Chapter Eighteen

I suddenly feel like an intruder when Mrs. Ortiz narrows her eyes at her eldest daughter. “Ca mila.”

Isaiah’s jaw clenches, and he casts a dark look at his sister. “You want to start this right now? Really?”

Camila flips her braids over one shoulder. “I don’t want to start anything, Zay, but I’m not sorry for wanting you to just move on already.”

“You need to shut your mouth,” Isaiah volleys back.

Mr. Ortiz holds out a hand. “Ay, ay. That’s enough.”

“She came at me,” Isaiah says, and Camila rolls her eyes.

“I know, but let’s just drop it.” Mr. Ortiz points at the spread on the table. “I want a nice dinner. Okay? All of y’all can put your claws back and fight this out later. We have a guest.”

“And she likes my braids.” Gianna grins. “They’re just like Camila’s.”

Camila lays a big kiss on Gianna’s forehead. “Mami did such a good job. And this all looks so yummy.” She goes to each of her parents and gives them a kiss on the cheek, then Amaya, and Isaiah, and me. “Sorry,” she whispers in my ear.

“No worries,” I whisper back.

Mrs. Ortiz claps her hands together. “Let’s eat!”

My stomach feels like it just might burst by the time we’re done, but everything tastes so freaking good I can’t help myself. Tostones and arroz and steak and a simple salad with a dressing that has no business being that good.

Beyond that, I’m more than happy to be a spectator at this dinner, taking in all the conversations happening simultaneously: school, sports, college, work.

As it turns out, Mrs. Ortiz is a nurse-practitioner who teaches dance classes on the side (perfect!), while Mr. Ortiz is in insurance and also serves on the city council. Camila bartends (and oh my God, does the girl have stories), while the twins play soccer and Isaiah tutors. (I had no idea.) They listen as I tell them about Abuela and Lila, and Amaya finally warms up to me when I mention I have a cat. She desperately wants one and is totally smitten when I show her pictures of Patch from my phone.

After dinner, we all help clean up. It’s obvious this is a regular habit for them, as they all move around the kitchen swiftly like a wel l- oiled machine— minus the twins, who Mr. and Mrs. Ortiz instruct to settle down at the dining room table and do their homework.

“But it’s the weekend,” Gianna whines.

“And if you do your work now, then you won’t have to do it later,” Mrs. Ortiz says. “Vámanos. All of you. Papi and I will finish cleaning.”

“You sure?” Isaiah asks.

She squeezes his shoulder. “Sí.”

“Thanks so much for dinner. It was incredible,” I gush. “Just, everything.”

Mrs. Ortiz smiles. “Come back anytime.”

I smile, too, and then Isaiah motions toward the backyard, where all our belongings are. “Should we get back to it?”

I nod. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

From the dining room, Amaya’s voice calls, “Zaaaay, can you help me with this?”

Camila chimes in. “He has his own work to do. I can help you.”

“But you suck at math!” Amaya argues.

Isaiah bursts out laughing and looks at me. “Mind if I take a second?”

“No, go for it. I’m going to find the restroom, anyway.”

He nods toward the hall. “Ah, that way, second door to the right.”

I head in the direction he just nodded in. In the bathroom, after I wash my hands, I pause in the mirror to fix my makeup and hair. When I open the door, I’m startled to see Camila waiting just outside, tying her microbraids into one long side braid.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hi,” I reply, surprised.

She expertly weaves the three sections of her hair together. “Sorry again for making things weird at the start of dinner. Destiny is a bit of a sore subject in this house. They broke up, like, a month ago, and Zay is still not over her.”

“Oh, wow.” I feel like Camila is telling me something Isaiah probably doesn’t want me to know, but I’m not sure what to do.

“Yeah. To be honest,” Camila continues, “I didn’t like her much when they were together— she made him act foolish, spending all his money, talking about how he’d go to the same school she did regardless of whether it made sense for him. After they broke up, I wasn’t shy about my relief, and now it’s become this thing where we, like, can’t even say her name in this house. So, when I saw you . . . I don’t know. I was hopeful! Like, maybe he was finally ready to move on and find someone who he could be a partner to rather than a loyal puppy dog with. But whatever. It’s me and my big mouth.” Camila shakes her head, taking the hair tie from her wrist and securing it around the end of her braid. “He’d kill me if he knew I was telling you this, but I didn’t want you to think I was just a jerk.”

“It’s totally fine. I’m just sorry to hear about how it all went down.”

She casts a glance toward the dining room, where we can hear Isaiah walking Amaya through the math problem they’re solving together. “Me too.”

“I should get back, though,” I say, hoping to escape this deeply personal discussion. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.” Camila smiles at me. “And, hey. Be good to him.”

“I will” is all I can think to say as I walk toward the dining room.

Phew. So, Camila is intense. Wel l-mea ning, but a lot. I can’t even picture Isaiah the way Camila just described— so over-the -top i n his feelings that he can’t think or act right. Which is not Destiny’s fault, by any means, but from the way Camila described it, maybe they weren’t good together.

