Page 141 of The Jack*ss in Class

Flynn shifted beside me, and I could feel him restrain himself from jumping to my defense. But this was my battle.

“What was your backup plan, Mamá?” I asked quietly.

“That’s different,” she dismissed. “Medicine is—” Herexpression hardened. “Writing romance novels isn’t the same as saving lives, Tempest.”

“Tempest’s books helped me through some of the darkest times of my life.” The voice came not from me, but from Freddie, who had apparently wandered into our conversation bubble. She stood with her arms crossed, unusually serious for my typically exuberant sister.

“When I was figuring out who I was,” Freddie continued, “when I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, I read your books. All these characters who were different, who took up space, who found love anyway? It mattered, T. It helped.”

I stared at her, emotion tightening my throat. “Freddie?—”

“It’s true,” she insisted. “And I’m not the only one. There’s this whole thread on FaceSpace about how your books helped people accept themselves. Their bodies, their desires, their weird, messy hearts.” She turned to our mother. “So yeah, maybe she’s not saving lives with a scalpel, Mamá, but she’s definitely saving them.”

Mamá blinked rapidly, clearly thrown by this passionate defense.

Before she could respond, another voice joined the fray. “Are we having the ‘writing isn’t a real career’ conversation again?” Rosalind asked, appearing with impeccable timing and a glass of champagne already in hand. “Because I thought we exhausted that topic already.”

I turned to see my sister, immaculate in a structured dress that screamed ‘future lawyer’, regarding our little group with cool disdain.

“Rosalind,” Mamá said, visibly relieved by the interruption. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”

“And miss watching everyone pretend that writing smut is something to celebrate?” Rosalind replied with a tight smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Flynn’s hand tightened on my waist, and I placed my own over it, silently asking him to let me handle this.

“Nice to see you too, Ros,” I said evenly. “Love the dress. Very ‘I’ll be billing you for this conversation.’”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Congratulations on your useless English degree, Tempest. I’m sure it’ll look lovely framed above your desk while you write about fictional people having fictional orgasms.”

“That’s enough,” Flynn said, his voice low but firm.

Rosalind’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh look, the football player speaks. Shouldn’t you be somewhere hitting your head against something?”

“Rosalind!” Mamá gasped.

“It’s fine,” Flynn said calmly. “I can hold my own. But I won’t stand here and let you insult the woman I love on her graduation day.”

The word ‘love’ hung in the air between us. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but hearing it so openly declared, in front of my family, sent a warm rush through me.

“How noble,” Rosalind sneered. “The jock defending his girlfriend’s honor. Very romance novel, Tempest. Did you script this scene yourself?”

“What is wrong with you?” Freddie demanded, stepping forward. “Why are you being such a?—”

“That’s quite enough,” came a commanding voice thatcut through the tension like a knife. Abuela strode toward us, resplendent in her fuchsia gown, a dangerous glint in her eye that stopped everyone mid-word. Abuelo Leo walked beside her. In one hand, he held what looked like a weathered leather notebook, and in the other, an iPad.

“Mamá, Papá,” my mother began, her tone cautious. “This is a family matter that we can discuss privately?—”

“No, Luz,” Abuela cut her off, her voice ringing with authority. “No more private discussions. No more secrets. This family has had enough of both.”

She planted herself in the center of our small group, commanding attention the way she once commanded movie sets. Flynn’s hand found mine, and I gripped it tightly, sensing the storm about to break.

“First,” Abuela said, turning to my mother, “I have something for you, mi hija.”

She held out her hand and Abuelo set the tattered notebook in her palm with reverence. Mamá’s eyes widened with recognition, her hand automatically reaching for it before pulling back as if it might burn her.

“You kept it?” Mamá whispered, her composure cracking.

“Of course we did.” Abuela pressed the notebook into her hands. “Parents always keeps their daughter’s dreams, even when she forgets them.”

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