Amara

Nine Months Earlier

The wind was just cold enough to bite, but not cold enough to matter. My hoodie sleeves were pulled down over my hands. Constanza was late again. Not that I was surprised. I sat on the worn picnic bench in the park, the November wind brushing against my cheeks like impatient fingers. My phone said 12:37 p.m. She was supposed to meet me at noon. I popped open my EOS lip balm, swiped it across my lips, and tucked it away with a sigh.

This park had been our meet-up spot since we were kids. The playground had changed over the years—new swings, a splash of color on the jungle gym—but the smell of pine and damp wood chips never did. It reminded me of when we were nine and both too shy to talk, until she complimented my glittery sneakers. Now, she was the loud one. The brave one. The one who made me feel like being quiet didn’t mean being invisible.

We both go to Trinity University, just three hours from the town that raised us. We live on opposite ends of campus, and our days rarely align. And life. . .  it hums, it shouts, it rushes past. Sometimes, it’s easier to pretend we’re not quietly missing the familiarity that only best friends carry.

But when we’re together? 

It’s like exhaling. 

Like remembering the words to a song you didn’t know you’d forgotten.

It just fits.

Soft. Seamless. 

Home.

I scrolled through my phone to kill time, but my mind wandered. As it always did. Nearly nineteen. A freshman in college. And I’ve never had a boyfriend. Never been kissed — not really. Unless you count Landry Tucker kissing my cheek in fourth grade and sprinting off like I was contagious. 

Which I don’t.

It used to be a funny quirk — my Drew Barrymore Never Been Kissed era. Lately, though? It’s starting to feel less like a rom-com setup and more pathetic. When I imagined being loved, it wasn’t dramatic or cinematic. Just someone who looked at me like they wanted to stay.

“¡Hola, nena!” Constanza called out, snapping me out of my thoughts. She walked over, her golden-colored curls bouncing, freckled cheeks flushed from the cold. She had two drinks in hand. “Sorry, I'm late. Abuela cornered me with stories from 1963 again.”

I smiled, couldn’t help it. “You owe me thirty-seven minutes of warmth.”

“Deal.” She plopped down beside me, handing me one of the cups. It was hot chocolate. “So, what's on your mind, my melancholy queen?”

“I don’t know,” I said, picking at the edge of my cup. “I was just thinking. . . I’ve never had a boyfriend. Never even kissed anyone. That’s weird, right?”

Constanza blinked at me like I’d grown a second head. “Okay, first of all—stop binge-watching vintage rom-coms with your aunt. Second, no, it’s not weird. It’s called having standards.”

I squinted at her. “But you’ve been kissed. You had a boyfriend, too.”

“Exactly—and I still have my V-card. Because, surprise, that doesn’t mean you lower the bar just to feel caught up.” She tossed her curls over her shoulder like a model in a shampoo commercial. “We are rare, emotionally unscathed goddesses. And V-cards? Totally retro now. Very in.”

I laughed—lighter this time, like her words peeled some of the weight off my chest.

We walked a while, past the playground, into the part of the park where the trees rustled loud enough to sound like applause. We spent the rest of the afternoon walking and talking about everything and nothing. Her twin nieces. Her loud family. My aunt’s obsessive love for Christmas decorations. The sky turned from pale gray to lavender before we noticed.

“Sleepover?” I asked, hopeful.

“Hell yes. My house is crowded right now. Clarinda, her husband, and their hyperactive twins are visiting, and I need a break from toddler chaos. They can climb all over Alfie.”

Alfie—short for Alfio Jr.—is her sixteen-year-old brother. He’s quieter than the rest of the family, more of the observant type, but he doesn’t seem to mind being used as a jungle gym. He has the same soft freckles as Clarinda, but his features are sharper, more serious—dark hair, green eyes, and the kind of brooding stare that makes it clear he’s their father’s mini-me.

I’ve always loved visiting their home. 

Just a few blocks from our modern ranch-style home, they live in a large Georgian Colonial-style house with five bedrooms and the kind of warmth that makes it feel like a hug the second you walk in. Even when it’s just the core family there, the place feels full of noise, of laughter—and best of all, love.

Their dad’s Italian, their mom’s Puerto Rican, and both sides have families so big you’d swear they were trying to outdo each other. Whenever my aunt and I get invited to their family gatherings, we always end up staying way too late, eating way too much, and feeling like we belong.

“I love the twins, but they never stop talking. They must take after Abuela,” she joked, rolling her eyes.

On the walk back to grab her stuff, she nudged me. “You’ll find your person one day. Someone who sees all of you and doesn’t blink.”

I hoped she was right.

Later that evening, after Aunt Dawn and her boyfriend left for their weekend getaway, Constanza and I got ready to hit the mall. I wasn’t a Black Friday fanatic like I used to be, but the idea of being out, being seen, felt like a needed shift.

***

The mall felt like a war zone. There were crying toddlers, harassed parents, and discount-hunting chaos in every direction. Constanza and I wove through it all like seasoned soldiers, dodging strollers and grabbing the last decent candles at Bath & Body Works. I was mid-complaint about my aching feet when it happened.

