Chapter One: A Sweet Fruit, a Bitter Taste

The ring is simple. A thin band of gold, resting in a small, velvet box. No diamond. No flourish. Just there, like an afterthought.

Aranza blinks. The world around her softens into an indistinct hum—muffled conversations, the clink of glasses, the dim glow of candlelight bouncing off polished silverware. Across the table, Jonathan looks at her, waiting. His expression is unreadable, or maybe she’s just never learned how to read it.

She realises she hasn’t spoken.

"Are you serious?" she asks, though her voice doesn’t quite sound like her own.

Jonathan doesn’t react. He never does. He simply nods, sliding the box closer. "Yeah," he says. "It makes sense."

It makes sense. It always does, doesn’t it?

That’s what this is. Not love. Not passion. Not an overwhelming certainty. Just logic. A proposal by process of elimination.

They have been together for two years, give or take. He stays over some nights, but he is never there when she wakes up. They meet for dinner a few times a week, but they never share a meal. They have sex, but they do not make love. They touch, but they do not hold hands. They reach for each other, but they never linger. They make out, but they do not kiss. They whisper things in the dark, but they do not say "I love you”.

She has never known what to call this. Boyfriend and girlfriend? It doesn’t feel right. It never has. No titles, no conversations, no expectations—just a quiet understanding, unspoken but firm. A floating state of being together, but not really. Of existing in each other’s lives, but never fully stepping into them. If someone asked, she wouldn’t know what to say.

Because then she would have to answer.

And maybe that’s why she never asked herself. And maybe that’s why Jonathan never called it anything either, he needs not hear what he already knows. That’s who he is, sure, certain, sensical

They merely exist in each other’s orbit. They are practical.

And now, apparently, they are getting married.

A laugh bubbles up inside her, but she swallows it with a sip of her Manhattan. The drink is strong, but not strong enough.

She should say something. The silence is stretching too long. She should tell him—no, this is a mistake, this isn’t what I want.

But what does she want?

The thought unsettles her. Because, for the first time, she realises—she doesn’t know.

Aranza grips her glass tighter. Her stomach twists.

"Have you decided?"—the waiter’s voice slices through the moment, shredding Aranza’s thoughts into ribbons, drifting down like autumn leaves. His polite smile is nothing but a fleeting escape from the weight of the present.

Something happens. Something unthinking, uncalculated.

"Yes!" she blurts.

Louder than intended.

And then—a shift.

The background music changes, a new song swelling at the exact moment her voice carries across the restaurant. The entire room turns toward her.

Jonathan is smiling. Smiling. She has never seen him like this. His eyes are warm, gleaming in a way she didn’t know they could.

And then—the first clap.

One person. Then another. Then another.

The entire restaurant is applauding.

Aranza’s breath catches. The waiter, now beaming, reaches for Jonathan’s phone and starts snapping pictures. People are toasting, strangers grinning at them like they are part of something meaningful.

It all happens too fast.

She wants to correct them—No, no, that wasn’t what I meant! But the words lodge in her throat.

She watches Jonathan—watches the way his shoulders relax, the way he settles into the moment as if everything is unfolding exactly as it should. Certainty isn’t new to him; it’s the only way he knows how to exist.

Is it too late to take it back?

Aranza sits frozen, her pulse pounding in her ears. She should say something. Now.

But Jonathan is already standing. His chair scrapes against the wooden floor as he reaches across the table, slipping the ring from the box and sliding it onto her finger. Her left hand.

His touch is unfamiliar. His hands are practical, like everything about him. Calloused from the gym but careful, deliberate. Hands that build things, that solve problems. Not hands that tremble. Not hands that pull or ache. Not hands that make mistakes.

And still—he looks so happy.

A sick weight settles in her stomach. The applause around them swells, laughter bubbling through the air, the kind of warm, golden sound meant for a different kind of love story. A love story she does not recognise. A love story she does not belong to.

But she smiles.

Her lips move, her body performs. It’s automatic, instinctive. Like muscle memory from a life she’s not sure she lived.

“Congratulations!” someone calls from the next table. A woman with red lips, shining eyes. She doesn’t know Aranza. She doesn’t know Jonathan. But… what about Aranza?

Does she know him? — Does she know the man who just proposed to her? —Does she know the woman who just said yes? —Or worse… has she ever truly known herself?

She thanks her anyway.

The waiter, still grinning, shifts awkwardly beside them. “Would you like to order now, or do you need another moment?”

Aranza’s stomach churns. She isn’t hungry anymore. She doesn’t think she was ever hungry.

Jonathan exhales like he just realised they were here for dinner in the first place. “Right,” he says, finally sitting down again. “Uh, let’s get the steak. Medium rare.”

