BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter One
Summary: Marivella Roy-Rivera grew up with Benito in Vega Baja, best friends turned high school sweethearts who thought they'd last forever. But she wanted degrees, stability, and a future she could plan; he wanted music, stages, and a life bigger than the island could hold. They moved on--or at least tried to. Now Marivella is back in Puerto Rico for a few months after finishing her PhD, engaged to a kind, steady man who can give her everything she once said she wanted. The problem? Benito's home too... and he's finally offering her the stability she always needed--but it might be too late.
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*disclaimer: I don't speak Spanish so I'm using DeepL to write dialogue in Spanish* and it's proofread BUT i'm dyslexic so forgive me for errors. word count: 4.9k background info: Marivella's mom is from New York and her dad is Puerto Rican, his father died and his mother can't take care of herself so they moved to Vega Baja to help her out when Marivella was 4. Marivella speaks english and Spanish fluently but doesn't have a full Puerto Rican accent when speaking Spanish.
On a Saturday neither of them can fully recall, sometime in late July, the heat in Vega Baja felt heavy and impossible to ignore. A beach day had been planned after countless complaints from Marivella and Benito about never going.
The drive was short, but long enough for them to find something to argue about, and this time it was about who would get to jump off the dock first. It was always something small like that--who saw the ocean first, who reached the sand first, who was braver. They competed over things that didn't matter because a 7 years old, everything felt important.
Benito insisted he wasn't afraid of the height.
Marivella insisted she wasn't afraid either.
In truth, neither of them liked the first jump. The water was colder than it looked from above, and the drop always felt higher once you were standing on the edge.
But neither of them would ever admit that.
When the car finally stopped, they ran toward the sand without waiting to be told. Benito reached the dock first. Marivella followed close behind, refusing to fall too far back.
He climbed up easily, balanced at the edge, and looked down at the water.
"No lo vas a hacer," (You're not going to) she said, half daring.
He glanced at her. "Mírame." (Watch me)
And he did.
"Benito!" she yelled out of surprise.
The splash was louder than expected. Once he resurfaced, he pushed his hair out of his eyes and grinned like he'd just won something enormous.
Only when she knew he was okay did she climb up and follow.
It wasn't umtil he started climbing back onto the dock that Lysaurie, Benito's mother, shouted from the sand, asking him what exactly he thought he was doing.
He looked around wondering what he did wrong, and then looked down at himself--sneakers, shorts, t-shirt--completely soaked.
In his rush to win, to prove something neither of them had actually defined, he hadn't even realized he jumped into the water fully dressed.
That summer didn't feel significant.
It was just another Saturday. Another race to the water. Another pair of sneakers left heavy and dripping in the backseat on the drive home.
But childhood doesn't announce itself when it's becoming something else. It simply continues. The dock stayed where it was. The road to the beach stayed the same. The houses on their two streets didn't move. And somehwere in the reception of ordinary days, the shape of their lives began to settle into something fixed.
Seven became eight. Eight folded into nine. Their limbs grew longer, their voices steadier, but the space between them remained unchanged. If Marivella left her house in the morning, Benito appeared at the corner before she reached it. If he lingered after school, she waited without being asked. It wasn't loyalty in the dramatic sense. It was habit. It was routine. It was the quiet assumption that wherever one of them was headed, the other would follow.
By the age of nine, no one asked why they were always together. It was easier to assume they came as a pair. Their routines had fused so completely that seeing one without the other felt unnatural.
Almirante Sur was not the kind of place where everything went unnoticed. The streets were narrow and sun-scracked, lined with concrete houses painted in colours that had once been brighter--mint green fading into dust, pale blue dulled by heat. Dogs barked at passing cars even when they recognized them. Neighbours sat on plastic chairs in shaded carports and knew who left their house at what hour.
Marivella's house sat two streets down from a small colmado with a hand-painted sign that had been peeling for years. Benito's was closer to the corner, pale yellow, with a gate that never fully latched no matter how many times his father fixed it (or at least tried to).
Every morning, he stepped out with his backback hanging off one shoudler. By the time Marivella reached the corner, he was already there.
"Llegas tarde," (You're late) he'd say, even if she wan't.
"No lo soy," (No I'm not) she'd reply, adjusting the straps on her backpack.
