked, “either way?”
“I hate you—I hate this, I hate myself.” Her words fractured as Alfonso pulled her into his arms.
She heard his voice deepen, her ear pressed to his chest.
“I’m beginning to love you myself.”
She pulled back just enough to lift her face and fix him with a glare.
The darkness sharpened her other senses—she felt the soft press of his mouth against her forehead, followed by the faint sound of a kiss.
“Why are you so coy at the worst possible moment?” she asked.
She broke her arm free and reached for his cap, tugging it off his head.
“Take that stupid thing off.”
The cap landed near the edge of the bed.
“There—” She sounded faintly proud as she ran her fingers through his curls. “Better.”
The soft texture beneath her touch reassured Isabela of his presence—maybe she truly wasn’t alone after all.
She caught her reflection in the brown of his eyes and noticed the faint swelling beneath her own.
“Ah—” How long have I looked like this? she thought.
Her thought vanished as the warmth of his mouth found hers.
The stiff, glossy edges of the photos hitting the wooden floor sounded louder than the faint creak of the mattress. The bed’s stiffness made every movement uncomfortable.
Despite the solid frame beneath her, Isabela’s attention was consumed by the buzz coursing through her body, her neck tingling under Alfonso’s mouth as he traced its soft curves.
What am I doing? she thought.
All she had done since arriving had been cry, run harder than she ever had in her life, and now—here she was, in bed with a man she barely knew, letting him map the curves of her body with his large hands.
My mother had been right about me, she chastised herself.
“Don’t—don’t bite me,” she warned, her voice barely audible.
“Sorry,” he replied with a grin tugging at his lips.
“I thought you were joking,” she huffed, her fingers threading through his hair.
Pulling his weight forward, Alfonso level his face to Isabela’s.
He pressed soft kisses to her swollen eyes, the stubble of his short beard brushing her nose as he moved from one eye to the other.
“I don’t think that’s going to work,” she said, cupping his face to stop his kisses.
Her skin still remembered the chill of the neighborhood air after her white hoodie had been tossed to the floor. A flush of embarrassment colored her face as a million thoughts ran through her head—she hadn’t had time for a bath yet, and the only clothes she’d brought left her in just her underwear. I wasn’t planning for this. It’s not my fault, she tried to tell herself.
She felt utterly alone—until Alfonso’s bare skin pressed against hers, his paint-splattered shirt lying discarded on the floor. It had been so long since she’d felt such closeness.
Her worries began to melt away when their lips met again.
“Wait—” she said after separating her face just a hair from his.
“Protection, right?”
“No… I mean, yes—but also—” She stumbled over her words, finding it hard to speak with his weight pressing against her chest. “The truck… we left it running.”
“¡Ah, caray!” His mild amusement lit his eyes as Alfonso remembered the truck still running.
Unsure of the reason, she found his silly expression somehow endearing, and a cheerful giggle escaped her lips.
“We were going to leave, right?” he said, shifting his weight onto his elbows, leaving a little space between their chests.
Isabela cupped his face again, her smile still coloring her cheeks.
The small gap between them made her chest feel chilly.
“Go turn it off—hurry,” she said.
Slowly lowering his head, he sealed his lips with hers.
It was like a goodbye kiss before going to work, but the depth of it made Isabela tremble slightly, feeling overwhelmed by the intensity. When they slowly pulled apart, the sound of their lips parting seemed louder than before, making her blush at the noise.
“Ya vengo,” he said softly, before rising from the bed.
She scurried under the thin blankets, her nearly naked body trembling—whether from the cold night air, the lingering excitement, or both, she wasn’t sure. Her arms shook despite her attempts to still them, and feeling lightheaded, she decided to get some air from the window, still wrapped in the blanket.
From above, she watched the man she had been with walk calmly across the front yard, his hands gripping his loose pants to keep them from slipping, his brown skin muted in the dim night light. Unbothered by the cold, he’d rushed out shirtless.
She had never imagined herself in this position, feeling a strange warmth for him even as she observed his silly, impulsive actions. What’s wrong with me? she wondered again.
The headlights softly turned off, the light vanishing from below, engulfing the house even more in darkness. Just as calmly Alfonso walked back across the yard.
She felt a tug in her heart, “I said hurry,” she muttered.
Leaving the window, she rested against the wall.
The darkness of the room clouded her vision, making it impossible to see the floor.
Her heart leapt as the excitement from earlier faded along with the cold, her body warming with a sudden awareness—she couldn’t find his shirt anywhere on the floor.
“No… no,” she muttered, leaning against the edge of the bed, her white sweater lying alone on the ground.
The oppressive weight of solitude pressed down on her, making it hard to breathe. He should’ve been here by now—right?
Unsure, she strained to listen for his footsteps, but the pounding in her temples made it impossible. She wanted to close her eyes, but forced herself to face the open doorway.
Beyond the frame, only shrouded darkness waited. She held her breath—waiting as well.
The strength left her body entirely—thankfully she had been lying on the bed, or she might have collapsed to the floor.
Alfonso’s tall figure moved nonchalantly across the room, one hand holding his loose pants, the other clutching a crumpled shirt in his fist.
Her mouth opened first, but no sound came out.
“What’s wrong, Isa?”
Concern filled his voice at the sight of her distraught expression.
“You idiot—” she tried to scream, but it came out as a defeated complaint. “How could you?!”
Despite his confusion, Alfonso caught her by the arms, anticipating her ungraceful movements and holding her with deliberate strength.
She yanked free, her hand slipping from his hold and swinging suddenly across his face.
Even at that speed, the blow landed with a dry thump. The pain in her hand from striking his cheek was sharper than any sound it produced.
“I thought—I thought you were gone too,” she bellowed, drawing strength from her anger.
Exhausted, she let herself fall into Alfonso’s embrace.
“Stop laughing—there’s nothing funny,” she complained, resting her face against his shoulder.
“At least you got that out of the way,” he said, finding humor in proving her wrong. “I’m very much alive, Isabela.”
The pulse throbbing in her hand proved that what she had struck was solid and just as real as her own trembling body.
He tightened his hold on her, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.
“I’m sorry, Isabela,” he murmured near her ear. “Please forgive me.”
Her body shuddered slightly at the closeness of his voice; she slowly brought her arms across his back, returning his embrace.
“Just—don’t do it again… idiot.”
“Lo que usted pida, princesa.”
The soft promise lingered in the room, his voice fading before it reached the doorway.
