November 2016 — Black Friday 

Nine Months Earlier

Amara

 The wind was 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. My phone read 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 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 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, about three hours from West Brook — the town that raised us. We live on opposite ends of campus, and our days rarely align. Life moves fast now. Classes and deadlines. Sometimes, it’s easier to pretend we’re not quietly missing the familiarity that only best friends carry.

But when we’re together, it feels like exhaling.
Like remembering the words to a song you didn’t know you’d forgotten.
Everything falls back into place.

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 like something’s wrong with me. Like I’m falling behind everyone else. When I imagine being loved, it isn’t dramatic or cinematic. Just someone who looks at me like they want to stay.

“¡Hola, nena!” Constanza called out, snapping me out of my thoughts.

She walked over, her golden curls bouncing, freckles bright from the cold. Two drinks in hand. “Sorry I’m late. Abuela cornered me with stories from 1963 again.”

I smiled. “You owe me thirty-seven minutes of warmth.”

“Deal.” She plopped down beside me and handed 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 the 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 just confessed to a crime. “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. I’m not just waiting for any ol’ person, I’m waiting for something real.” She said it like she’d seen real love and turned it down, even though we both knew she hadn’t. She made it sound easy, like love was a fairytale that comes true if you believe in it hard enough.

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

We walked 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 talking about everything and nothing — her three-year-old nieces, her loud family, my aunt’s obsession with 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 observant, but he doesn’t seem to mind being used as a jungle gym. He has the same soft freckles as Clarinda, but sharper features, dark hair, green eyes, and the kind of 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 house, they live in a large Georgian Colonial with five bedrooms and the kind of warmth that feels like a hug the second you walk in. Even when it’s only their core family, the place feels full of noise, laughter and love.

Their dad’s Italian, their mom’s Puerto Rican, and both sides have families so big you’d think they were competing. Whenever my aunt and I get invited to their gatherings, we always end up staying too late, eating 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 things, she nudged me. “You’ll see. One day, someone’s gonna show up and make everything you thought you wanted feel small. That’s how it works.”

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 the Black Friday fanatic I used to be, but the idea of being out — being seen — felt like a needed shift.

***

The mall felt like a war zone. 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, lurched 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, husky, tinged with a smile. “You okay?”

I turned and forgot every word I’d ever known. He was tall, with sun-kissed curls, braces that made his dimples deeper, and bright, unreadable blue eyes.

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

He grinned. “Zaza!”

Constanza groaned. “No one respects my name.”

“You know him?” I asked, my voice softer than I meant.

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

“No, it was mine,” I said quickly, brushing myself off and trying 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 once-over — not creepy, just noticing. “I hope you’re nicer than Zaza here.”

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

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

She crossed her arms. “Still could’ve used your words.”

He lifted 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, smiling wider. 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 in that short exchange shifted. Something small, but unmistakable.

A spark.

And that night, lying in bed with my curls tucked into 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 drifting through the air. She scrolled her phone with one hand and popped chocolate-covered pretzels with the other, completely unbothered.

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

“You liked him,” she said, matter-of-fact.

“I bumped into him,” I muttered.

Constanza smirked. “Exactly. Right into fate.”

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

“And yet, so helpful.” She lifted her phone. “I gave him your number, by the way.”

I bolted upright. “You what?”

“He asked,” she said with a shrug. “So I gave. Thank me later.”

“You didn’t even ask me first!”

“Did I need to?”

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. Classic Constanza logic — infuriating and impossible to argue with.

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

I flopped back onto my pillows, heart thudding for a whole new reason. Part nerves, part anticipation, part what have you done. I kept telling myself I wasn’t waiting. Not for a buzz, not for his number to light up my phone, 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 Sweater Weather, obviously. Constanza eventually dozed off in a nest of throw blankets, but I couldn’t sleep. My mind wouldn’t quiet.

Was he going to text me?
Did he even want to?
Was this just polite?
A “you seemed nice, here’s your participation trophy” kind of text?

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 figuratively. I swear something inside me jumped and landed sideways. I stared at the message like it might disappear if I blinked. Constanza snored softly on the floor, blissfully unaware that my entire equilibrium had just tilted.

I stared at his message for a long time.  Simple words, casual tone. Just Friendly. 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 résumé 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 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 I just stared.
Heart racing.
Overthinking.
Wondering if this was the beginning of something I’d been waiting for, or just another reason to be careful.