June

Sweat trickled down my forehead, gliding down my neck to my back. My sleep shirt clung to my body, drenched and sticky. I was trying to ignore the fact I probably smelled repulsive, but it was difficult to do so when every movement seemed to release even more streams of droplets.

I'd forgotten how sweltering hot the house got in the summer; how the windows would burn you if you touched them and how you would suffocate if you closed any doors for too long. I felt bad for the chickens I sometimes baked in the oven. Still, at least those were dead already. I, on the other hand, was very much alive, and very much aware of the heat creeping up on me.

As quietly as possible, I sneaked towards their bedroom. The creaking floorboards and my clumsy walking did not help. Luckily, they had their fan on, so it didn't matter that much.

I pushed their door open a little further, almost making it crash into their bed. I froze, but the dull thud didn't wake them. They were sound asleep.

Dad was on his back, snoring lightly, his chest going up and down in a soothing rhythm. Good. He was breathing. Mom snored even louder than him, body pressed up to his like she was the only thing that made his heart beat. Maybe she was. Was this the epitome of true love? Snuggling up to your husband even though the room might be as hot as 110 degrees right now?

I wondered if Charlotte snuggled up to Nathan. They could if they wanted to. They had an a/c, and the house was insulated.

Let's not think about that, June.

Reassured, I left my parents to sleep, god knows how they were able to, and slipped downstairs. The living room was a little cooler, although still hot, and after half an hour of lying on the couch and staring up at the worn ceiling, I sighed and got up.

Okay, blistering sun. You have defeated me. I admit.

I grabbed my phone — or Sam's phone. It was an iPhone, "an older model," Sam had said, and he'd wanted the newest version, so I could take this one. I was pretty sure it wasn't even six months old. I was also sure Nathan had put him up to giving it to me. My own Samsung had been falling apart for a while, and more frequently, people hadn't been able to hear me when I called them.

I'd been set on not accepting any more expensive gifts from them — after realizing how much my parents did for me, how stressful I'd made their life, I wanted to avoid being an ungrateful bitch. Sam, however, had argued I needed to be able to contact my father, mother, Nathan, and the hospital at all times. My fear of not being able to reach any of them outweighed my mission to be a little more appreciative of what I did have.

Nathan — last seen: two hours ago

No wonder. It was three am. He had to get up early for work. He was doing an internship at a major law firm, one with three names I frequently forgot, and had to get up at six am every day. Beforehand, he'd been unsure of his choice to do family law, even though we'd discussed it at length, but it seemed like it suited him. He'd seriously considered civil rights or immigration as well — after I pointed out how much Cleo's case had consumed him, he seemed to have let those go. I was thinking about maybe trying to find an internship too this summer, when dad was a little better again. I would be starting sophomore year in a few weeks, and suddenly, college seemed to be closing in on me. I'd need a scholarship to be able to afford studying at a good one, and for that, I needed an outstanding application.

So, this was a thing that frequently happened: I'd open up my messages to stare at Nathan's name like I could voodoo him to come online, until I either got distracted by something else or would cave in and send him something pathetic.

June: Next time I decline your offer to buy me a fan, please remind me I'm a fool.

I miss my bed. It's so bad here I'm melting into the mattress.

Shit. Why did I do this? Every. Single. Time. I was sure Nathan couldn't care less about melting mattresses, not when he had to get up in a few hours to work at a firm that could make or break his career.

I groaned, lying back down. Good thing my grandparents immigrated to New York. I wouldn't even have survived Spain, let alone Mexico. At least, he wouldn't see it yet. Only when he'd wake up, and then he'd probably forget about it soon.

But no. My phone lit up.

O god.

Nathan: I'll buy you one tomorrow.

A cheap one that makes lots of noise.

So you'll wake up in the middle of the night for no reason at all.

I giggled. Immediately, all annoyance washed away.

June: So I can keep on messaging you at 3am?

Nathan: Yes, because I love being woken up at 3 when I have a presentation that day.

