Mine Would Be You (12)

Sundays are my favorite day of the week; they always have been. Especially after the week I’ve had, I need it.

It’s even better today as I clutch my mug, which is filled with my mom’s homemade chocolate en Leche de Coco, as the steam floats upwards. The smell of my mom’s empanadas frying, along with rice and my dad’s sweet potatoes, fills the house. It’s a strange mixture, but I think they’re trying to give me all my favorites in one night.

I also know my mom made torta negra cake for dessert, and I saw a quart of the homestyle vanilla chip ice cream my dad always used to buy in the freezer. All to make me feel better.

I take a small sip, letting the chocolate and coconut milk take over my taste buds.

My bedroom is the same—it always is every time I visit. Maybe a stray box with random knick-knacks, but for the most part it’s unchanged. I lean against the doorway as I look around. It feels different today, maybe because everywhere I look there is a memory of Myles and me waiting to jump out.

My bed, where we used to lay for hours while I made him watch 21 Jump Street for the thousandth time. Or when he couldn’t keep his hands off me after my junior year homecoming and we had our first mini hook up. I remember it so vividly because he was the only person I wanted to touch me. The only hands I wanted on my hips or my legs or anywhere else.

Or my window seat, my favorite place in the whole world, where I’d read my magazines or cut them up to make collages. He’d always help me, hand me the glue or the poster board, and I would put on ESPN so we could watch sports together while we did it.

It’s also the place he first told me he loved me.

The sun has started to stream in through my open curtains, just barely touching the carpeted floor and the foot of my bed. I don’t know why I’m awake before my alarm, but I know Myles is too.

Because even though his head is on my chest and his arm is curled around mine, his fingers are tracing circles on my ribs softly. Like butter.

He has to go soon, since I snuck him in last night and he is most definitely not allowed to spend the night. My hand is on the back of his neck, just to touch him. I see his eyes flutter open, and he adjusts so he’s practically covering me and I’m under the full weight of him. But I don’t mind. I smile down at him as he rests his chin on his hand. The moment is peaceful. The only sound around us is the early birds chirping outside my window as he looks at me.

“Hey, can I tell you something?” he asks.

He says it quietly, and I nod as his deep brown eyes soften. I run my finger over his jaw and his lips before he speaks. Enjoying how the rising sun gives his dark skin the slightest glow. He leans further up, so his face is directly above me, our lips so close they almost touch but don’t.

“I love you.”

I stare at him, almost positive I didn’t hear him right. That it’s just early and my brain isn’t working right.

“What?”

He smiles, it’s soft and easy, but he smiles as he presses our lips together and punctuates each word with a kiss. “I. Love. You.”

A stupidly goofy grin spreads over my face as I pull him down to really, fully kiss me. Relaxing into the feel of his hands on my cheeks and the softness of his lips.

And in the early morning sunlight filling my room with soft rays that promise a great day, I can’t imagine this moment any differently.

“I love you too.”

I blink as I come out of the memory. There’s an immense pressure on my chest, but it’s not painful or overwhelming. It’s just there, filled with reminiscence. The cold, hard fact that that moment is forever a memory now. That Myles and I are like a tiny box tucked into the corner of my brain where those memories, those moments in time, will always be.

But like my therapist always told me in the beginning, a few deep breaths, take it one step at time, and the feeling will fade. Over time I won’t always get the feeling of nostalgia—of wishing for a relationship that was never going to last—or the heavy chest. The memories will always be there, but they’ll get smaller over time and will be just that, memories.

The sound of dishes and silverware clinking draws my attention away from my room. I give it one last look before shutting the door and walking down the stairs.

“¿Estás bien, mija?” My mom asks as she checks on the empanadas when I enter the kitchen.

“Sí, Mamá. I’m good.”

Dad is playing the CD I made him for Father’s Day when I was sixteen years old. It’s filled with our favorites from that year and from when I was young. I know he’s doing everything in his fatherly power to make me feel better. Just like my mom is. The music floats throughout the house and trickles into the kitchen.

“Matrimonio? Seriamente? Quién se cree que es?” Marriage? Seriously? Who does he think he is?

“No lo sé, Mamá.” I exhale. “But if he’s happy that’s all that matters.”

“Está bien no estar bien, mi amor.” It’s okay not to be okay, my love.

I don’t answer as Dad appears, leaning in the doorway as the late afternoon Sunday sun shines through the windows. I pull on the strings of an old hoodie of his that was tucked away in the back closet, biting softly on the end.

Sun rays illuminate the space. The walls are yellow, my mom’s favorite color, which my dad insisted they paint the kitchen. Bright plates and dishware and colorful artwork hang on the walls, and pictures of the three of us and some with Harper and Sloan cover the fridge.