Page 87 of Revv

I turn back to my dresser and start sorting my makeup into two bags. One for tomorrow morning and one for the festival, because I’m not digging through six lip liners at five in the morning while Revel stands outside my house running his mouth.

Just thinking his name makes my stomach do something stupid.

Not butterflies.

Absolutely not.

More like indigestion with abs.

I zip the smaller makeup bag harder than necessary and move it beside my purse. My equipment is already packed into the car, every cable wrapped, labeled, and checked twice. My clothes are almost done.

Everything is under control.

Mostly.

Bexley has started untangling the straps of my blue bikini bottoms when the doorbell rings.

Guacamole explodes out of the blanket so fast he nearly takes the pillowcase with him. He launches off the bed, lands with an offended little grunt, then tears down the hallway like somebody has come to steal the food he doesn’t pay for.

“Who the hell is that?” Bex asks.

“Probably my mom. She texted she might stop by before work.”

“At this hour?”

“She works nights.”

I follow Guac through the house while Bex trails behind me, still carrying the bikini for some reason. By the time I reach the front door, he’s standing on his back legs with both front paws against it, yelling at whoever rang the bell.

“Move, chismoso.”

He does not move.

I scoop him up with one arm and open the door to find my mother standing on the porch with two foil-covered containers balanced against her chest and a reusable grocery bag looped over one wrist.

“Hola, mi amor.” Her whole face brightens when she sees me. “Take this before I drop everything.”

I quickly grab the containers while she steps inside, bringing the smell of roasted peppers, seasoned meat, warm tortillas, and cinnamon with her.

My mom is forty-eight and still one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen. Not in a polished, tries-too-hard way either. She’s wearing navy scrubs with little silver hoops, her dark hair twisted into a loose bun with a few gray strands showing near her temples. Her face is soft, warm brown eyes framed by laugh lines she used to complain about until I told her they made her look kind.

They do.

Everything about her is kind.

Even when life gave her every reason not to be.

“You made all this tonight?” I ask, carrying the food toward the kitchen.

“I made it this afternoon before I slept. There are breakfast burritos, empanadas, fruit, and the little cinnamon pastries you like. Some for tonight and enough for the road tomorrow.”

“Mom, we’re driving to Miami, not crossing the country.”

“Sí, and you’ll still be hungry before you even hit the highway.” She taps the first foil container. “This one is for tonight. The rest are for tomorrow. No stopping for that gas-station basura and calling it breakfast.”

Bex is already peeling back the foil before Mom finishes. She slides onto one of the stools, steals an empanada, then points it at me after the first bite.

“To be fair, Revel’s going too, and that man is huge. All that muscle has to eat. Mrs. Mendez, you might’ve made exactly enough.”