There’s only one Destiny in our grade that I can think of, but I don’t know her well. Nosily, I make a mental note to look her up on social media later.

When I finally enter the dining room, Isaiah looks up. “Ah, good timing. We just finished.”

“Great. Let’s go.” This time, I lead the way to the backyard, straight to the fire pit. I hold out my hands toward the flame, embracing its warmth.

“Okay, so, I have to ask. What is your laundry secret?” Isaiah asks, settling beside me.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on! Don’t hold out on me. My hoodie that you borrowed has literally never smelled better or felt softer. What kind of witchcraft is that, Whit?”

I laugh. “Oh, that! That was the magic of my abuelita. She owns El Coquí, the tailor shop downtown.”

“No shit? Mami loves that place!”

“Really?” I ask.

Isaiah nods. “Won’t get our clothes tailored or cleaned anywhere else.” He leans back in his chair. “Makes sense, then. She’s just really good at her job.”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t rule out witchcraft, frankly.”

“You never really can.” Isaiah grins.

“Your mom is just as fun as I remember. All of them, rea lly— alt hough I think the twins were only, like, one last time I was here. At the Halloween party.”

Isaiah groans. “Please, let’s not talk about that Halloween party. It was so, so cheesy. I cringe just thinking about it.”

“What?! I loved that party!”

He gives me a side glance. “Come on, now, don’t lie.”

“What? I really did,” I say. “Sophie and I talked about it for months. We were so impressed you were actually able to throw a real party.”

“Really?”

“Really!”

He glances to the ground, kicking at the grass with the toe of his shoe, and lets out a soft laugh, which makes me smile a little.

“What?” I ask.

Isaiah shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Oh, come on!”

“It’s just funny, is all.” He squints at the ground and then over at me. “You know I threw that party to try and impress you, right?”

I laugh. “No, you didn’t.”

He grimaces. “But I did.”

I look at him like he’s lost his mind. I mean, surely, he has. “You didn’t.”

“So, the thing is, I thought you were cute. And you had these little gold dangly pumpkin earrings you would wear.”

At the mention of this, my cheeks go hot and I put my hands over my face. “Oh my God. Those earrings! I wore them, like, every day.” They were a gift from Abuelo and I still have them.

“You did! And I remember overhearing you talking to Sophie about how much you loved fall. I mistakenly assumed you loved Halloween specifically, like us. . . . In my head, I was like, I gotta impress this girl somehow.” He’s shaking his head again, laughing. “Camila helped me convince our parents to do this dorky little par ty—which they were all for, because they’re kind of Halloween freaks, as you can see.” He motions to the house behind him. “Anyway, I invited you and I was so psyched because you actually came! But then I was too chicken to actually talk to you. Hence, the note.”

He’s referring to a note he wrote on a piece of notebook paper, which he had folded at least a dozen times until it was a teeny, tiny slip of paper, and then he pushed it onto my desk the following Monday. It read, I like you. — Zay.

I still remember how my hands shook as I read the letters scrawled across the page, wondering if it was a joke, or if the cute boy who’d been sitting next to me in one of my classes really liked me.

When I looked over at him at the desk next to me, he was watching me, and I knew it wasn’t a joke. I wrote him back in pink pen: I like you, too.

And our note-passing-and-text-message-based relationship began.

We were just twelve, so it wasn’t much, but we sometimes sat together at lunch. Our notes back and forth contained nothing but doodles or messages like What’s up? and How are you? but it was sweet and wholesome until it wasn’t.

Still, this information has me absolutely reeling.

I blink a few times at him. “I . . . had no idea.”

He grins, that easy Isaiah smile. “How could you have?”

“I wish I had, though.” I’m staring at him so intently, harder than I should be, but I’m touched knowing that what we had started out so sweet. “That’s adorable.”

“Sixth- grade crushes were something else, huh?” he asks.

“T hey really were,” I agree. A silence falls between us, and I’m not sure what to thi nk— it was so long ago, and we were just kids, yet . . . th is comfortable feeling. The hoodie. The banter, the teasing. The way he smells. Zay. Even if he stood me up, I can’t deny the way those other things feel so light in my heart.

I chew on my lower lip, studying his long lashes, wondering if maybe now’s the time to finally ask him why things went wrong with us.

But after his earlier admission, there’s another thought tugging at me. Maybe it’s time to let go of the past and simply forgive and forget.

I clear my throat. “I think we’re in good shape for the Fall Fest. So, maybe we can call it for tonight?”

His eyebrows go up. “Oh, no. I scared you away with my stalkerish story.”

“No, not at all,” I assure him. “I just need to get home. Abuela probably needs help with chores and I need to be up disgustingly early for work tomorrow.”

“Right, of course.” Isaiah stands, too. “Let me walk you out.”

“That sounds good.”

I follow him, saying goodbye to his family that welcomed me like theirs, and all but run to the car. Alone, in the quiet for the first time tonight, I swallow a thought.

Some small part of me might have a crush on Isaiah Ortiz.