I didn’t notice she’d stopped. 

One second, I was walking. The next, I slammed right into the back of her. She yelped, lurching forward, and I stumbled back, straight into someone else. Strong hands steadied me, warm and firm against my arms.

“Whoa—careful,” a voice said, low and slightly husky, tinged with a smile. “You okay?”

I turned and instantly forgot every word I’d ever known. He was tall, with sun-kissed curls, braces that only made his dimples deeper, and these bright, unreadable blue eyes. I blinked up at him like a deer in headlights.

“Dorian?” Constanza said, surprise and mischief already laced in her voice. “Didn’t know you lived near here.”

He grinned. “Zaza!”

Constanza rolled her eyes and shook her head. “No one respects my name.”

“You know him?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, looking back at me. “That was totally my fault.”

“No, it was mine,” I murmured, brushing myself off and doing everything I could not to look at his mouth when he smiled.

“She’s Amara,” Constanza said, waving a hand between us. “A friend with better manners than you.”

“Nice to meet you, Amara.” He gave me a quick once-over — not creepy, just. . . noticing. “I hope you’re nicer than Zaza here.”

Constanza groaned. “Este nene sí que fastidia. You know, most people say excuse me, not barrel through a candle aisle like it’s a freeway.”

Dorian smirked, unfazed. “Most people don’t come to a full stop in the middle of a clearance battle.”

She crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. “Still could’ve used your words.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Touché.”

Then he turned to me, grin still intact. “Anyway. . . I’m Dorian. Candle aisle traffic control, at your service.”

I laughed before I could stop myself, and he caught it, sending me a smile in return. We talked for a minute. Light banter, easy smiles. Then he mentioned meeting up with friends and asked if we wanted to come. We didn’t. Too many sales to chase, too many stops on the schedule, but something shifted in that short exchange. Something small, but unmistakable.

A spark.

And that night, lying in bed with my curls tucked safely in my bonnet, I thought about him.

Dorian. 

The first boy to make my heart trip over itself. 

The first boy who made me wonder what might come next.

***

 Later that night, Constanza was camped out on my bedroom floor like it was her personal throne — surrounded by shopping bags, half-eaten snacks, and the scent of Bath & Body Works lingering in the air. She was scrolling through her phone with one hand and popping chocolate-covered pretzels with the other, completely unbothered. I lay sprawled on my bed, staring at the ceiling like it might spell out my future. 

“You liked him,” she said, like it wasn’t up for debate.

“I bumped into him,” I muttered, trying not to sound defensive.

Constanza looked up, smug. “Exactly. Right into fate.”

I squinted at her. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, so helpful,” she said, holding up her phone. “I gave him your number, by the way.”

I bolted upright. “You what?”

“He asked,” she said with a shrug, like she’d just handed him a concert flyer, and not my emotional well-being. “So I gave. Don’t act brand new.”

“You didn’t even ask me first!”

She tilted her head. “Did I need to?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Classic Constanza logic. Infuriating and irrefutable.

She grinned victoriously. “Mhm. That’s what I thought.”

I flopped back onto my pillows, heart thudding now for a whole new reason. Part nerves. Part anticipation. Part what-have-you-done.  I kept telling myself I wasn’t waiting for something. Not for a buzz. Not for his number to light up my phone. Definitely not for the possibility of a maybe. 

Time passed. We watched something dumb on Netflix and argued over which candle smelled better—Mahogany Teakwood or Sweater Weather. It’s undeniably Sweater Weather, by the way. Constanza eventually dozed off in a nest of throw blankets on the floor, but I couldn’t sleep. My brain wouldn’t shut up.

Was he going to text me? 

Did he even want to? 

Was this just a joke? 

A polite thing? 

A “hey, you seemed nice, here’s your participation trophy” kind of message? Or. . . was it something else? 

Then, just after midnight, it happened. 

My phone buzzed.

A number I didn’t recognize.

Hey. It’s Dorian. Hope you made it out of the mall chaos alive.

My heart skipped. Not metaphorically. I swear something inside me jumped and landed sideways. I stared at the message like it might vanish if I blinked. Constanza snored softly on the floor, blissfully unaware that my entire emotional equilibrium had just tilted. 

I stared at his message for a long time. 

It was simple. Casual. Friendly, even. 

But it sent my thoughts spiraling anyway. Was I reading too much into it? Probably. Was I going to stop? Definitely not. Because a boy like Dorian texting me — the girl with zero dating history and a romantic resume blanker than a new notebook — felt. . . strange and unfamiliar. A little too good.

What if I said the wrong thing? 

What if he regretted reaching out? 

What if this was the start of something I wasn’t ready for?

I wanted to reply. I really did. 

But my fingers hovered above the screen, frozen. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I knew—deep down—that this could mean something.

 And part of me wasn’t sure if I was ready for something. . . 

Or if I just liked the idea of it. 

So, for now, I just stared. 

Heart racing. Overthinking. Wondering if I was holding the spark of a beginning in my hands or just another reason to be careful.