Paloma didn’t waste a second once she agreed to help. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with her phone already in hand, sliding into the table across from us as if she needed a barrier — even a small table — between herself and the weight of the moment.
“I’ll message Ximena,” she said. “I’m not sure but I think she might be in Toronto too. Hopefully, she’ll respond fast. She always did back home. And she never turned down a free meal.”
There was something in her voice — nostalgia laced with bitterness — that made me wonder what kind of history those two shared.
Elias must have heard it too, because his posture softened, like he didn’t want to startle her.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Paloma looked up at him — really looked — and something flickered across her face. Not at