He doesn’t ask what she wants.

And of course he doesn’t. That’s the thing about Jonathan.

He decides. He chooses. He moves forward.

And maybe—maybe that’s why she stayed with him. Because with Jonathan, she never has to think too hard. Never has to stop and ask herself what she actually wants. Because he wants things. Because he decides. Because he leads.

And she follows.

The waiter scribbles on his notepad, nodding enthusiastically before darting off, likely to tell the kitchen about the restaurant’s latest engagement.

The ring on her finger feels heavy.

She flexes her hand, staring at the thin gold band. It does not suit her. But what does?

She glances at Jonathan, and for a moment, just a moment, she tries to imagine what he sees. A beautiful woman in a dimly lit restaurant, her skin glowing under candlelight. A future wife.

Her throat tightens.

Claudia’s voice slips into her mind, uninvited but familiar. It always does when things begin to unravel—like a reflex, like an instinct, like the echo of someone who knows her too well.

"There are two kinds of people—those who live their life, and those whose life lives them."

Claudia says this often—too often, if you ask Aranza. But that’s Claudia. The kind of friend who sees things clearly, who believes life is something to be grabbed with both hands. Claudia, who has never hesitated, who has walked away from jobs, cities, and men the second they felt too small for her. Who once told Aranza she would rather make a thousand reckless mistakes than live on autopilot.

And Claudia thinks Aranza is like her. Because why wouldn’t she?

She sees Aranza’s life from the outside—a woman who moved across countries, built a career, made a name for herself. She excelled in school, got good grades, went to college, found what she liked to do, and now lives off it. A clean, perfect trajectory. The kind that only happens when someone is decisive, ambitious, certain.

But it’s all a lie.

She hadn’t chosen to leave Venezuela—Alejandro and Anaís had decided that for her when she was nine. She hadn’t even understood what it meant at the time. One day, she had a life. The next, she was in Puerto Rico, in a new school, surrounded by a language she spoke but had never needed to own.

Anaís made sure she kept up. She was a teacher, after all, and her daughter would not falter. School was not something to enjoy or endure—it was something to excel at, to master, to conquer. Learning was a duty, and Anaís ensured it was done well.

School had never been a choice. She had to do well—she had to be the best. It wasn’t pressure, it wasn’t punishment. It was just the way things were. Homework was done on time. Grades were expected to be top marks. She was a disciplined, well-behaved student, not because she wanted to be, but because she had always been a good girl. And good girls don’t question. Good girls follow the plan.

So when the time came for college, of course she applied. Of course she went. And of course, when the first acceptance letter arrived, she took it.

She didn’t even pick her degree. Alejandro is an architect, so of course she applied to architecture.

She is good at it, so people assume she loves it. Claudia assumes she loves it.

Aranza assumed the same.

Claudia thinks Aranza is the first kind of person. Of course she does.

Yet, sitting here, in this moment, Aranza knows the truth.

She has always been the second kind of person.

She lets the restaurant swallow her whole. She lets Jonathan reach for his glass, toasting to something neither of them fully understands. She lets life happen to her.

Again.

The steak arrives too quickly.

The waitress sets down the plates with a bright, eager smile, as if she’s part of something intimate, something beautiful. Aranza stares at the meat in front of her—perfectly seared, deep pink in the centre, exactly how Jonathan likes it.

She didn’t say she wanted steak. She didn’t say anything at all.

Jonathan is already cutting into his, his movements clean, precise. "This is nice," he says, like he’s checking something off a list. Engagement dinner: done.

Aranza reaches for her glass instead. The ice has melted, her drink now a watered-down version of itself. Fitting.

She takes a sip, lets the bourbon coat her tongue, burn its way down. Think. Think. But her mind is stuck, tangled between the past and the present, between the weight of the ring on her finger and the space inside her chest where something—anything—should be.

Jonathan doesn’t notice. He rarely does.

He’s already moved on, talking about logistics—wedding venues, dates, something about his mother being thrilled. "She’s been asking when we’d do this," he says. "It makes sense."

Again, with the sense. Jonathan wouldn’t do something unless it made sense. And everything Jonathan does makes sense.

Aranza hums, noncommittal. She can feel herself slipping into autopilot, nodding at the right pauses, making the right sounds. She’s good at this. At being agreeable. At going along.

She takes another drink. The restaurant is too warm. The gold band around her finger feels tighter.

She shouldn’t feel this way. This empty. This detached. This much like she’s watching someone else’s life unfold from behind a glass.

And then, as if summoned from the space between her thoughts—Gus.

