Page 105 of These Fractured Bonds

She didn’t dare think of it as anything else. She couldn’t. Instead, she distracted herself with a phrase that had been on her tongue since she woke up.

“Lo que será, será.”

She had a strong feeling she had learned it from her mom, hearing her voice when she said it, but she didn’t know why it was stuck in her head. She couldn’t accept what was to be. No, she would wrangle the future into the mold she wanted. No matter the cost. A lone bird soared through the sky; its dark body cutting the lightening sky with every beat of its wings.

“Good morning, mi sol!” Erick strode into the room, wearing what looked like scrubs underneath a floor-length fur coat.

She laughed. “What the hell are you wearing?”

He rolled his eyes, motioning for her to come to her bed. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“It’s the fur coat.”

“I’m tired of being cold! I miss the beach. I miss summer. I even miss swimming in the chlorinated-to-hell pools of our college.”

One of those was different from the others, but she bit anyway. “You sound like a Water Court citizen through and through.”

“What can I say? I was born to lounge on white sands, not be trapped in spiraling stone towers in the clouds. Now, come on, get in bed. We don’t have a lot of time.”

Yareli slid under her bedsheets, resting her head on the plush pillow. She took a deep breath, relaxed her grip on her sheets, and met Erick’s eyes.

“I’m trusting you.”

For once, he didn’t respond flippantly. “We’ll get your memories back.”

She closed her eyes.

Thesoft,warmnotesof a guitar played in the air, reaching Yareli’s ears in a satisfying lilt. She was preparingcebollitasfor thecarne asada, her small hands deftly ripping the aluminum foil from its box and individually wrapping the Mexican green onions. Yelling drew her attention to the window where her younger brother, Fernando, ran around their backyard, cheering after scoring a goal. She huffed.

“How come Fernando doesn’t have to help?” she asked her mom.

“He doesn’t need to know how to prepare the food.”

“That’s not fair!”

Her mom looked up from her bowl, her lips pinched in a frown. This was the umpteenth time Yareli had complained. “Fine, you can go play after you finish.”

Satisfied, Yareli renewed her efforts. The occasional bird call reminded her it was the first warm day of Spring, which always meant they would havecarne asada—one of her favorite meals.

Her brother’s voice rang out. “Yareli!”

She peeked outside again, finding him standing with the soccer ball on his hip. He grinned, his floppy, curly hair falling over his eyes—he desperately needed a haircut, like always. She didn’t understand his hatred of haircuts, but she figured it was a seven-year-old thing, because their cousin also went months without cutting his hair.

She yelled, “What?”

“Come play!”

“Okay!”

She placed thecebollitasin a bowl, hurriedly rinsed her hands, and was about to run outside when her mom stopped her.

“Take them to your dad,” she snapped.

But her joyous mood couldn’t be stolen; she was finally free to play. She turned back and grabbed the bowl, muttering that she would never cook for her husband. Maybe she wouldn't ever get married, not if it meant doing all the cooking!

She rushed outside, stopping on their small patio to place the bowl on the plastic table they had set up. Her dad stopped her, too.

“Oye, are the short ribs ready?”