Page 42 of Hearts on Ice
I didn’t dare look at him.
The sun hit the windshield, scattering light across the dash. His reflection wavered in the glass—jawline, smile, the shape of someone I should not be thinking about this way.
But I was.
The freeway stretched ahead, wide and sunlit, traffic humming in a steady rhythm. After a few miles, I said, “Give me the quick scout report.”
He glanced over, brows lifting. “Scout report?”
“Old coach reflex,” I said. “Figure I should know what I’m walking into.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “Oh, that’s easy. Loud house. My mom will feed you until you tap out. My dad will quiz you on baseball stats and maybe try to rope you into a debate about who the greatest heavyweight of all time was. And Abuela?” He grinned. “She’s the real boss. If she likes you, everyone else falls in line.”
“That helps,” I said dryly.
“Don’t worry,” he said, smirking. “You’ll pass. Just don’t say you hate cilantro.”
“Noted.”
Silence settled in again—comfortable, filled with the hum of tires on asphalt and the faint rhythm of the song spilling from the speakers.
The last time I’d driven anywhere to meet someone’s family, I’d been holding my wife’s hand. We were twenty-four, nervous as hell, both of us pretending not to be. Her parents had opened the door like they already knew me, like I belonged there. For years afterward, it had felt like a second home.
After the accident, I kept visiting for a while—dropping by on birthdays, sending gifts at Christmas—but grief has a way of sanding down connections until all that’s left is politeness. Now it was just a yearly text, a halfheartedthinking of youthat carried more ghosts than comfort.
Miguel’s voice pulled me back. “Left at the murals,” he said, nodding ahead.
He pointed out the window as we slowed near an underpass.
“That one’sLa Virgen de Guadalupe,” he said, nodding at a wall washed in gold and turquoise. “Every neighborhood’s got at least one.”
We passed another mural: bright masks and flying capes. “Luchadores,” he said, grinning. “Wrestlers. My dad swears he met one once.”
A few blocks later, he gestured again. “Those lines? They’re from a ranchera, an old love song. Most of these artists sneak music or poetry into their work. It’s how we remember where we came from.”
The light flickered across his face as he talked, his voice softer now.
I didn’t know what to say except, “It’s beautiful.”
And maybe I wasn’t just talking about the murals and music.
He smiled. “Yeah. It is.”
He pointed to a narrow street lined with single-story homes, fences bright with bougainvillea and wind-tossed laundry. “This is us.”
Most of the driveways were already full: cars pressed up against gates, a couple parked half over the sidewalk. I pulled in close to the curb in front of a faded stucco house with a red-tiled roof and a mailbox shaped like a fish. The street was quiet except for a low hum of traffic from a few blocks over and the faint sound of music drifting from an open window.
The air hit us warm when we stepped out—sunlight, something frying, a hint of soap from the houses nearby. A small dog barked once and lost interest.
The walkway to the porch was narrow, cracked concrete patched over the years, lined with flowerpots that didn’t match but somehow made sense together.
Before we reached the steps, the screen door creaked open. A small woman hurried out. “¡Mijo!” she called, her voice full and bright.Son.
Miguel was already grinning by the time we hit the porch. He laughed. “Hola, Mamá.”
His mom didn’t wait—she reached up, wrapping her arms around his middle, all heart, murmuring something in Spanish against his shoulder.
I caught maybe half a word, the rise and fall of her voice soft and musical. It hit me in the chest harder than I expected—the kind of welcome you can’t fake.