"Caminas despacio.” (You walk slow)
"Caminas rápido." (You walk fast)
The humidity clung to their uniforms before they reached the end of the block. The walk to school wasn't far, but it felt longer in the mornings, when the sun hadn't fully risen and the air was still thick form the night.
They walked close enough that their shoulders brushed when the sidewalk narrowed.
At school, teachers tried separating them. It never lasted long. Recess always pulled them back together. If she was sitting under the almond tree near the far wall, notebook balanced on her knees, he would find her eventually, dirt smudged on his socks, breath uneven from running.
He wasn't good at staying still. She wasn't good at ignoring things.
The first time someone commented on the way she pronounced a word in class, it wasn't even cruel. Just careless.
"Por qué lo dices así?" (Why do you say it like that?)
She blinked. "Como cuál?" (Like what?)
"Como si no fueras de aquí." (Like you're not from here)
Before she could respond, Benito's chair scraped against the tile floor.
"Y qué si no lo es?" (So what if she isn't?)
The room went quiet.
The boy shrugged. "Solo estoy preguntando." (I'm just asking)
"Y solo estoy respondiendo." (And I'm just answering)
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. After that, it stopped--at least when he was nearby.
When the final bell rang that afternoon, his younger brother was waiting near the gate with their mother. Benito ruffled his hair without looking at him, eyes still scanning the crowd for marivella.
Even then, in fourth grade, he had already begun to move through the world as if she was something he needed to keep track of.
Some years later....
The change didn't come with a warning.
It didn't arrive with teasing or questions or someone asking if they were dating.
It happened on a day that felt just like any other.
Marivella was at his house after school, sitting cross-legged on the cool tile floor of the living room while Lysaurie folded laundry on the couch. The ceiling fan hummed overhead. A game show played too loudly on the tv. Benito was sprawled on his stomach a few feet away, pretending to do homework. His younger brothers darted in and out of the hallway, chasing each other and leaving trails of noise behind them.
It was ordinary.
That was the problem.
Marivella reached up to tie her hair back, gathering her curls into a loose knot. The movement was automatic, something she'd done thousands of times before. Only this time, Benito noticed the length of her arms. The way her wrist bent. The quiet concentration in her expression.
He looked away quicjkly.
Then looked back.
Nothing about her had changed overnight. She still wore the same uniform. Still argued about everything. Still corrected him when he mixed up answers in math.
But something in him reacted different.
"Estás mirando," (You're staring) she said without looking up from her notebook.
"No soy." (I'm not)
"Sí lo eres." (Yes you are)
"No soy." (I'm not)
She glanced up finally, eyebrows raised.
He shrugged. "Tienes tinta en la cara." (You have ink on your face)
Her hand flew to her cheek immediately. " Dónde?" (Where?)
He almost smiled.
"Aquí," (Here) he said, reaching forward without thinking. His thumb brushed beneath her cheekbone.
The contact lasted less than a second. It shouldn't have felt like anything.
It did.
She froze first.
Then he did.
His hand dropped too quickly, as if air between them had suddenly become fragile.
"Desapareció," (It's gone) he muttered.
"Gracias." (thanks)
She went back to her notebook.
So did he.
But neither of them as doing homework anymore.
Outside, a car passed slowly down the street. Someone called out to a neighbour. A dog barked in the distance. The world continued like it always had.
Inside, something had shift. He became aware of her in new ways after that. The way her knee brushed his when they sat close to each other, the way she leaned into him without thinking when she laughed, the way she said his name when she was annoyed.
One evening, she stayed late. The sun had dipped low enough to turn the sky pink through the living room window. Lysaurie had gone to take a shower. His brothers had fallen asleep on the couch, one half hanging off the cushions, the other curled into a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and dust.
They were alone without meaning to be.
Marivella lay on her back on the floor, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily above them.
Benito was sitting cross-legged beside the coffee table, his old laptop balanced on top of a stack of schoolbooks. The screen glowed against the dimming room. He had headphones on and had been very quiet for the past hour.
Not boreed-quiet.
Focused.
She turned toward him. "Qué haces?" (What are you doing?)
"Nada." (Nothing)
"No es nada." (That's not nothing)
He hesitated.
Then, almost reluctantly, he pulled off his headphones and handed them over to her.
“No te rías.” (Don’t laugh) he said.
She pushed herself up on her elbows. “No me voy a reír ” (I’m not going to laugh)
“Siempre te ríes.” (You always laugh)
“No siempre me río.” (I don’t always laugh)
He raised an eyebrow.
