The morning sun filtered softly through the gauzy curtains as I lingered in the quiet of my old bedroom, a nostalgic yet uneasy feeling settling deep in my chest. It was the day of the welcome back barbecue—my abuela’s grand idea to gather everyone, from neighbors to old friends, celebrating my return after years away. The excitement was undercut by a single detail: neither my mom nor I had known about it until this morning.
"Isabella! You're squeezing the lemons all wrong!" Mom’s voice cracked sharp like a whip from the kitchen, where chaos had already claimed its throne. I peeked out the doorway, spotting her flitting around like a tempest—arms full of utensils, a disheveled apron clinging to her, and a scowl etched so deeply it seemed carved into her face. Last-minute plans were her nightmare, and today was an unplanned apocalypse.
"What do you mean? I’m just squeezing the lemons—" I tried, only to be cut off by her glare that could freeze time. The kind of look that warned me to do better, faster, or be prepared for a meltdown. I doubled my pace, fingers trembling as citrus juice splattered everywhere, trying to avoid unleashing her full wrath.
From the corner of my eye, I saw abuela slip hesitantly into the kitchen. Her steps were soft, cautious—as if she carried the weight of every past scolding Mom had ever delivered. "Ma," Mom snapped, tension coiling tighter in her voice. "What are you doing here?" The vein on her temple throbbed fiercely. "I told you to get the grill from the shed!"
Abuela’s hands clenched and released, her calm voice trembling with an effort to keep peace. "I did, I did. I just came for some wipes—the shed is dusty." Her upper lip was slick with sweat, nerves made visible.
Mom glared for a long moment, then relented with a curt nod. "Fine. Hurry up. After that, the garden needs clearing." As abuela retreated, I felt the familiar ache of old family dynamics—love tangled up with tension, like vines choking flowers.
Once the kitchen settled into a fragile order, I escaped upstairs to my room, eager to prepare for the gathering. The house was alive with anticipation, or maybe just the nervous energy of everyone trying to make this surprise perfect. As I stepped into the hallway, I heard Sofia’s wails—a piercing reminder of the little whirlwind that she was.
Gently, I crept past her room, careful not to trigger more protests. Mom had confined her to the crib for now, a necessary sacrifice to keep her safe amid the storm of preparations. Sofia hated being restricted, and I imagined the resentment bubbling in her toddler heart towards me—the unintended jailer in this moment. But this was temporary. Someday she’d understand.
Turning toward the closet, ready to pick out my outfit, a sudden movement caught my eye. There, framed by the window, stood Lucas. He leaned casually, absorbed by his phone, oblivious to my gaze. A towel hung low around his hips, damp hair falling in loose strands. Water droplets traced a path down his chest, each muscle defined like a sculpture in motion. My breath hitched, betraying the cool facade I tried so hard to maintain.
I chastised myself. Lucas was the last person I should be gawking at, given our history. Yet, the magnetic pull was undeniable—a silent exchange of glances, a history of stolen moments and unspoken apologies. Then, he shifted, catching me mid-stare. His grin—half amused, half mischievous—seared into my mind. Heart pounding, I pivoted swiftly, only to stumble back into my closet, cheeks burning with humiliation.
Later, the backyard was alive with the murmur of voices and the scent of charcoal mingling with summer blooms. Mom was still caught in her whirlwind, her arms a blur as she balanced burger buns and sauces, barking orders like a general. "Bella, can you get the door?" she called, barely pausing as she disappeared into the chaos.
I pulled my hair into a loose ponytail and hurried to the front door. When it swung open, Mrs Miller stood there, radiant with a smile as bright as the afternoon sun, clutching a bouquet of tulips. "Isabella! Welcome back!" she exclaimed, pulling me into a hug that squeezed the air from my lungs.
"Hi," I mumbled, cheeks pressed against her warm chest, the scent of lilacs enveloping me. Mr Miller chuckled beside her, teasing his wife for her enthusiastic greeting, and I laughed along, grateful for their familiar kindness.
Leading them toward the backyard, I poured drinks as the conversation fluttered between catching up and sharing stories of distant travels. They regaled me with tales of bustling weddings across continents, their voices tinged with excitement and exhaustion.
My attention flickered as Mr Miller’s eyes caught a figure approaching—Lucas, his steps purposeful but his face betraying a hint of distraction. "There you are," Mr Miller muttered, handing over car keys with a slight frown. "Took your time." Lucas shrugged, flushing a little. "Car took longer at the shop."
As Mr Miller excused himself, I felt the weight of Lucas’s gaze brush over me. The embarrassment from this morning’s encounter flared anew, and I turned my eyes away, focusing instead on the ongoing madness of the barbecue. Mom stood near the grill, arms flailing animatedly as she issued orders in a tone that bordered on hysteria. Mrs Miller caught my eye, silently acknowledging the scene before excusing herself to assist, leaving me alone with Lucas and a swirl of complicated feelings.