Page 83 of Switch Hitter

“I’m happy you’re here,” she whispers.

My throat goes tight. “Me too.”

Ciara leans against the counter, arms crossed, pretending she’s not emotional. Her eyes flick to Emiliano, and she gives him a sharp little nod.

“Morning,” she says. “Soon to be brother-in-law."

“Ciara,” I hiss.

“Morning, sis,” Emiliano replies, without missing a beat, grabbing a bun from the dish.

Ciara’s gaze lingers on him a moment, and then she turns to me.

“I like him. Don’t screw this up.”

Jesus.

“I’ll try not to,” I smirk.

My brothers drift in one by one. David is in a button-up that looks like it’s trying to strangle him. He takes one look at Emiliano and grins like Christmas came early.

“So now we’ve got two baseball players in the family,” he says.

Sam elbows him hard.

“What?” David says, offended. “I’m being friendly.”

My dad walks in last. Pádraig O'Malley is in a suit and tie, hair combed, face composed like it always is when he’s trying to be the version of himself he believes God expects.

His gaze flicks to Emiliano, then to me, and he nods once. It’s not cold, but it doesn’t exactly feel warm either. Just… acceptance in progress. I know this isn’t what he envisioned when he thought about my life. And I’m sure he and my mother had a long discussion after we all went to bed.

But I can’t let his disappointment rule my life.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning, Dad,” I reply.

My mom sets plates down like she’s trying to keep everyone busy enough not to say anything stupid. Coffee is poured, buns are passed, and small talk fills the gaps. Emiliano sits beside me at the table, knee brushing mine under the wood, and I look down at my plate with a soft smile.

I catch my dad watching us, and then he looks away. That tiny act feels like mercy somehow.

Mass is exactly how it always is: the smell of incense and the creak of pews. The old familiar rhythm of hymns and prayers living in my bones.

I should feel comforted because this is where I used to feel most at home. Instead, my body is hyper-aware of every person who might look at us too long.

Every whisper.

Every glance.

My family slips into our usual pew, mid-church, close enough that people recognize us but not close enough to be on display. Emiliano slides in beside me like it’s normal.

Like he belongs here.

The priest’s voice echoes through the church, and my mom crosses herself, my sisters bow their heads, and my brothers do the motions like muscle memory.

I do it too, hands moving automatically.

Beside me, Emiliano does the same, and somehow that makes me realize the truth that’s right in front of me.