“Okay,” she admitted. “A veces.” (Sometimes)
He held the headphones out anyway.
She sat up fully this time, knees brushing his as she leaned closer. He pressed play. He pressed play.
The sound wasn't polished. It wasn't clean. The beat wad slightly uneven, the vocals layered imperfectly. But it was his. Something he had recorded in the corner of his room while his brother were alseep and the neighbourhood had finally gone quiet.
She listened.
Not teasing. Not smiling.
Just listening.
When it ended, she didn't take the headphones off immediately.
"Hiciste eso?" (You made that)
He shrugged, pretending it was nothing. "Sí."
"Es bueno." (It's good)
"No mientas." (Don't lie)
"No soy." (I'm not)
He watched her face carefully, searching for sarcasm, for amusement.
He didn't find it.
"Crees que a otros les gustaría?" (You think other people would like it?) he asked, trying to sound casual.
"Claro," (Definitely) she said without hesitation.
"Cuántos?" (How many?)
She smiled faintly. "No sé. Mucho." (I don't know. A lot)
He looked down at the laptop screen again.
"Voy a subirlo." (I'm going to upload it) he said.
"Dónde?" (To where?)
"Soundcloud. Encontré este página. La gente simplemente pone cosas y ve qué pasa." (It's this page I found. People just put stuff up and see what happens)
"Y lo que sucede"? (And what happens?)
He didn't look at her when he answered.
"Quizá nada," (Maybe nothing)
A pause.
"Quizá todo." (Maybe everything)
The room felt smaller after that. She studied him--the seriousness in his voice, the way his jaw tightened slightly when he talked about it.
"De verdad crees que te vas a ir," (You really think you're going to leave) she said quietly.
"No lo creo, lo sé." (I don't think it, I know)
She rolled onto her side to face him fully now. "E ir a donde?" (And go where?)
"A cualquier sitio." (Anywhere)
He leaned back on his hands, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the living room wall.
"Nueva York. Miami. Los Ángeles. No sé. En algún sitio grande. En algún lugar ruidoso."(I don't know. Somewhere big. Somewhere loud)
She felt something twist in her chest.
"Te irías de Puerto Rico?" (You'd leave Puerto Rico?)
He finally looked at her.
"No me quedaré aquí para siempre." (I won't stay here forever)
It wasn't cruel. It wasn't dismissive. It was honest.
Her fingers drifted towards his without thinking.
"Y si no me voy." (And what if I don't leave) she asked.
He didn't answer right away.
Outside, a car passed slowly down the street. Someone laughed in a nearby yard. The fan kept spinning.
"Lo harás," he said finally. "Tú tampoco te quedas." (You will. You're not staying either)
She didn't argue. He knew her too well. Their hands brushed. This time, neither of them pretended it was an accident.
After that, it stopped feeling accidental.
They had grown into each other.
Their first kiss happened before either of them had the language for it. They were fifteen and sitting on the edge of that same dock after another beach day, the sun lowering but not gone yet. The beach was quieter than usual. A few families were packing up. The air smelled like salt and sunscreen and damp wood.
They had been talking about school--about a history project, about how she thought she might apply to a summer program in San Juan.
"Siempre estás aplicando a algo." (You're always applying to something) he said.
"Siempre estás grabando algo." (You're always recording something) she replied.
" No es lo mismo." (Not the same)
"Así es." (It is)
He bumped his shoulder lightly against hers.
She bumped his shoulder lightly against hers.
She bumped him back.
It escalated the way it always did--small pushes, teasing, the kind of physical closeness that had been normal since they were children. Except this time, when she turned to say something else, they were closer than usual.
There was no dramatic pause.
No heavy silence.
He just leaned in.
Not confidently. Not nervously. Just instinctively.
Their lips touched for a second.
She blinked.
He almost pulled back.
But she didn't move away.
So he kissed her again--softer this time. Slower.
Her hand pressed against his t-shirt without thinking, his palm settled on her waist, both touches warm, steady and most importantly certain.
It lasted maybe ten seconds. Maybe less.
When they pulled apart, the world looked exactly the same. The water moved the same way. The sun kept lowering. some noise humming somewhere in the distance.
Neither of them laughed, neither of them made a joke. They were just there, knees still touching.
