Page 47 of Winning Match
“You didn’t have to buy anything.”
She blushes. “I didn’t. I…I made it.”
I stare at her in awe, my mouth dropping open. Gently, I lift the lid of the pastry box and groan. Nestled inside is a delicious cheesecake, decorated with blueberries, lemon zest, and fresh lavender. “Is that… You made a cheesecake?”
Marlowe blushes. “Gladys is a fantastic baker,” she offers by way of explanation. “I have a bottle of wine too.”
I take the pastry box from her hands. “You didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to do anything.”
“I know.” She moves to the barstool tucked into the kitchen island and grasps a wine gift bag, a bottle already inside. “I wanted to. I want…I want your parents, your abuela, to like me.”
“Mi niña, trust me,” I say, gesturing toward the pastry box, “they’re going to love you.”
She laughs but I can tell she’s pleased. Placing a hand on my back, she nudges me toward the door. “I don’t want to be late.”
“We’ll be right on time,” I promise, stepping into the hallway and waiting for her to lock up.
A lone paparazzo lingers outside her flat, snapping photos as we walk toward my ride—a Mercedes AMG. Once we’re inside my SUV, I glance at Marlowe.
I thought I would be nervous about today’s paella at my parents’ house. But I already know my family is going to fall in love with Marlowe. In fact, that’s a double-edged sword. As much as I want them to admire her, the same way I do, the hardest part about today is knowing that Mamá and Abuela will be devastated when Marlowe and I break up in two months and she returns to Rhode Island.
13
Marlowe
“Your parents live out here?” I ask as we pull up to a beautiful home on the beach, about forty minutes outside of the city.
“Not full time,” Ale explains. “They’re in the city during the week, but they love to escape here on the weekends, especially in summer.”
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, noting the lush greenery, the bursts of colorful flowers and hot pink oleander bushes, the soothing sound of the sea, just visible from the street.
“Does it remind you of your home at all? Providence is on the water, isn’t it?” Ale pulls the cheesecake and wine from the trunk, and I take the pastry box from his hands.
“It is,” I breathe in deeply, holding the salty, heavy air in my lungs. “It’s on the Narragansett Bay.” I smile, recalling those early mornings when the bay is flat and smooth like the surface of a river rock. Before the chop kicks up, before the wind whips, before sailboats dot the skyline.
Memories roll through my mind of mornings like that—when it was just Mom, Dad, and me. It’s gut-wrenching to realize I’ll never have that again. Never be wrapped in the steadiness of my father’s assurance as he navigated us to Wickford Harbor. My mother’s hand—always warm and open—holding mine as we walked the quaint streets after a breakfast of hot coffee, fresh juice, and Johnny Cakes. Mornings I took for granted and would do anything to feel a sliver of now.
“But it’s not like this,” I continue, tucking my hair behind my ear as the breeze rolls over me. “This is hot and humid, an almost tropical feeling. There it’s cool and crisp, and the nature is rugged, almost untouched.” I glance up at Ale. “You should see it for yourself one day—it’s breathtaking. As beautiful as here but in an entirely different way.”
He nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he works a swallow. “Maybe one day.” But we both know it won’t happen. At least, not with me.
And for the strangest reason, maybe because of my nostalgia, I want to hold on to and savor the day with Alejandro and his family he’s about to introduce me to.
“You ready?” He pauses before starting up the walkway.
I rearrange my hold on the pastry box, noting the wine bag that dangles from Ale’s hand. “We got this, García.”
Ale smirks and we walk up to the front door, but before Ale can reach for the handle, it swings wide open. And the sweetest-looking woman—her hair coiffed, her makeup impeccable, her smile huge—throws her arms open.
“Alejandro! I haven’t seen you in a full week!” she announces in heavily accented Spanish.
“Hola, Abuelita, qué tal?” Ale grins, bending low to kiss both of her cheeks.
She rattles off a stream of thoughts in Spanish before turning to me. “And you must be Marlowe.”
“Oh, we’re so thrilled you’re here!” Another woman, Ale’s mom, rounds the corner, her hands clasped underneath her chin.
“Hi, thank you for inviting me,” I say as Abuela takes the pastry box from my hands and passes it to her daughter-in-law before pulling me into a warm hug, her mouth pressing kisses into the sides of my head.