She doesn’t mean to think of him, but the thought arrives uninvited, slipping in between the cracks of her carefully constructed indifference.

Gus, leaning against her desk at work, laughing at some joke only half worth telling. Gus, sleeves rolled up, glasses pushed onto his head as he sketches something on a napkin. Gus, the one thing in that cold, grey office that makes her feel something.

For a moment, she wonders—if he were the one sitting across from her right now, would she feel this numb?

Would she feel this stuck?

She presses the thought down, deep, deep inside, where all the other things she won’t let herself want go to die.

Jonathan keeps talking. The steak cools on her plate.

She listens. She drinks. She lets it happen.

The steak is cold now. Jonathan doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, but it doesn’t matter. He eats with the same methodical precision that he does everything else—cut, chew, swallow, repeat.

Aranza watches him, but she doesn’t really see him.

Her hand, the one with the ring, rests on the table, fingers barely curled. The gold band catches the candlelight, glinting dully. An object, a symbol, a weight. She flexes her fingers, but it stays.

She wonders if she could just slip it off. Not dramatically, not in defiance—just quietly, discreetly, as if testing the air without it.

Would Jonathan notice?

She takes another sip of her drink, but it’s watered down now, the ice melting into something tasteless.

Jonathan sets down his knife. “Did I tell you…” he starts, spearing a piece of steak with his fork, “that Helen cried when I told her?”

Aranza blinks. Helen. It always throws her off, the way he calls his parents by their first names in conversation. Later, when he’s on the phone with her, he’ll say mom, but here, across the table, it’s Helen. A subtle distance, like they are people rather than parents.

He doesn’t wait for a response. He keeps talking, casually, as if this is a conversation they’ve had before, as if this engagement was always inevitable.

“She said she knew we’d end up here.” He lets out a small chuckle. “Apparently, she told Michael she had a feeling about you from the start.”

Michael. The same. The words should mean something, but all Aranza can think about is the phrase from the start.

Aranza forces a smile.

She wants to ask what that means. The start of what? Their relationship? If this could even be called that? The start of them sharing meals they never really ate, touching without holding, existing without defining?

From the start, had it been leading to this?

Had she been leading to this?

Jonathan reaches for his wine glass, his fingers grazing the stem. “She wants us to come over this weekend,” he says. “Celebrate properly.”

Aranza blinks. “This weekend?”

“Yeah,” he says. “We’ll have to book flights tomorrow.”

Flights. Because Helen and Michael live in Juneau. Not just a visit. Not just a weekend trip. A six-hour flight. Two layovers. Endless white landscapes outside the plane window. Too much time to think.

She wets her lips. “That’s… soon.”

Jonathan shrugs, cutting another piece of steak. “She doesn’t want to wait. And it makes sense—if we’re going to get married, they should be involved.”

“Right. It makes sense”. Aranza repeats the soliloquy of her fiancée.

Everything always makes sense with Jonathan.

She clears her throat, pushing at the food on her plate with her fork. “So, um… what’s the plan?”

Jonathan looks up. “What do you mean?”

She forces a chuckle, though it barely sounds like one. “I don’t know. The whole weekend? Are we—” She gestures vaguely. “Is it just the four of us, or is there going to be, like, a whole event?”

“It’s just family,” Jonathan says. “My cousins will be there. Some aunts and uncles.” He takes a sip of wine. “It’ll be nice.”

Nice.

She nods. She doesn’t know what else to do.

Jonathan keeps eating. The moment passes.

Her phone vibrates in her lap. She glances down—a message from Gus.

GUS: Tell me you didn’t actually say yes to the robot LMAO.

A snort escapes before she can stop it. The first real sound she’s made all night. The corners of her lips twitch before she catches herself. Too much. Too real. Too late.

Jonathan looks up. “What?”

She shakes her head, clicking her phone screen off. “Nothing.”

But she can still see it in her mind—the text, Gus’s voice in her head, his smirk at the office, the way he always says the things she can’t.

And suddenly, she’s there.

Not here, not in this restaurant, not at this table.

She’s back at the office, in the middle of the day, in a meeting she’s not really listening to. Gus is beside her, muttering something under his breath about the client’s ridiculous demands.

“I swear, if they say ‘modern yet classic’ one more time, I’m quitting.”

She snorts, covering her mouth. “Modern yet classic, but also minimalist and timeless.”

“Don’t forget warm and industrial,” he whispers, eyes gleaming with mischief.

She bites her lip, holding back a laugh. Across the table, Julia clears her throat, the way a good boss does when she’s pretending not to hear.

Gus leans in, voice low. “I’m going to put a slide in the next design and see if anyone notices.”

And just like that, she’s laughing—actually laughing.

