My dad's bestfriend

The suitcase lay open on the bed like a gaping mouth, and Sofia tossed clothes into it without really looking. An olive-green bikini she'd only worn once last summer, a white cotton dress too short to be decent, three García Márquez novels she'd reread for the third time, a spiral notebook already half-filled with notes that had nothing to do with literature anymore. Her movements were mechanical, but her mind had been spinning in circles for weeks.

Six months.

Six months since she'd seen Pedro.

The last dinner was back in December. He'd stopped by the house one rare rainy night—Javier had invited him over to "celebrate nothing at all," as he put it whenever he just wanted to drink mezcal with his compadre. Pedro had arrived with a bottle of añejo tequila and that wide grin that carved two parentheses around his mouth, the one that always made the room feel brighter. Sofia had hung back, pretending she had to finish an assignment, but she'd caught every syllable of his low voice, every laugh that drifted up from the living room like a warm tide. At one point, he'd looked up toward the stairs and spotted her, leaning against the banister. "¿Qué tal, mija? Still devouring books?" She'd nodded, unable to give him anything but a tight smile, her cheeks burning. Then she'd gone upstairs, locked herself in her room, and spent the rest of the night cursing herself.

Because this wasn't normal.

Because Pedro was forty-nine years old, her father's best friend since they were twelve in the Guadalajara barrio. He'd carried her on his shoulders when she was five so she could reach the highest mangoes. He'd held her when she cried because the boys at school called her a "little nerd." He'd been there for every stupid, sacred milestone of her life. And now, at nineteen, she looked at him the way you look at a man you want. Not like an uncle. Not like a family friend. Like a man.

She yanked the zipper closed—sharp, almost violent.

In the hallway, Diego stuck his head through the cracked door.

"You done packing, poetess? Dad's already in the car, talking to himself behind the wheel like usual."

Sofia rolled her eyes, but she smiled anyway.

"Coming. Two minutes."

Diego disappeared, whistling a Bad Bunny tune. She grabbed her backpack, slid her phone into the back pocket of her denim cutoffs, and paused in front of the mirror before leaving. Her black hair was pulled up in a loose bun, a few wild strands framing her face. She wore a plain white tank top and those frayed jean shorts that rode a little too high on her thighs. She bit the inside of her cheek. Too much? Not enough? She didn't know. She didn't even know what she was hoping for.

In the car, the familiar smell of worn leather and cold coffee wrapped around her immediately. Javier had already cranked the AC, but the California heat still seeped in through the cracked windows. Diego took the passenger seat, one foot propped on the dashboard, scrolling through his phone. Sofia settled in back, setting her suitcase beside her like a shield.

"Ready for the longest summer of your life?" Diego threw over his shoulder.

"Very funny."

Javier started the engine, and it hummed softly. He glanced in the rearview mirror.

"Seatbelt, mija."

She clicked it on with a sigh.

The road to the south coast was the same as always: first the congested LA freeways, then the interchanges that smelled of hot asphalt, then the descent toward the Pacific, the palm trees standing like tired sentinels, and finally the salty tang that meant the house was near.

For the first few minutes, the silence was comfortable. Then Javier started talking, as he always did on long drives.

"Pedro told me he redid the deck this winter. Put in new ipe wood—supposedly indestructible. We'll see about that."

Diego snorted.

"Yeah, he's gonna complain it cost too much and he could've done it himself for half the price."

"He did do it for half the price, cabrón," Javier said, laughing. "That's the problem with Pedro. He refuses to let anyone pay him what he's worth."

Sofia listened, her eyes drifting over the blur of the landscape. She was already picturing that deck: the fresh planks still reeking of exotic wood, Pedro shirtless under the midday sun, sweat trailing down his bronzed back, the muscles rolling beneath his skin as he drove in a nail. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, chasing the image away. It was ridiculous. Pathetic.

"And you, Sofia?" Javier went on. "What are you planning to do this summer besides read and tan?"

She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror.

"Maybe write a little. And... I don't know. Just enjoy it."

Diego turned his head halfway.

"Enjoy what? There's nobody interesting down there. Just Dad, me, Pedro, and that kid who's probably gonna spend his whole time skateboarding on the beach."

"Ellie's not a kid anymore," Javier corrected. "He's nineteen, just like your sister. And he's actually pretty cool when he wants to be."

Sofia felt a bitter spike in her chest. Ellie. Pedro's son. They'd grown up together, practically like siblings, until they were fourteen. Same school, same birthdays, same summers. Ellie had always had that obvious little crush on her: the lingering looks, the clumsy jokes, the ridiculous gifts—once he'd given her a bracelet made of seashells he'd crafted himself; she'd kept it two days before losing it on the beach. Everyone noticed. Except her, apparently. Back then, she'd found it cute, almost endearing. Now, the thought made her uncomfortable. Because if Ellie still looked at her that way... she couldn't return it. Not this year.

"He's still coming, right?" she asked, keeping her voice as flat as she could.

"Yeah," Javier answered. "Pedro made him. Says it'll be good for them to spend some time together."

Diego snorted again.

"Good luck with that. Ellie lives in San Diego now—he probably thinks the vacation house is tacky."

Sofia didn't reply. She thought about Pedro, alone with a son who barely looked at him. She thought about the way he sometimes talked about Ellie, with that mix of pride and sadness she'd learned to recognize. She thought about her own fractured family: the divorce three years ago, the screaming in the kitchen, the suitcases Isabella had packed without a word of explanation, Javier's accusations ("You cheated on me, just admit it!"), the proof he'd never found. Isabella had moved to San Francisco, career first, and yet they still called almost every day. Sofia admired her. Envied her, sometimes. That freedom. That way of choosing your own life without apologizing.

The car left the freeway. The ocean appeared suddenly, vast and turquoise, dazzling under the June sun. Sofia felt her heart quicken.

They were almost there.

The house stood at the end of the sloped street, white with blue shutters, surrounded by cactus and purple bougainvillea spilling over the sidewalk. Pedro was already there, on the deck, shirtless, a rag in his hand, wiping down a lounge chair. Beside him, cap backward, headphones around his neck pretended to help by carrying an empty cooler.

Javier honked twice, cheerfully.

Pedro looked up, smiled that smile that had been hurting Sofia for a year. He waved.

"¡Llegaron los locos!"

Diego burst out laughing and jumped out of the car before the engine was even off. Sofia stayed still for a moment, hands clenched on her knees.

She took a deep breath.

Then she opened the door.

Summer had begun.

And she already knew it was going to be dangerous.