"Okay," she finally spoke.
"Okay," he agreed.
They didn't tell anyone. They didn't even talk about ti that much between themselves. But everything adjusted quietly. He started walking her home and lingering longer at the gate. She started sitting closer to to him at school. Their hands found each other in hallways without looking.
They kissed in small, hidden places.
Behind the store. In the car. One the beach when no one was paying attention. In the kitchen while their families were chatting in the other room.
It wasn't performative nor loud. It felt like seomthing they were building for themselves.
They kept it quiet mostly because it felt easier that way. Almirante Sur noticed everything. The old woman in plastic chairs noticed who held hands. The colmado owner noticed who walked past together at night.
But it wasn't the neihghbours who caught them
It was Benito's mom.
They wer in his room one afternoon, door halfclosed. His brother were downstairs arguing overf the tv. The fan was running. Music played softly from his laptop--something unfinished he'd been working on.
Marivella was sitting on his bed, legs crossed. He was standing in front of her, talking about a verse he didnt like. She reached up to adjust the chain around his neck.
He leaned down automatically.
The kiss wasn't rushed, it wasn't reckless, it was familiar. Comfortable.
That's exactly when the door opened. Lysaurie didn't shout, she didn't gasp. She just stood there for half a second longer than necessary.
Benito pulled back first.
Marivella stood up to quickly, nearly tripping over the edge of the bed.
"Mama--" he started but was then interrupted.
"Veo," (I see) Lysaurie said calmly.
Which was worse.
She closed the door.
A few minutes later, Marivella's phone buzzed.
Her mother.
She stared at the screen.
"Responde," (Answer) Benito said.
She glared at him.
"Tú fuiste quien me besó." (you're the one who kissed me)
"Me besaste de nuevo." (you kissed me back)
She picked up the phone.
Her mother's voice wasn't loud. It was measured.
"So, Lysaurie just called me," she said.
Marivella closed her eyes. "I figured."
A pause--not heavy. Just thoughtful.
"I love Benito," her mother said. "You know that."
Marivella's shoulders dropped slightly.
"He's a good boy. He's always been good to you."
"I know."
"And I know you two... make sense." A faint sigh. "You've always made sense."
Marivella didn't know what to respond.
"I'm actually surprised this didn't happen earlier."
Marivella blinked. "What?"
"Yeah, Lysaurie an I have been waiting for this, you and Benito," she laughed. "Jeez, took you long enough!"
Heat rushed to her face. "Mom!"
"I'm serious," she continued, laughing softly. "You two have been inseparable since you we arrived. Did you really think nobody noticed?"
Marivella leaned back against the wall, mortified and oddly relieved at the same time.
"Lys said she walked in and just looked at you two like 'fianlly!' "
"Oh my god."
"The only thing I'm upset about is that you didn't tell me. We're not shicked at all though. If anything, we're surprised it didn't happen in middle school."
Marivella groaned quietly.
"As I said, I love Benito," her mother went on. "He's always been respectful. I trust him."
There was a shoft in her tone then--softer, steadier.
"I just need to know you're being smart. That you're not letting feelings make decisions for you."
"We are," Marivella said quickly.
"I figured you were." Small sigh. "Just be careful. That's it. You're not children anymore."
"I know."
"I trust you," her mother repeated. "both of you."
That settled something in her chest.
"Okay."
"Lys owes me five bucks now."
"Bye mom, love you mom."
"I love you too, don't come home too late."
When Marivella walked back into his room, Benito looked up immediately.
"Así que?" (Well?)
She crossed her arms.
"Aparentemente, mi madre ganó cinco dólares." (My mom won five dollars apparently)
He frowned. "Qué?" (What?)
"Tenían una apuesta." (They had a bet)
He stared for a second--then laughed, low and genuine.
"Qué locura." (That's crazy) He ribbed a hand over his face, shaking his head.
After that, they stopped hiding in doorways and behind half-closed doors. They didn't perform their relationship, but they didn't shrink it either. It simply became part of the landscape of Almirante Sur--like the colmado sign, like the cracked sidewalks, like the dock that had seen every version pf them.
A good rhythm settled between them.
He recorded late.
She studied late.
Sometimes in the same room.
Marivella would sit cross-legged on his bedroom floor, highlighters spread around her like a system only she understood, while he adjusted levels on his laptop. The glow of the screen lit half his face blue. The fan pushed warm air between them.