Not the polite kind. Not the forced chuckle she gives Jonathan when she knows she’s supposed to react. A real laugh. The kind that shakes in her chest, spills out of her before she can control it.

She says something back—something quick, clever, playful.

And Gus laughs, too. And it matters. Here, she says things. Here, someone listens. Here, she exists. Everything she says there matters.

Back to reality. The restaurant hums around her—low chatter, the occasional burst of laughter, the scrape of forks against porcelain. The air is thick with the scent of seared meat, warm butter, something sweet wafting in from the dessert trays near the kitchen. The music has changed—something slow, something old, something meant to fill the silences between lovers.

Aranza exhales, slow, steady. The weight of her phone rests in her lap, the faint vibration of a world outside this restaurant still trying to reach her. Another unread message.

CLAUDIA: "Yayyyyyy! thats ma gurl! 💍👰🤵💒. Im maid of honor right!?"

The enthusiasm makes her stomach twist. Of course, Claudia already knows. The pieces snap together almost instantly—the waiter must have told the cook, Claudia’s cousin, who, naturally, told Claudia, who, of course, told Gus. The news passed along, from hand to hand, like a gift she never asked for. A perfect, logical chain.

Because of course she hadn’t picked this restaurant. She hadn’t picked any of it. Not the meal. Not the ring. Not Jonathan. Not even where she would sit on her birthday. And really, hadn't everyone known this was going to happen? The waitstaff, the cook, Claudia, Gus. Jonathan, obviously. Even Aranza, though she hadn’t allowed herself to think about it. Because deep down, she knew—she would have said yes anyway. If not tonight, then some other night.

She swipes the message away. Her eyes flick to the plate in front of her. The steak is perfect, cooked just the way Jonathan prefers—medium rare, pink and glistening under the candlelight. His is nearly finished, his knife carving through the last few bites with clean, mechanical precision. Hers remains untouched.

Jonathan sets down his knife. For the first time tonight, he takes notice. Not her silence. Not the way her fingers have tightened around her phone. Not the way she hasn’t eaten a single bite. Her drink. His brow furrows slightly before he lifts a hand. The waiter appears almost instantly.

"Another Manhattan," Jonathan says, gesturing to her glass. He doesn’t ask if she wants one. He never asks. He just orders, and the world bends to his decisions. The waiter nods, disappearing toward the bar.

And then—something happens. Something small. Something unremarkable to anyone else.

Aranza lifts her head. The weight of the ring on her finger, the cold steak on her plate, the thick, oppressive certainty of it all—something inside her shifts. She doesn’t think. She just speaks.

"Excuse me," she calls, her voice steady, catching the waiter just before he vanishes into the crowd. The words hang in the air. Jonathan turns to look at her, fork still in his hand. The waiter blinks, then steps back toward the table.

"Yes?"

Aranza wets her lips. It feels ridiculous—so small, so insignificant, but also… not. "Could you—" she gestures to the plate, "could you cook it a little more? I like it well done."

Silence.

Jonathan’s fork hovers over his plate, unmoving. The waiter shifts slightly, glancing at Jonathan as if for confirmation. Jonathan doesn’t say anything. Because he doesn’t know what to say. Because Jonathan has never—not once—heard her say she likes something.

Not steak. Not drinks. Not movies, not music, not places, not people. Never an opinion, never a preference.

Jonathan stares at her like he is looking at a stranger. She stares back, feeling like one.

The waiter clears his throat, breaking the moment. "Of course, miss. I’ll have the kitchen take care of it right away." He picks up her plate and disappears. Jonathan doesn’t react with anger, nor with frustration. Just quiet, palpable confusion. He isn’t sure what just happened. Because this isn’t Aranza. Or—not the one he knows. And maybe that’s what unsettles him the most.

Aranza reaches for her drink. The ice has melted. The bourbon is weak. She takes a sip, letting the softened bourbon settle on her tongue. Maybe she likes it this way, mellowed, the sharp edges blunted into something smooth. Or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she’s just now noticing.

And then, without meaning to, she smiles. The first real smile of the night. The first since she left the office. It barely lingers—small, fleeting, weightless—but it is there.

And Jonathan sees it.

And that unsettles him even more.

Jonathan exhales, barely audible over the murmur of the restaurant. He leans back slightly, fingers drumming against the tablecloth, his gaze flicking between her and the empty space where her plate used to be. There’s something in his expression—not irritation, not quite confusion. More like hesitation.

He studies her like she’s a puzzle piece that suddenly doesn’t fit.

"You like your steak well done?" he finally asks.

Aranza blinks. The question feels absurd. Not because of what he’s asking, but because it’s the first time he’s ever asked.

