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“No headaches either,” she admitted with a shrug, “but I always chocked that up to being well hydrated. You know, most adults are chronically dehydrated and that leads to?—”

“Yes, I’ve seen the memes.” Zuri’s smile was wry and warm and prevented Marisol from rambling. “I can’t imagine never feeling pain.”

“Oh, I’ve felt plenty of pain,” she corrected. “I guess just none that my body produced on its own.”

Looking at her like she was a science experiment, Zuri emptied her glass of everything apart from the rattling ice. “What’s your first memory of feeling pain?”

Instead of responding, Marisol let the booze loosen her up. “What’s yours?”

Zuri’s eyes ignited at the unexpected resistance. “Drink at least half of that,” she said, flicking her gaze to Marisol’s glass, “and I’ll tell you.”

Marisol laughed. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Ms. Benitez?”

“Do you want my answer or what?” The ghost of her smile lingered on her lips.

With two hard pulls and an unavoidable shake of her shoulders, Marisol complied with the request. “Let’s hear it then,” she said, shocked when rum-scented fire didn’t shoot out of her mouth when she opened it.

Apparently satisfied with Marisol’s effort, Zuri leaned her head back on the couch and looked up at the high ceiling. “I was probably six or seven,” she guessed. “My grandmother had this vanity table thing across from her bed, and I was obsessed with all the makeup and powders and fascinating shit she had in there that I couldn’t touch.”

Marisol chuckled. “The Holy Grail of playing dress-up.”

Zuri rolled her head to one side to face her, voice soft and expression softer. “My favorite was this round powder box thing.” By the way her gaze drifted, Marisol knew she was picturing every single detail of the box. “It was powder blue with these tiny naked cherubs on it.” She offered a lopsided smile. “Relatives of yours, maybe.”

“Maybe the closest thing I’ll get to a family portrait,” she joked.

Rather than laugh, Zuri’s expression flickered like she’d regretted making the joke. Marisol had no interest in suddenly being some fragile thing, and she didn’t want to darken the moment with her Orphan Annie luck.

“And the pain came…” Marisol gestured for her to continue the story.

Zuri understood that Marisol didn’t want to be pitied and continued as if they hadn’t hit a speed bump. “I have to mention this box was from…Spain,” she said with the same exaggerated awe as if it had once belonged to Marie Antoinette. “And I had been fascinated by this thing since I moved in with her when I was four.”

“She raised you since then?” Marisol had noticed that Zuri never talked about her parents, but she hadn’t realized that she’d been raised by her grandmother too.

“The modern tragedy.” Zuri held her emotions in a steel grip. “Addiction is a real bitch.” She looked away when she added,“I don’t remember my mom’s funeral, but I’m sure there wasn’t even one for my dad.”

Marisol’s heart tore right in two. She wanted to reach out to ask if she wanted to talk about it, or give her permission not to talk at all, but then Zuri was back to the box and the moment was lost.

“So one morning she was in the middle of her beatification ritual,” Zuri’s eyes brightened again, “curling her hair when the phone rang. The second she was out of the room, I bolted off the bed where I’d been playing with a Barbie or some shit, and went right for the powder box.”

Vivid images played in Marisol’s mind. She couldn’t conceive of Zuri as a kid. As anything other than an unmitigated badass.

“I put that powder all over my face.” She laughed. “I looked like a weird ass little ghost, but I was living my big girl fantasies.”

Marisol laughed; the idea of Zuri wholeheartedly reveling in anything was a gift.

“All too soon, I heard that receiver clang against the base?—”

“And panic ensued?”

“Panic was an understatement,” she agreed with more joy than Marisol had ever seen her express. “Little kids are definitely known for dexterity, especially under pressure. Trying to get the fluffy white thing back into the box and get the lid back on in a hurry, I hit the curling iron she’d left on the vanity.”

“Oh no.” Marisol had forgotten that her question was about the first time feeling pain.

“Yup. Right in my lap. Burned the absolute fuck out of my thigh.” She chuckled. “Which wasn’t nearly as bad as the hell I got from my grandma.”

“Did it leave a scar?” Marisol’s gaze traveled to where Zuri had dropped her hand to her hip. She’d seen her naked so many times and never noticed any scars.

“Not a big one.” She pulled down the waistband of her leggings to reveal a faint discoloration low on her hip. Over time, the mark had obviously traveled north as she’d grown.