Page 102 of Yours, For Now

"Lina! Come back here!" Tío Miguel called from upstairs, but I ignored him, too.

I got in my car and drove away, tears clouding my eyes.

Alone in my high-rise condo, I didn't have the time to cook dinner, but I started preparing a meal anyway. I should have ordered takeout or picked up food somewhere but, in a way, pretending like I could make room in my day helped. If I could spend time doing something so menial, I could believe that I could figure things out, and find a way to have it all. Even if everything this week pointed to the contrary, I couldn't ignore the way my heart craved to find work-life balance now, and not in two years. Nor could I erase the thoughts multiplying in each of my brain synapses, that I couldn't let Lina go. Yet dropping soccer was all I could think of, and it still didn't do enough for my daily agenda.

And this was without considering that Lina might not be on the same page that I was. She had told me she was ready to wait to climb over this hump in her career, before thinking about love. Then again, I'd told her the same…

A plan. I needed a plan, so I had something to offer. Then I would talk to her. And convince her not to break up.

Maybe a start would be to let her know I'd cook dinner for her, if she came to stay with me.

I grabbed my phone to shoot a quick text, only to find one of hers already there.

Lina: Hey. Are you busy? Can I see

you? I'm on my way to your place

if you're there

A mix of excitement and worry swirled inside of me. This wasn't like Lina, and she was supposed to be in a late meeting, but the prospect of seeing her pumped into my heart in two extra beats.

Gabe: Of course. I'm at home.

Come straight up

I took ten minutes to finish dinner prep. I didn't know how long it would take Lina to make it to my place, or what to do with the butterflies in my stomach. In the end, I left the diced veggies in a bowl and put the meat back in the fridge. I was checking my emails on my phone when my doorbell rang.

There was only one thought when I opened the door to see her looking down and wriggling her hands on her bag.

Something happened.

My stomach dropped. With no words, I got closer to her, and put two fingers under her chin, quietly asking her to look up at me. At first she seemed to avoid my eyes, but I insisted.

She sighed and gazed up at me. It looked like she'd been crying.

I frowned. My mind darkened. I searched her face for a hint of what might have caused this look on her, but saw nothing. I placed a hand on her face; it seemed to make her sadder. Lead filled every cavity in my chest at the sight.

"Who was it? What did they do to you?" I asked.

She fought with the question for a few moments, not immediately answering. A mix of hurt and doubt marred her eyebrow. She pressed her lips tight.

I let a gust of air out my nose. "Come. Sit on the sofa; we'll talk."

She nodded and entered the condo, immediately making her way to the couch. She slumped and sighed.

"Tea okay?" I filled the electric kettle with water and set it to heat up. "I can give you coffee if you like, but my mom always offered me chamomile tea when I felt upset. I still have a box she gave me."

"That would be lovely, Gabe. Thanks."

We remained in silence, only the small sounds of getting her a cup and serving her tea filling up the space. I found her leaning back on the sofa cushions, like the time she'd almost fallen asleep, her head on the top edge of it.

I placed the cup on the coffee table in front of her; she followed the movement, her arms crossed over her belly. I sat next to her, giving her time and space, except for my hand. I ran my fingers through her hair.

Finally she settled her deep brown eyes on me.

"You look sad," I said.

"I fought with them. I told them how I feel."