Not a rhetorical question. Not a confirmation of something he already assumed. An actual question.

She hesitates, suddenly self-conscious. It’s silly, isn’t it? A steak? A drink? Who cares? But Jonathan is still looking at her, waiting for an answer.

"Yeah," she says, her voice even. "I do."

Jonathan’s brows pull together slightly, but the crease between them smooths just as fast. He picks up his wine glass and takes a sip, as if that settles it. "Huh," he murmurs.

That’s it.

No remark about how overcooked steak ruins the flavour. No offhanded comment about not knowing that about her. Just "huh"—a single syllable hanging between them like a loose thread, an acknowledgment without understanding.

The conversation should move forward. It always does. Jonathan always has something to say, something to plan, something to fill the empty space.

But he doesn’t.

For the first time, Jonathan doesn’t know where to take the conversation next.

And Aranza? She doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence either. She takes another sip of her drink. The softened Manhattan.

Outside, beyond the candlelit glass of the restaurant, the city moves—taxis sliding through the streets, the distant wail of sirens, the rhythmic click of heels on pavement.

It is Friday night.

She used to love Friday nights.

She doesn’t remember when they started feeling like this.

The city outside the restaurant blurs into streaks of gold and neon, and for a moment, Aranza isn’t in Manhattan anymore. It’s a different Friday night, years ago, outside the library at Pratt Institute.

They had been studying. Or at least, Aranza had been. Claudia had tapped her pen against the desk, restless, flipping through pages she wasn’t really reading. Eventually, she sighed, snapped her textbook shut, and grabbed Aranza’s wrist.

“Arqui-fucking-tecture,” Claudia had sighed, tilting her head back, the curls of her afro spilling against her shoulders. “C’mon, Ara,” she’d groaned, dragging her outside into the humid night. “Ain’t no way we sittin’ in there all night. It’s Friday. We young. Let’s go do somethin!’.”

She had already pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of her wrist. Aranza had shivered slightly in the night air—not from the cold, but from Claudia’s energy, the way it always made her feel like something was about to happen.

“We got a test on Monday,” Aranza had reminded her, crossing her arms.

Claudia had exhaled a slow stream of smoke, rolling her eyes. “Girl, we got all weekend to study. That test ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

They both knew Claudia wouldn’t touch a book until Sunday night.

The spotted band of pink polka dots in a yellow drop clashed spectacularly with her oversized shirt—also yellow, also polka-dotted—because ‘life ain’t worth livin’ if you ain’t got the guts to be bold.’

“So?” Claudia had grinned. “We show up late. We show up tired. We show up drunk. Either way, we show up. But this?” She’d waved her hand back toward the library. “This ain’t livin’.”

Aranza had laughed. She always laughed with Claudia.

That was Claudia—restless, electric, never still. They had both started in architecture, but by the second semester, Claudia had jumped to graphic design, then to illustration, then back to graphic design. Not because she was lost, but because she refused to be tied down to something that didn’t excite her.

“I just don’t wanna be buildin’ houses when I could be buildin’ somethin’ better,” Claudia had said, exhaling smoke into the air.

“Like what?” Aranza had asked.

Claudia had grinned, wide and reckless. “Don’t know yet. Guess I’ll find out when I find out.”

She always found out.

“Your problem, Ara,” she had continued, tapping ash off her cigarette, “is you don’t even know what you want. You just be doin’ what’s in front of you. But what you want?” She’d tilted her head, studying Aranza like she was some kind of puzzle. “I don’t think you ever asked yourself that before.”

Aranza had looked down at her coffee cup, suddenly uncomfortable.

Claudia had shaken her head, clicking her tongue. “See, that right there? That’s why I ain’t lettin’ you rot away in that library. Let’s go dance or somethin’. It’s Friday night.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Bitch, I know—yo ass the only Latina in the whole damn world who don’t dance.” Claudia had snorted, hooking an arm around her shoulders. “But you gon’ come anyway.”

And she had.

Because Claudia was the kind of person you followed.

Because Claudia was fearless, and Aranza felt safer just standing in her orbit.

Because Claudia was the sister she never had.

And now, here in this restaurant, on this Friday night, sitting across from the man she just agreed to marry, Claudia’s voice still echoes in her head, as it always does.

"Your problem, Ara, is you don’t even know what you want."

The steak arrives, plated beautifully, seared to a deep brown, its juices pooling just slightly at the edges. The sight of it shouldn’t make her feel anything, but it does.

It looks just like the way her mother used to make it.

Well done—always well done.