June: Not my fault. You should put your phone on silent before bed.

Nathan: I have. But that doesn't help when I've made an exception for you.

I smiled at my phone, tingles in my stomach. I was an exception. Now, who's special, Charlotte?

June: Always the gentleman, you.

Nathan: Don't think I'm coming down there to wave palm leaves for you.

My laugh was so loud I had to cover my mouth, fearing mom and dad might hear me. Living with them again had made me realize how much freedom I had when at Sam's. Nobody there who told me to go to bed, or put away my phone, or stop watching Netflix. Now, however, my dad was there all the time, practically breathing down my neck to check what I was doing. It was highly irritating, and there had been multiple times in the past weeks I had to remember myself of his condition because I really wanted to throw a string of swear words towards that man.

June: Well that's not very polite

Nathan: It's 3am

June: I didn't know politeness was time-bound

Nathan: Watch out, before you know it I'll stop replying without saying goodnight

June: oh no!! I can't believe you'd do that to me

Nathan: Watch me

June: hahaha good night. Good luck with your presentation tomorrow!

For a while, nothing happened, and I couldn't help but feel a little hurt he'd really do it, when...

Nathan: Thanks. Can I come over tomorrow, to bring groceries?

June: yeah, sure. I don't think mom's gonna be home so you're safe.

Nathan: Great. Night, Junie.

June: que duermas bien Nathan

I smiled, closing the app and opening up my notes. I had a lot of free time with dad napping all day, and I had picked up writing again. A different story than I'd been working on half a year ago, though; that one had been sweet and cliched and embarrassing — no, this was something darker, something that dealt with death and loss. Of course, it did contain a handsome pirate with shoulder-length blonde hair and ocean blue eyes — a girl had to have something to dream about, right? I'd been struggling with a scene in which my main character was captured and tortured by a rival captain. Whatever I did, I couldn't seem to be able for her to find a way out of the situation, and handsome pirate #1 was too far away to swoop in and save her.

"Mija, it's late! You should be in bed!"

The voice was so unexpected I immediately dropped my phone, heart beating ten times as fast. Dad was standing in the doorway, white-faced and out of breath, clutching his side.

"I couldn't sleep!" I said, blushing like he'd caught me watching porn. "My room is like a volcano. Besides, you're not supposed to be out of bed."

He grumbled, then swatted at my comment as if wanting to make it leave. Shuffling, he started to walk towards me. It still upset me to see him so vulnerable. The man who used to pick me up and swing me around, calling me his little bird, reduced to an unstable mess, having to drink using a straw and needing help getting dressed. I'd been caring for him as well as I could these past few weeks, making him food and monitoring his fluid intake, reading to him from Paco Ignacio Taibo's novels about Hector Belascoarán Shayne, a rather pessimistic detective with only one eye.

Nathan had been coming by every other day after work to bring us groceries from the market. I was starting to suspect he liked hearing me speak Spanish; frequently, he would urge me to finish a chapter while he unpacked the bags. Sometimes we cooked together, which required a lot more bumping into each other here in the small kitchen, and he'd stay for dinner, recounting his day to dad and me — he never stayed when my mom was home. Sam visited too, of course, but he'd quickly grow bored. In his eyes, there was nothing fun to do around here. Maybe he had a point.

Panting, dad finally sat down on the couch. Lately, he smelled like an old man: dried sweat and something sickly, something sour and stale. I couldn't get used to it. "Talking to your friend, huh?" he said, voice weak. He tried to cover it up with one of his sweet smiles. Thank god. He hadn't noticed my story.

"Yeah, Nathan. He's got this big presentation tomorrow, you know. I think he's kind of nervous." It wasn't even a lie. I knew he was stressed about the whole thing.

"Nathan," my dad said, like he had never heard the name before. "I like him. He's a good fella. He takes care of you."

I was thankful my cheeks were already red due to the heat. This was not something I wanted to discuss with my dad. "Yeah, well, I take care of him."

