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Camila's feet stop moving and one hand grabs my bicep while the other wipes under her eyes. “When I saw…” her legs cross and she folds over with laughter still holding on to my arm for balance. “When I saw her come up behind you I had to look away.”

“Yeah well, she just went right in. No foreplay necessary for Mira.” Her laughter turns soft as we move out of the way and stroll over to the pier railing.

The sun is warm on my back as we silently watch the boats sail across the bay. Camila’s fingers pick at the wood grain railing and I instinctively cover her hands with my own. Her shoulders rise and fall before turning to face me. I know Camila will never be the one to say something first. Not after she let her guard down and tried to talk to me the day after the fundraiser. I’ve been fuming for days knowing it was just stupid miscommunication on my part, but if I want us to figure something out moving forward, that’s got to be on me. I also know she's not written me off yet. I could feel it last night—there’s something there—and no matter what brave face she puts on, I knowshe’s not oblivious to it. But I need to be the one to do this because I’m done fighting it. I reach one hand up and rub my thumb between her furrowed brows, trying to erase the crease that formed. My eyes briefly dip to her lips that I so desperately want to pull onto my own. Her eyes are swirling with questions and I take a deep pull of that citrusy patchouli scent that is her and find myself annoyed with the wind and the Pacific Ocean that it dares try to mix with her scent.

“You’re vibrating,” her voice trembles.

I mentally shake my head. When she takes a step out of my grasp I realize it was my phone. I open my mouth to say something but she’s already shifted her gaze back towards the water. I close my mouth, pulling out my phone.

Unknown number

Miles, I saw the big news of your promotion. Congratulations, son.

All the blood quickly drains from my body. My hands go cold, and the black band that usually sits firmly on my finger loosens. I stopped answering calls from Paul Cameron in high school but he’s continued to reach out. I’ve heard updates on him as well, enough to know he travels to the city often. But San Francisco is one of the most populated cities in the United States. And even though I don’t answer his calls or texts, I’m aware that he still checks up on me in other ways. It’s been one of my driving forces to work as hard as I have all these years later. As a teenager, during my parents’ divorce, I worked hard for their attention. As an adult, I worked hard as afuck youto my dad.

And when I look at my phone once more, the sole reason I never wanted a relationship stares right back at me.

When Camila looks at me again, her eyes are bright. I pocket my phone and clear my throat. “Ready?”

Her eyelashes flutter as she blinks rapidly and I don’t miss the way she drags her palms along her leggings. “Umm, ye-yeah.”

“I’ll walk you up the street where Wills is waiting. I have some things to take care of.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her eyes look everywhere but mine and the most forced smile graces her face.

And I hate myself for putting it there.

Camila

Me

Can I use a regular skillet to cook my tortillas? Miles doesn’t have a comal.

Taylor

What is he? An animal. Who doesn’t have a comal?!

Me

Someone who doesn’t cook a lot of tortillas I guess.

Taylor

?? But to answer your question, yes you can. Look for a cast iron skillet first though!

After searchingfor ten minutes I finally find a rolling pin and cast iron skillet. I pull my little dough balls out and lightly flour the surface. “Hotel California”,the Gypsy Kings version, plays through my earbuds and I begin rolling out my tortillas.

A dark shadow appears out of my peripheral and I yelp before smacking the counter. “What are you doing here?” I ask, pulling my headphones out.

“I live here,” Miles says,looking at me like I’m crazy. “And you startle easily.” I take a deep breath trying to tell my body we’re okay. He’s not wrong, I do get scared by anything and everything. But it’s 4:30 on a Thursday afternoon. I wasn’t expecting him home for another three hours. “What areyoudoing?” he shoots back, eyeing the mess I’ve made.

“I’m sorry about the mess. I really wanted homemade tortillas and I didn’t want to be a bother and ask Rosa so I waited until she left for the day to start them.”

“I thought Taylor was the chef in your little duo,” he says, sitting down across from me at the island.

“Oh, she is,” I hold up my floured hands. “But tortillas are the one thing I know how to make. The only thing I forced my mom to teach me because I couldn’t live without them.”

“Aren’t tortillas supposed to be round?” he points to the first tortilla I rolled.