Of course, it’s missing the adobo, missing the caraotas, the plátano frito, missing the rice pressed into a perfect mound on the side of the plate, but it is familiar. The kind of familiarity that settles deep in the bones, wrapped in the scent of home, of a kitchen too warm, of steam rising from a pot.

Her stomach clenches at the sight of it. Not because she is hungry, but because she has seen this before.

Not here. Not in a dimly lit Manhattan restaurant with overpriced plates and neatly folded napkins. But in her mother’s kitchen, in a home where the walls smelled of garlic and simmering beans, where the sound of a spoon knocking against a pot was the background noise of her childhood.

Her fork lingers over the edge of the plate, and suddenly, she is no longer in this restaurant.

She is six years old, standing on tiptoes, peering over the kitchen counter, watching Anaís cook.

Her mother never measured anything. She moved through the kitchen with certainty—a pinch of this, a splash of that, the back of the spoon against the wooden cutting board, the rhythmic tap, tap, tap of habit.

"Mami, ¿no se va a quemar?" Aranza had asked, her small hands gripping the counter’s edge.

"No, mi amor," Anaís had replied, flipping the steak in the pan. "Se cocina bien. Así es como debe ser."

This is how it should be.

That was Anaís—certain in the kitchen, certain about the way things should be done. Her mother always knew what she wanted. The house smelled of seasoning long before dinner was on the table, and there was always a plate set aside for Alejandro, papá, who worked late.

A slow breath pulls her back. The restaurant hums around her again. The steak on her plate is hers.

For the first time in years, she is about to eat something exactly how she likes it.

She cuts into it, bringing the first bite to her mouth.

Jonathan watches, silent.

She chews, swallows. The taste settles on her tongue, rich, familiar.

It tastes like something.

Jonathan smirks.

It’s small—just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, the kind of expression that barely registers but says everything. The kind of smirk that doesn’t need to be followed by words because it already carries the weight of unspoken judgment.

Because of course he thinks this is ridiculous.

To Jonathan, ordering steak well done is like microwaving a fine Bordeaux, like drowning fresh pasta in ketchup. A crime against good taste. An offense to the culinary gods.

He watches her with mild amusement, his wine glass pausing midair as she slices into the browned meat, the rich pink he would have preferred now cooked away into something he considers lifeless.

He finally sets his glass down. “Didn’t know you liked steak this way.”

It’s casual. A comment, not a question. But the weight of it is there, hanging between them.

Aranza knows how this is supposed to go. She is supposed to justify herself.

She is supposed to laugh lightly, shrug, maybe even offer some half-hearted excuse—Oh, I just grew up eating it this way!—something to smooth over the moment, to let Jonathan’s tastes remain superior, unchallenged.

She does none of that.

Instead, she finishes chewing. Swallows. Takes another bite.

And it still tastes like something.

She dabs at the corner of her lips with her napkin, meeting his gaze across the candlelit table. She does not apologize. She does not explain.

She simply moves forward.

“When are we going to San José to tell my parents?”

Jonathan blinks. The smirk fades.

It’s not a dramatic change—just a small, almost imperceptible pause, like he had been leading the conversation and suddenly lost his grip on it.

Because this is not how this dinner was supposed to go.

For the first time all night, Aranza is the one deciding where the conversation leads.

And she is leading it away from him.

Jonathan exhales through his nose, just a hint sharper than usual. He picks up his wine glass again, swirling the deep red liquid absently before taking a slow sip. He doesn’t answer right away—not because he’s considering the question, but because it wasn’t the next step in his mental script.

Aranza doesn’t push. She knows they’re going to Alaska. That’s settled. Jonathan wouldn’t have proposed without a follow-up plan. He would have structured everything, timed it, mapped out the logistics.

And indeed, when he finally speaks, his voice is even, measured, like a man confirming an itinerary. “We’ll figure out San José after this weekend.” He sets the glass down, reaching for his phone. “We should focus on Alaska first.”

Of course. Focus on Alaska first.

His fingers move swiftly across his screen, checking flight prices, already returning to the rhythm of a life lived in forward motion.

She knows what comes next.

The rest of dinner is quiet, more out of necessity than anything else. Jonathan has resumed eating with his usual precision, and Aranza doesn’t interrupt him. She doesn’t need to. She has nothing left to ask.

The waiter returns with the bill, slipping it onto the table without a word. Jonathan picks it up, scans it, drops his card on top. Another step, another task completed.

Minutes later, they are outside, the sharp sting of New York air cutting through the warmth of the restaurant. Aranza pulls her coat tighter around herself as Jonathan raises a hand to hail a cab.

The streets are alive—a blur of headlights, the rhythmic honk of taxis, distant laughter spilling from bars and late-night diners.