"Repetirlo," (Play it again) she'd say wihtout lookin gup.
He would.
The beats were sharper now. His voice steadier. There was less hesitation, more intention. He didn't talk about leaving lik eit was a fantasy anymore. He talked about it like it was a timeline.
"Estoy recibiendo mensajes," (I'm getting messages) he told her one night.
"De quién?" (From who)
"Gente. No solo de aquí." (People. Not just from here)
He turned the screen toward her. Numbers, cities, comments.
She felt pride before she felt fear.
"Eso es bueno," (That's good) she said.
"Es algo." (It's something)
It was more than something.
Meanwhile, her world was expanding in quieter ways. Online advanced placement classes. Meetings with international counselors. Essays drafted and redrafted. She had spreadsheets for deadlines, folders for applications, notes in the margins of books no one else had opened yet.
"Eres intenso," (You're intense) he told her once, watching her revise the same set of flashcards for the millionth time.
"Solo quiero asegurarme de estar preparado," (Just making sure I'm prepared)
"Para qué?" (For what?)
"Para salir," (For leaving)
He didn't argue with that. He couldn't. He was preparing too--just differently.
Senior year sharpened everything.
Benito started driving to San Juan more often.
At first it was just once every few weeks. Then every weekend. Then whenever someone texted him about studio time.
"Volveré tarde," (I'll be back late) he'd say.
"Estaré despierto," (I'll be up) she'd answer.
Sometimes she meant it.
Sometimes she fell asleep over her notes and woke up to a message sent at 12:04 a.m.
Te gustaría este (You'd like this one)
She always listened.
His voice sounded different now, less experimental and more certain. There was something deliberate in it--not just a boy recording in hi sbedroom anymore, but someone building something.
"Estás mejorando," (You're getting better) she told him one afternoon, sittinf cross-legged on the dock, the ware calmer than usual.
"Siempre he sido bueno." (I've always been good)
She smiled fiantly. "Te estás poniendo serio." (You're getting serious)
He didn't deny it.
"No tienes miedo?" (You're not scared?) she asked.
"De qué?" (Of what?)
"Que no funcionará." (that it wont work)
He shrugged.
"Me da más miedo no intentarlo." (I'm more scared of not trying)
That stayed with her.
Meanwhile, her acceptance letters began arriving. Not all of them were yeses. Some were polite rejections. Some were waitlists. She handled them quietly, updating her spreasheet, adjusting her options.
When the first real offer came--not the big one yet, but a solid one--she didn't cry. She laid it flat on her desk and stared at it.
"Tienes una?" (You got one?) he asked when she showed him later that evening.
"Sí."
He nodded, slow.
"Genial." (That's great)
"No es el que quiero." (It's not the one I want)
" Lo conseguirás." (You'll get it)
"No lo sabes." (You don't know that)
He leaned back against the hood of his car, arms crossed.
"Hago." (I do)
She looked at him. "Siempre piensas que todo va a funcionar." (You always think everything's going to work)
"Generalmente funciona." (It usually does)
She didn't argue because she knew he wasn't wrong. The problem wasn't doubt, it was direction. They still went to the beach and laid on the dock at sunset. But now when they talked about "later", it had specifics. Benito talked about going to university in Arecibo to study music, Marivella talked about schools in the States. He talked about collaborations on songs, she talked about research labs. Neither of them asked the question directly. But it hovered there anyway: where do we fit into each other's version of later?
On the day her final acceptance letter was delivered, the real shift came. She was in her room when it her mother bursted through the door.
Marivella read it out loud.
Full scholarship.
She read it once.
Then again.
Folded it back up, and sat there.
She didn't cry. She didn't celebrate immediately.
Instead, she went outside.
Straight to Benito’s house.
Once she got to Benito’s side, she started speaking softly.
"Lo compré." (I got it)
Benito didn’t need clarification. He exhaled. "Todo?" (Everything?)
She nodded. It wasn't forced.
"Estoy orgulloso de ti." (I'm proud of you)
And she believed him.
"Voy," (I'm going) she said.
"Sí."
Nor argument, no begging, just acknowledgment. The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was realistic.
"Me iré a Arecibo," (I'll be going to Arecibo) he said.
She nodded, "Lo sé." (I know)
The separation had already started in small ways. Different schedules, different cities, different kinds of momentum.
