Chapter 6: Letting Go, Part 2
1914 Words
December arrived quietly.
The city dressed itself for Christmas.
Storefronts glittered with lights.
Garlands appeared in windows.
Holiday music followed Reina everywhere she went.
For everyone else, Christmas seemed magical.
For Reina, it simply hurt.
The Leone mansion transformed for the holidays.
A massive Christmas tree stood in the foyer.
Garlands wrapped around stair railings.
Guests visited constantly.
The house felt warm.
Reina felt cold.
The truth was, she and Jimena had never been alike.
Not in appearance.
Not in personality.
Not in the way they moved through the world.
Jimena seemed born for attention.
Confident.
Opinionated.
Beautiful in a way that demanded to be noticed.
She had long dark hair that always looked perfect, dark eyes that missed nothing, and sharp features that made her seem older than she was.
Even when she was annoyed—which was often—people listened when she spoke.
Reina had never understood how she did it.
She spent most of her life trying not to be noticed at all.
People always said she looked like a combination of her parents.
Her mother's dark hair.
Her father's warm brown eyes.
As she'd gotten older, the resemblance to Paola had become harder to ignore.
She didn't have Jimena's sharp elegance.
Her features were softer.
Less dramatic.
The kind of beauty people noticed slowly rather than all at once.
Most days, she was perfectly fine with that.
At least she had been before moving into the mansion.
Standing beside Jimena always made her feel younger than she was.
Quieter.
Smaller.
Jimena carried herself with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where she belonged.
Reina still felt like she was waiting for someone to realize she didn't belong there at all.
For years she told herself it didn't matter.
Then she moved into the mansion.
And suddenly comparisons seemed unavoidable.
Jimena belonged here.
Reina never quite felt like she did.
One was the daughter of the house.
The other was the girl everyone felt obligated to help.
The difference was impossible to ignore.
That Carlos had finally accepted her.
That whatever tension had existed between their families had faded.
After all, he had helped them.
He had paid for treatments.
Opened his home.
Checked on her father.
Done everything a good brother was supposed to do.
For a while, she thought that meant the past no longer mattered.
Now she wasn't so sure.
She kept thinking about the first day she arrived in New York.
The look on Carlos's face when he saw her.
"You look like your mother."
At the time, she thought he had simply been surprised.
Now she wondered if it had been something else.
Reina had always known Carlos blamed her mother.
Not because anyone told her.
Nobody ever said it aloud.
But children noticed things.
Especially when adults thought they weren't listening.
She knew her mother and Aunt Carmen had died together.
She knew her mother had been driving.
She knew Carlos disappeared after the accident.
And she knew that whenever her mother was mentioned, something changed.
The room became quieter.
The smiles became forced.
The conversation moved on.
For years she convinced herself he had moved past it.
That time had healed whatever damage had been done.
Then Papa died.
Without him standing between them, Carlos suddenly felt different.
Not cruel.
Not hostile.
Just distant.
Like someone fulfilling an obligation.
Before, he would stop by after work and ask if she needed anything.
After the funeral, entire weeks passed without seeing him.
Before, he stopped by her room to check on Vidal.
Now weeks passed without him checking on her at all.
The difference was subtle.
Small enough that nobody else would notice.
But Reina noticed.
Because for the first time in her life, her father wasn't standing between them.
And without Vidal there, the relationship felt frighteningly hollow.
Maybe Carlos had accepted Vidal.
Maybe he had forgiven his brother.
Maybe he had even loved him enough to set the past aside.
But that didn't necessarily mean he had forgiven Paola.
And it certainly didn't mean he had forgiven her daughter.
Two weeks after Papa died, she turned thirteen.
If anyone remembered, they never said so.
There was no cake.
No candles.
No birthday dinner.
No cards waiting on the kitchen counter.
Even she almost forgot.
The date came and went beneath a mountain of grief, buried so completely that it barely felt real.
Part of her wanted to be upset.
Another part couldn't bring herself to care.
How could she ask anyone to celebrate when the person who had always made her birthdays special was gone?
Every year, Papa had insisted on making breakfast himself.
Pancakes that were never perfectly round.
Bacon that was always a little too crispy.
And a terrible rendition of Happy Birthday sung loud enough to make her laugh before she'd even opened her eyes.
This year, the house was quiet.
The only sound came from people trying to survive one day at a time.
By the time she realized her birthday had passed...
It already felt like another thing she'd lost.
Christmas morning arrived quietly.
For one brief moment after waking up, Reina forgot.
Then reality returned.
Her father was gone.
The ache followed immediately after.
Most of the day passed in a blur.
She opened a small gift from Carlos.
A leather journal.
No card.
No explanation.
Just the gift.
Ross later confirmed Carlos had picked it out himself.
That somehow made it hurt more.
Because it reminded her how difficult Carlos found simple affection.
He could pay for treatment.
Arrange a future.
Solve problems.
But he couldn't sit beside her and ask if she was okay.
Not the way her father would have.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Reina sat beside the Christmas tree.