Jonathan steps forward as a taxi slows to the curb. He pulls open the door, gesturing for Aranza to slide in first. She does, settling into the worn leather seat, the city flickering past the window in streaks of neon and traffic lights.

The door shuts.

The cab pulls into motion.

Jonathan exhales, already reaching for his phone, ready to keep following the script.

He will book the flights in the taxi—efficient, like always, fingers moving swiftly across the screen, securing the best connection, the best price. He does not look up at her. He does not need to. The important things are handled.

Then they will go to her apartment.

Then they will have sex.

Not passion. Not hunger. Not need.

Sex.

Routine. Predictable. Mechanical.

Vanilla, the kind of sex that barely lingers in memory, the kind where his breathing barely changes, where her body moves because it knows the choreography, where their lips meet but never truly kiss.

Then he will stay until 7. Not a second longer.

Not even breakfast—he doesn’t eat breakfast. He will have a shake, 30 grams of protein, 1 scoop of creatine, precisely measured.

Then he will hit the gym. The gym is sacred. A temple of sweat and sculpted bodies, of control, of optimization. Jonathan’s body is a project, a display of discipline.

Then he will go to Alaska. Visit his parents. Check that box.

It is the script.

It has always been the script.

Jonathan does not deviate.

Because Jonathan is a man of systems, of schedules, of certainty.

A yuppie to his core.

Every hour accounted for. Every movement a step toward the next. His entire life is a calculated progression—abs chiselled by routine, savings stacked, flights booked with precision, promotions anticipated three steps ahead.

Even this—this engagement, this marriage, this future—is just another thing that makes sense.

Aranza presses her fingers against the cool gold of the ring on her hand.

Outside, the city keeps moving.

The cab glides through the city, headlights bouncing off rain-slick pavement. Jonathan is absorbed in his phone, fingers dancing over the screen—searching, booking, securing the plan.

Aranza exhales, shifting in her seat, stretching her fingers over the cool leather. The weight of the ring lingers. The weight of the script presses against her.

Then, her eyes flick to the front of the cab.

The driver’s card is tucked neatly into the visor, the name printed in simple, bold letters: José Acosta.

She doesn’t think, she just speaks.

"Señor José, ¿podríamos pasar por El Barrio?"

She doesn’t even know if he speaks Spanish. She just assumes. She takes a chance.

For a moment, there’s silence.

Then, José meets her gaze in the rearview mirror—a flicker of amusement in his tired eyes.

"Sí, claro."

A quiet thrill runs through her. She has no idea why she just did that, but she did.

Jonathan’s head snaps up from his phone, brows pulling together. “What?”

Aranza turns to him, her voice smooth, calm. “I asked him to take us through East Harlem before heading home.”

Jonathan blinks. Not part of the plan.

His confusion hardens into something more rigid. A shift in his jaw. A slight tightening of his grip on the phone.

"Why?"

She runs her fingers over her skirt, smoothing invisible creases. "I feel like buying caraotas to take on the trip. Maybe cook them for your family in Juneau"

Jonathan stares at her. “Buy what?”

Before she can answer, José smirks. “Black beans, sir.”

Jonathan exhales sharply through his nose, fingers tapping against the back of his phone. He looks at the time, recalculating the night, checking if this sudden deviation will disrupt the efficiency of his schedule.

It feels like she just told him they were flying to Cuba instead of Alaska.

"You can get beans at Whole Foods," Jonathan mutters, tone flat.

Aranza smirks. "Not the right ones."

Jonathan exhales again, longer this time, the sound of a man actively deciding to let something slide. “It’s just beans…” he mumbles to himself. Aranza pretends she did not hear it.

This bothers him, and maybe that’s why she’s doing it, she wants to test him.

She watches him, studies the way he forces himself back into calm, as if reassuring himself that this doesn’t matter. That this isn’t a pattern.

And then, his head tilts slightly, a different kind of confusion settling into his expression. "I didn’t know you spoke Spanish."

Aranza raises an eyebrow. "You never asked."

And he hadn't.

Jonathan knew her parents were immigrants. He knew she spent her childhood in Venezuela before moving to Puerto Rico at nine. He knew these things in the same way he knew logistical details—cities, dates, years. Facts stored but never examined.

Because Aranza doesn’t look like the Latina he imagines.

Her skin is fair, untouched by the sun in the way that makes people assume she never grew up anywhere warm. Her cheekbones are sharp, her nose straight, her eyes a striking amber—gold in the sunlight, honey in dim light. Her hair, a deep chestnut brown, is fine and straight, falling just past her shoulders.

There is no trace of the stereotype in her.

Her name does not match her face.

Her voice does not match her appearance.

