Page 52 of Outspoken

“And…I love you.”

My statement lingers between us, a gentle breeze shifting our hair and clothes. It doesn’t matter if we fight or if I’m getting left behind, certain words need to be said regularly. You never know when something scary might happen, stealing your chance to ever say them again.

His posture softens and he uncrosses his arms. “Love you, too. Just trying to look out for you. I want you to be okay.”

Yeah, so do I.

With that, I climb back into the car and shut the door. I send Paige a quick text to also say that I love her.

Before I can cry and feel stupid about being so mushy, I put the car in gear and step on the gas.

Brody has good intentions but he’s clueless. Nothing is going on between me and Miguel. I like being around him because he’s so upbeat and flirty. And if he still likes me, it’s just a temporary fantasy, and I'm only playing along for today. I’m simply going there to hang out and celebrate whoever’s birthday it is with a bag of chips.

Chapter Fourteen

Miguel

“STOP PACING!” MARIBEL YELLS AT me over her shoulder. “Me estás volviendo loco. Shave this corn or something. Molesto.”

We’re at Maribel’s today for my cousin Rico’s party. I shake out my limbs next to the kitchen island, which is cluttered with a variety of containers with everything from pozole to mac and cheese. Everyone always chips in and brings their own dishes to family parties, so Maribel is focusing on sides. The rice she’s cooking smells amazing—lots of garlic, tomato, and onion aromas filling my nostrils. And I have always loved being in her bright, homey kitchen. The walls are sunflower-yellow, the counters are usually cluttered with cooking supplies that no one puts away, and the fridge is covered in family photos and school assignments.

It’s the type of family kitchen I’ve always envied.

A streak of blue hair sprints by—Daniel and another boy. They laugh and fight each other to get through the sliding glass door to the backyard. I watch them through the kitchen window as they race to Steve, begging him for something—probably access to the video games Maribel locks away during parties. Otherwise, Daniel ghosts his family and disappears with his friends for hours.

I stop a moment to take it all in—the energy and laughter outside, the smell of home cooking, familia. In a few moments, Amber will be part of this, mingling with those closest to me.

I’m so jittery I don’t know what to do with myself.

Maribel wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, flicking away the frizzy black strands of hair that won't stay in her bun. She taps the counter in front of me with a wooden spoon. “Corn. Shave it.”

I grab a large knife, happy she’s here to boss me around since I’m struggling to focus. As I pick up the first cob she cooked on the grill, I yelp as it burns my fingers. It falls from my grip, landing safely on a pan with its peers. I almost drop the knife too.

“Ay, you didn’t say it was hot.”

She smiles with her chipmunk cheeks. “You just watched me take them off the grill. Where is your mind today? Grab those gloves that are right there. Al lado del maíz.”

I rub my throbbing fingers before slipping on the heat-resistant gloves. I study a cob. “What’s this for?”

“Corn salad,” she says, mixing something in a bowl.

“Why not use canned?”

She slaps her wooden spoon down flat on the counter, wipes her hands on the apron protecting her flowery dress, and then turns to glare at me. “You did not just say that. Like our mamá didn’t raise us to cook food the right way. She'd strangle you if she heard you say that.”

I bite back a smile as I shave part of a cob into a metal mixing bowl.

She turns around with a tsk. “You’re teasing me.”

“It’s payback for burning my fingers.”

After a beat, she says, “But I agree—canned corn would’ve been so much faster.”

We laugh.

Rico appears from around a corner, his sunglasses perched on his bald head. Whatever he’s carrying, it smells like heaven. He places two stacks of large aluminum pans on the counter with a grin, looking chill and pleased in his baggy red T-shirt and jeans.

“Damn, what is this?” I ask, trying to peel back a corner of the aluminum foil covering the top of a pan.

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