“Pobrecita,” her mom commiserated, shaking her head at the drink offer and repeating her “poor thing” as she opened her arms for a hug. “Come sit with me, I miss you.”
“Mamá, I’ve been home for two weeks now. How can you still miss me?” Cat teased. But she wormed her way in between Mariana and their mom, shoving her sister over to the next cushion with a solid hip check.
“Hey! I don’t have to stick around for this abuse,” Mariana complained. “I passed up a nap by our apartment complex pool with Angelo. A rare date opportunity for us since our schedules are so freaking busy lately.”
“Gracias for coming to cheer me up, querida hermana.” Cat patted her sister’s thigh, teasing her because she couldn’t help doing so but also extremely thankful for Mariana’s unique mix of sensibility and compassion during these past couple of weeks of heartache and indecision.
Today was a rare occasion with the three of them alone at the apartment. The living room was home base for all eleven Capuletas, even the five older girls, who lived on their own. Usually any mix of them—if not all—could be found hanging out here in the sala or in the back courtyard. But a Sunday afternoon at the end of June meant the four teens were off enjoying the sunny weather with friends. Blanca, Violeta, and Sabrina were off getting their nails done, and Papo was busy making a run to the hardware store to finish repairing one of the toilets in the downstairs community center.
Wrapped in her mother’s embrace, her older sister clasping her hand in solidarity, Cat stared at the collection of vases scattered around the sala. Gifts Patricio had sent since her return, each filled with long-stem roses and colorful lantana—the orange, red, and yellow lantana buds aching reminders of their time at his beach house. He had also made a donation in her name to the community center’s music program; another to her familia’s church, Little Flower Basilica; and a third to an organization here on San Antonio’s West Side working to ensure the area’s cultural heritage wasn’t erased in the course of ongoing gentrification efforts.
The roses were beautiful, the lantana a sentimental touch that brought the sting of tears to her eyes. But the donations to her familia, her comunidad, her sanctuaries . . . Those spoke of how much Patricio understood what and who was important to her.
And yet, if that were true, how could he have lied and misled her so grossly? How could she ever trust him again after that? How could she trust herself, when she’d done the one thing she had promised she never would: put herself in a position that allowed a man to hold all the cards.
She sighed, her heart heavy, her mind confused.
“Ay, mija, when are you going to talk to him?” her mamá asked.
“Never.”
Mariana squeezed Cat’s hand and glowered at her at the same time Mamá softly swatted Cat’s head, still resting on her shoulder. “No seas mala,” Mamá chided.
“I’m not being mean. I’m protecting myself.”
“Protecting or hiding?” Mariana pointed out, her perception spot-on, as usual. “I’m not going to tell you what to do—”
“Famous last words,” Cat muttered.
“Oye, ingrata, watch it,” her sister growled, mussing Cat’s hair playfully. “Stop being ungrateful, you little brat. My point is, you said yourself you overheard him talking. Sí, he shouldn’t have gone behind your back. That was uncalled for.”
“Pero . . .” Cat nudged when Mariana didn’t continue.
“But you didn’t give him a chance to fully explain. Which could still be a load of crap, who knows.” Mariana shrugged, a beats me expression scrunching her hawklike nose and high cheekbones. “You didn’t stick around to find out. And the guy’s putting in some serious effort trying to get through to you. I mean, it’s a freaking floral shop in here. And I’m not taking any more vases to the ER break room.”
“Mija, you care about him. This, I know. Porque si no, you would have taken his calls already and told him vete pa’l carajo, verdad?”
Cat exchanged knowing smirks with her sister. Yeah, any other guy and she would have definitely told him to go to hell days ago.
But her heart and her head couldn’t let go of him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“I do,” she admitted. “That’s why his betrayal hurts so much. Worse, if I was so wrong about him, how can I trust my judgment about anything anymore?”
“Ay, mija, you are too hard on yourself,” Mamá told her. “You have a good head on your shoulders, Catalina. Without your business smarts, our music school wouldn’t have taken off like it did. Our classes wouldn’t be full, with people on a waiting list. Las Nubes would not have been so sought-after even before you girls were crowned Battle Champs. Sí, all of us work hard, pero tú, you are sharp and shrewd and bold in the best ways.”
“¡Oye!” Mariana nudged Cat’s knee with her own. “You know how much I despise feeding your ego.” The three of them shared a laugh; then her sister continued, Mariana’s tone her special brand of pep-talk positive and ER-room serious. “But your gut instincts have rarely failed you, Cat. Even when we were kids. And I’m not so sure they totally have now. I mean, you even said, in the beginning, something felt off. There’s no need to doubt yourself. I really think you should just talk to him about it.”
Ay, how she wanted to believe that they were right. Praying for wisdom, Cat fingered the crucifix on her gold chain and let out a soul-weary sigh. “Maybe I will, at some point. But I also need to figure out my future with Padua.”
“Attagirl,” Mariana cheered.
“Así es,” Mamá agreed.
Cat sat up, their words of encouragement the final nudge she needed to flip a mental light switch on, signaling an end to her dreary self-pity party. She was Catalina freaking Capuleta. If Padua wasn’t already convinced of it, the powers that be would learn soon enough how lucky they were to have her on their roster of talent.
“You’re both right. I’ve licked my wounds long enough. It’s time for me to get back in the business of kicking ass and taking names. What is it you call these times, Mamá? Teachable moments?”
Her mom nodded, but Cat didn’t miss the wary glance she exchanged with Mariana.
“Y Patricio? What do you plan to do about him?” her sister asked.
“Nothing. I’ll get over it. I’ll get over . . . him.” Cat’s voice caught as she struggled to spit out the lie.
Mamá reached for Cat’s hands, her brown eyes serious, intent. “¿Lo quieres, mija? Dime la verdad.”
Did she love him?
With her mom asking her to tell the truth, there was no way Cat could lie again. “Sí, Mamá, I do, pero I’m afraid. What if I—”
“Shhhh.” Mamá placed a finger gently on Cat’s lips. “That is all I needed to hear. Love isn’t perfect, mija. We all make mistakes. Pero lo importante es how you and your partner work through it together. If you love each other, you will find a way.”
Cat frowned, uncertain how exactly she was supposed to “find a way,” only certain that her heart ached. And she missed Patricio. His teasing, his laughter, their ease with each other, the way their creativity flowed when they wrote together. His bear hugs and delicious kisses. Everything about him.