Her identity has never been a question to her, yet it has always been an afterthought to everyone else.

Jonathan never wondered about it.

Never asked.

And for the first time, it unsettles her.

Aranza turns back to the window, watching the city shift around them.

She lets herself smile.

After a while, the cab slows to a stop, the hum of the city settling into a softer, pulsing rhythm. The neon glow of the Venezuelan bodega spills onto the sidewalk—warm, yellow light against the cool evening air.

Cuchifritos, the red-lettered sign reads. The kind of place that doesn’t belong to the polished version of Manhattan Jonathan lives in, but to a different city entirely—one stitched together by the people who never really left home, even if home was an ocean away.

Aranza stares at it for a moment.

Jonathan doesn’t.

He is already checking his phone, the sharp glow of the screen reflecting off his face, casting him in pale, artificial light.

She shifts in her seat, hand resting on the door handle. “Do you want to come in?”

Jonathan doesn’t look up. “I’m fine,” he murmurs, fingers moving efficiently over his screen. A flick, a tap, a scroll. His stocks, probably. His world, shrinking neatly into numbers and trends.

Aranza nods to herself. Of course.

The bodega hums with life, a small pocket of warmth tucked into the cold grid of the city. The air is thick with the scent of fried empanadas, papelón con limón, and something faintly sweet—maybe guayaba paste, maybe memory.

Aranza steps inside, the bell above the door chiming softly, a sound so familiar it tugs at something buried deep in her chest.

Shelves line the narrow aisles, packed with Harina PAN, Malta bottles sweating in condensation, stacks of Galletas María, tin cans of Diablitos.

A man behind the counter glances up, his expression indifferent, then polite. She is just another customer.

"Buenas noches," he says.

"Buenas," she responds automatically, her voice softer than she intended.

Her fingers trace over the plastic-wrapped cachapas near the register, her eyes scanning labels, searching for something she doesn’t quite know how to name.

And then, she is somewhere else.

Not here, not in Manhattan, not inside a Venezuelan market built out of nostalgia and necessity.

She is nine years old.

The sun hangs heavy over Caracas, 12th of April 2002. The streets are restless, thick with a heat that isn’t just from the weather. Something is simmering, bubbling underneath the surface, something even a child can feel.

She and her mother are at the market, Anaís moving swiftly through the narrow pathways between vendors, stopping just long enough to pick the best tomatoes, to press mangoes between her fingers.

"Déjame ver," her mother mutters, weighing a bundle of onions in her hands, bargaining with the vendor with the kind of certainty that makes everything feel normal.

Aranza holds onto the hem of her mother’s blouse, her small fingers curling into the fabric. She watches the world from below, from the height of a child who doesn’t yet understand that everything is shifting beneath her feet.

And then—the sound.

Distant, but distinct. Gunshots.

The air cracks.

The market pauses.

Aranza doesn’t know what it means. Not exactly. But she knows fear when she hears it. She sees it in the way hands hesitate over produce, in the way voices falter mid-sentence.

Anaís doesn’t hesitate.

She grips Aranza’s wrist, firm, unshakable. "Vámonos."

They don’t run. Not at first. They walk fast. Faster. Past the mangoes, past the tomatoes, past the onions Anaís had weighed so carefully.

And then, another shot. And then, they run.

Aranza’s legs burn as she stumbles to keep up, her heart hammering in her chest. The city blurs past them, Caracas closing in, twisting into something unrecognizable.

By the time they reach home, Anaís’s hands are shaking.

The news will later call it a coup. A massacre. A day history won’t forget.

But to Aranza, it is just April 12. Just a day she learned that even the safest places could crack apart. That day, her homeland died.

Venezuela, the real one, the one she belonged to, would never exist again.

What was left behind was something else. Something dark, something broken, something unrecognisable. The streets that once smelled of arepas frying at dawn, of fresh mangoes split open on plastic tables, of gasoline on the hot pavement after the rain—now smelled of fear.

The faces of neighbours, of street vendors, of old men playing dominos on battered wooden tables, were replaced by eyes that glanced over their shoulders, hands that clutched their bags tighter, voices that spoke in whispers.

Venezuela, her Venezuela, had been swallowed whole, and what remained was only a name.

A name that, outside of these bodega walls, was whispered in pity, in fear, in headlines about crime, about hunger, about people drowning at sea trying to escape.

A name that carried more weight in its syllables than any passport ever could.

A name that no longer meant home.

The memory shatters.

The fluorescent light flickering slightly above her head, her hand is still resting on a bag of café Fama de América. She blinks. Breathes.

And then—a voice. Familiar. Warm. Unmistakable.

"Aranza?"

Her breath catches.

She turns.

Gus.