The colorful lights reflected off the ornaments.
The house was silent.
She thought about every Christmas she had spent with her father.
Every laugh.
Every gift.
Every memory.
And for the first time since he died, she cried without trying to stop herself.
A few days before New Year's, Reina sat on the floor beside her suitcase.
The framed photograph of her parents rested in her lap.
She traced her fingers over their smiling faces.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
The door opened before she could answer.
Jimena stood in the doorway.
She looked annoyed.
Which was normal.
For several moments neither girl spoke.
Finally Jimena glanced toward the suitcase.
"So you're really leaving."
Reina nodded.
"The first week of January."
Jimena leaned against the doorframe.
"Good."
The answer shouldn't have hurt.
But it did.
The silence stretched between them.
Then Jimena looked toward the photograph.
"My dad talks about your father all the time."
The comment caught Reina off guard.
"What?"
Jimena rolled her eyes.
"Every conversation somehow ends up being about Vidal."
Her voice sounded dismissive.
But there was something underneath it.
Something sharper.
"He talks about things they did when they were kids."
She shrugged.
"Stories I've heard a hundred times."
Reina remained quiet.
"He talks about him like he's still here."
The words came out harsher than Jimena probably intended.
The room fell silent.
For the first time, Reina saw something beneath the irritation.
Not grief.
Not exactly.
Frustration.
The kind that built slowly over years.
"My dad barely notices anything."
Jimena muttered.
Then immediately looked annoyed with herself.
"He notices."
Reina said softly.
Jimena snorted.
"Sure."
For a moment neither girl spoke.
Then Jimena laughed.
A short bitter sound.
"You know what the worst part is?"
Reina frowned.
"What?"
Jimena stared toward the window.
"When my mom died, he worked."
The words came out flat.
Emotionless.
Which somehow made them worse.
"He buried himself in work."
Reina remained silent.
"He was always working."
Jimena swallowed.
"Then Uncle Vidal got sick."
The room grew quiet.
"And suddenly he had time."
The words landed between them.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
"He had time for hospitals."
Jimena continued.
"He had time for doctors."
"He had time to fly across the country."
"He had time to worry."
For the first time, Reina understood.
This wasn't really about her.
Not entirely.
This was about Jimena watching her father pour himself into saving someone else while she was still carrying the hurt of being left alone with her own grief.
"He loved your father."
Reina said quietly.
"I know."
Jimena's answer came immediately.
That was the problem.
"He loved him so much that sometimes I think he forgot everyone else."
The confession hung between them.
Raw.
Honest.
And for the first time since they met, Reina saw something other than hostility.
She saw a girl who missed her mother.
A girl who wanted her father's attention.
A girl who had spent years competing with a ghost she could never beat.
Then the moment disappeared.
Jimena crossed her arms.
"Now he spends half his time worrying about you."
There it was.
The thing neither of them had ever said aloud.
The room fell silent.
Neither girl knew what to say after that.
Jimena pushed away from the doorway.
The moment was over.
"So maybe Spain is a good thing."
Reina frowned.
"What does that mean?"
Jimena shrugged.
"I think everyone's been miserable for a year."
Then she opened the door.
"And maybe being miserable somewhere else will help."
Before Reina could respond, she walked away.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Reina stared after her.
For the first time, she realized Jimena hadn't come to say goodbye.
She had come because she was angry.
Angry at her father.
Angry at the past year.
Angry that Vidal Hernandez had died and somehow left a hole in everyone's life.
New Year's Eve arrived.
The house was filled with guests downstairs.
Music.
Laughter.
Conversation.
Reina remained in her room.
She sat beside the window with the photograph resting in her lap.
Outside, snow drifted slowly from the dark sky.
The future terrified her.
Madrid terrified her.
Being alone terrified her.
But staying exactly where she was terrified her too.
A few days earlier, while packing, she'd found the La Paloma brochure tucked between old school papers.
She'd picked it up.
Almost slipped it into her suitcase.
Almost.
In the end, she left it behind.
In the end, she left it behind.
Some things belonged to New York.
New York had become another home she couldn't keep.
Los Angeles felt impossibly far away.
Spain would put an ocean between them.
She didn't know when she'd see home again.
For weeks she had been clinging to the past.
To memories.
To grief.
To the last pieces of a life that no longer existed.
Sometimes she wondered if she'd ever see La Paloma again.
If she'd ever walk through those doors.
If she'd ever see New York.
Or the young manager from the lobby.
The thought was silly.
She barely knew him.
Yet whenever she imagined the city, somehow he was always part of the memory.
The truth hurt.
But it was still the truth.
Her father was gone.
And no amount of wishing would bring him back.
A tear slid down her cheek.
Then another.
Reina wiped them away and looked down at the photograph.
"I'll try, Papa."
The whisper barely left her lips.
The room remained silent.
No answer came.
Yet somehow she felt lighter.
Not healed.
Not happy.
Just lighter.
The clock downstairs struck midnight.
A new year had begun.
And whether she was ready or not...
So had the rest of her life.
- Writer