Dad snickered. "Of course you do. You always take care of everyone. Of me the most of all." The smile died, and he patted my leg, with large, sweaty hands. "Don't you worry, querida. I'll be back on my feet before you know it. And then I can take care of you again."

Suddenly, my throat was blocked. I wrapped my arms around him, trying to find his real scent again, the scent of safety and love. "You always take care of me, dad. You and mom both."

He hugged me back, kissing me on the top of my head. "We're your parents. We just want you to be happy." He let me go, cupping my chin and looking me directly in the eyes. It used to sadden me that I couldn't find much in myself that resembled him until abuela pointed out not all resemblance was physical in nature. "But you haven't been happy lately."

"That's not true. You and mom, you are the ones who've been unhappy."

He sighed deeply. The lines in his face were more apparent than ever, and with a start, I realized they would never vanish again. "Your mom and me have been working mad hard. We miss home. It's a hard life. But we both know it's temporary. In a few years, we'll be moving back, and things will be good again." He smiled, his eyes glinting mischievously. "Unless there's some reason you want to stay, of course."

Unlike with mom, I'd always been able to fool my dad. I tried not to think of Nathan or Sam, but I knew this time, I would probably not be able to outwit him. "Well, I would say I'd like to stay for the warm weather, though after the last couple of days, I'm not so sure anymore."

He chortled, his whole body shaking in joy. "That wouldn't matter if you'd be living in that big fancy house, huh?"

"I think the guys and me will be so sick of each other by then we'll be glad I'm leaving." It was a lie — a big one. In the past weeks, I'd often wondered if they'd let me stay if my parents would move back, and I hated myself for it. At least I could tell myself it was because I was in love, not because I had gotten used to the money.

"No, no, no," dad said, shaking his head. "The boy comes by every other day to see you. I don't think he'll get sick of you anytime soon. And I'm glad. He's a good one."

Ever since his heart attack, dad was frequently saying stuff he'd already said. According to him, it was just his age, but he couldn't convince me. This time, it was my heart that skipped a beat. "Dad," I said, flustering red. "You do know Nathan is not like my boyfriend or anything, do you?"

"I never said he was, did I? That's what you make of it." Snickering gently, he kissed me on my forehead, then slowly got up, holding on to the back of the couch to steady himself.

Out of the blue, my chest constricted, and my body tensed — seeing him struggling like this arose the fear he wouldn't be here long anymore. I'd been able to put my mind at rest before; that it was a one-time thing, that it didn't have to happen again. But what if this were the last time I'd be able to talk to him? "Dad," I blurted out, and he turned to me, "Nathan, he's... nineteen."

"Yes?"

"I'm fifteen." I couldn't believe I was actually admitting this to my dad. My dad of all people. The one man in this world who might still think I was the one who made the sun shine every day.

Dad shrugged. "At one point, none of it will matter. I'm forty-nine, your mom is forty-one. Paciencia, mija, paciencia." He smiled sadly. "I remember when we came here and you were my little girl. You're not so little anymore, now. I suppose it's inevitable, hm?" He was thinking too much, lately. My dad had never been the one to ponder over stuff. At once, I felt bad for growing up, or at least for getting older — if only I could've stayed a child and entertained him by flinging pancakes at teachers or aspiring to be a ballerina. He wouldn't have had to think then.

He wanted to leave again, and for some reason, panic filled me up when I remembered all of the things I needed to tell him before it was too late. "Dad! I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you and mom have to work so hard because of me."

He didn't respond, a crease in his brow like he was contemplating something. He looked like Valentina when he did that. "Well, I'm not," he said. "After all, it's reasonable for there to be a prize for having the best daughter in the world."

Tears gathered in my eyes as I watched him stumble to the stairs. "Te quiero, papá."

"Yo también te quiero, querida."

The following day, when I brought him breakfast, he acted so naturally, I wondered if the conversation had actually taken place, or if it had all been my imagination.