They still spent that summer together, but there was a new layer to everything--an awareness that they were both stepping onto moving sidewalks headed in different directions. They didn't talk much about her date of departure approaching much.
Instead, they filled the time.
Beach in the late afternoons when the sand wasn't scorching hot. Swimming farther than they used to. Taking pictures together so they could hold on the these memories. Floating on their backs in silence, staring up at a sky that looked exactly the same ans it had when they were children.
Benito would reach for her hand without looking, and squeeze twice. Te amo.
She squeezed back once. También.
At night, they drove. Windows down. Music loud. Sometimes his. Sometimes something random on the radio. He'd tap the steering wheel in rhythm, already thinking about how he'd tweak a beat when he got home. Marivella watched him from the passenger seat, memorizing him.
They still laughed the same way, still argued about small things. Still ended up sitting on the grass by the small creek, her head on his shoulder, his hand tracing slow lines along her arm.
But beneath it, there was a quiet awareness.
This has an end date.
One evening in late July, it was the kind of night where the air felt suspended. They were at Benito's house. His brothers playing further down the hall and Lysaurie working at the kitchen table. The fan in his room clicking every few rotations.
She sat on his bed while he stood by his desk.
"Ven acá," (Come here) she said softly.
He sat beside her, their knees touching. Neither of them rushed into anything. They just sat there.
"Vas a estar bien," (You're going to be okay) she said after a minute of silence.
He gave a small smile. "Tú también." (So are you)
She leaned in first this time. This kiss wasn't urgent. It wasn't trying to prove anything. It was like if they were pressing the memory into place.
They didn't cry that night.
They didn't make promises they couldn't keep.
They just stayed close.
The goodbye came a few days later, at the airport.
It was still dawn when they got there, the sky pale and undecided. Her father drove, focused on the road like this was another errand, and her mother quiet in the passenger seat. Benito an Marivella in the back, just like they had been when they were kids on their way to the beach.
The airport felt to bright for this early in the morning. Fluorescent lights. Rolling suitcases. Families clustered in small circles, holding onto each other tightly. Benito lofted her suitcases out of the trunk before her father could. He didn't look at anyone while he did it.
Her mother hugged her first. Long, tight, teary-eyed. Whispering something against her ear that Marivella would replay later but not fully remember.
Her father hugged her second--shorter, firmer. A hand at the back of her head. And a nod instead of words.
Then there was Benito
They stepped slightly to the side, not far enough to pretend privacy, but far enough to breathe. He didn't day anything immediately. Neither did she.
"Tienes todo," (You have everything?) he asked after a minute.
She nodded. "Pasaporte, tarjeta de embarque, maleta." (Passport, boarding pass, suitcase)
"Okay."
It was absurd--talking about documents when everything else was sitting between them unsaid.
Her mother pretended to check something in her bag.
Her father looked toward the departure board.
They were giving space without announcing it.
"Estoy orgulloso de ti," (I'm proud of you) Benito said quietly, almost in a whisper.
She swallowed hard, wishing away the tears, "Lo sé." (I know)
"Te va a ir increíble." (You're going to do amazing)
"Tú también." (So are you)
A small smile tugged at his mouth. He stepped closer. The hug wasn't dramatic, it was pure love. She pressed her face into his chest as he held her firmly like he always had.
When they pulled apart, he kissed her.
A boarding announcement echoed overhead. Her father cleared his throat gently--not rushing, just reminding.
She picked up her backpack as Benito held onto the handle of one of her suitcases for a second longer before letting go.
Before she walked away, he said, "Me aseguraré de que consigas entradas en primera fila para mi concierto cuando toque MSG en Nueva York." (I'll make sure you get front row tickets to my show when I play MSG in New York)
She stared at him. "Madison Square Garden?"
"Madison Square Garden," he confirmed.
She huffed a small laugh, "Oh, claro. Casual." (Oh, of course. Casual)
"Lo digo en serio." (I'm serious)
"Ni siquiera has salido de Vega Baja todavía." (You're not even out of Vega Baja yet)
He shrugged. "Solo detalles." (Just details)
She folded her arms. "Y yo solo qué… ¿Aparecer? ¿Como qué, "Hola, sí, lo conocía antes de que fuera insoportable"?" (And I just what...show up? Like what, "Hi, yes, I knew him before he was insufferable'?)
He grinned. "Exacto. Serás mi dato curioso. Exactly. You'll be my fun fact."
She rolled her eyes. "Eso es ofensivo." (That's offensive)
"Aun así, tendrás buenos asientos." (You'll get good seats though)
"Primera fila?" (Front row?)
"Primera fila." (Front row.)
She tilted her head, studying him.
"Eres ridículo." (You're ridiculous)
"Y te encanta." (And you love it)
She didn't deny that.
The humour softened, not disappeared--just settled.
"Será mejor que tengas éxito." (You better make it) she quietly.
He held her gaze. "Lo lograré." (I will)
There it was again--not ego, not fantasy. Certainty.
She shook her head, smiling in that bittersweet way people do when they believe something they're not ready to say out loud.
"Bien Fine)" she said. "Pero si no lo haces, le diré a todo el mundo que una vez te lanzaste al mar con la ropa puesta como un idiota." (But if you don't, I'm telling everyone you once jumped into the ocean with your clothes on like an idiot)
He laughed, low and real.
"Ay!" (Ouch)
"Primera fila o te expongo." (Front row or I expose you)
"Tenemos un acuerdo." (We have a deal)
He pulled her into one last hug, tight and quick. When she stepped back this time, neither of them pretended it wasn't hard.
"Vas," (Go) he said gently.
She nodded.
And this time she walked away without turning around.
Later that morning, Marivella's parent drop Benito off back at his house without much conversation. Marivella's departure, still being very fresh, weighed down on them.
Her mother squeezed his shoulder before he stepped out of the car.
The house felt different when he walked in. Not empty, just quieter. His brother were playing a game in the living room, the tv was very loud background noise, his mother was making them some lunch, and his father was talking about what had happened at work the previous day.
Everything was normal, which made it worse. He went straight to his room, closed the door, and sat on the edge of his bed.
The fan clicked every few rotations. Her side of the room--the place on the floor where she always sat--was just a corner again.
He didn't cry immediately. Instead, he stared at his desk, at the laptop, at the headphone coiled beside it. His throat tightened slowly, not dramatic, just pressure.
A knock came at the door. He didn't answer. It opened anyway. Lysaurie stepped inside and leaned against the door frame for a second before walking in fully. She didn't rush toward him. She just sat down beside him on the bed.
" Se va a Estados Unidos?" (She's off to the States?) she asked.
"Sí."
"Bien." (Good)
He glanced at her. "Bien?" (Good?)
"Ella trabajó para eso." (She worked for that)
"Lo sé." (I know)
"Entonces siéntete orgulloso." (Then be proud)
"Estoy." (I am)
She studied him for a moment, "No te ves como si." (You don't look like it)
He let out a heavy breath through his nose. "Cómo se supone que debo ser?" (What am I supposed to look like?)
"Como si entendieras que ese siempre fue el plan." (Like you understand this was always the plan)
Silence stretched between them.
"No siente lo mismo," (Doesn't feel the same) he muttered.
"" Por supuesto que no," she replied calmly. "Su obra tiene un campus. Profesores. Un horario. El tuyo aún no ha sido abordado." (Of course it doesn't. Her work has a campus. Professors. A schedule. Yours has not address yet)
He stared at the floor.
"Y si no llega a ninguna parte?" (What if it doesn't go anywhere?)
She didn't answer immediately.
"Entonces sabrás que lo has intentado." (Then you'll know you tried)
He gave a faint shake of his head. "Eso no es muy reconfortante." (That's not very comforting)
"" No estoy aquí para consolarte," she said. "Estoy aquí para decirte la verdad." (I'm not here to comfort you. I'm here to tell you the truth)
He swallowed hard. "Se siente como si estuviera perdiendo algo," (It feels like I'm losing something)
"Pero no la estás perdiendo porque se fue," she continued. " La perderías si dejaras de moverte." (But you're not losing her because she left. You'd lose her if you stopped moving)
That sat with him.
"Crees que querría que te quedaras pequeño?" (You think she'd want you to stay small?) she asked.
"No."
"Entonces no." (Then don't)
The room went quiet again. The san ticked. A car passed slowly outside.
"Ponte a trabajar," (Get to work) she said simply.
She left the door half-opened behind her. Benito stayed seated for another minutes, staring at nothing.
Then he stood, walked to his desk, opened his laptop, and pressed record.
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