Page 40

Lyla

T onight we’re at Amara at Paraiso, a waterfront restaurant overlooking Biscayne Bay, celebrating my official promotion as the local chapter director of Play It Forward Miami. I’m surrounded by Drake, Hazel, a few of the Play It Forward staff like Josie and Marcos, and . . . my parents.

They certainly look uptight and out of place with my close friends, but I’m glad they made the effort to come. It’s their first time meeting Drake too.

The sun is setting over the water as our waiter delivers our appetizers of ceviche, plantain chips, and arepas. Drake—who’s told me in no uncertain terms that he’s footing the bill (a blessing because none of us non-profit workers could afford to eat here anyhow)--is side-eyeing the ceviche.

“What’s the matter, Texas boy? Can’t eat raw fish?” I tease.

“Back home, we call this bait. But I’ll try anything once—except tofu.”

“Now with that , we are in agreement.”

Drake raises his Dr. Pepper in a toast. “To Lyla—for quietly running this place long before anyone gave her the title.”

“Here, here,” Marcos says, and we all clink glasses.

I take a few more bites of the citrusy ceviche—which Hazel says is too pretty to eat.

“Well,” my mom says as she runs a hand over her blazer. “I suppose this Play It Forward position is a good experience until you figure out what’s next.”

Any other day, I would either ignore her comment or say something conciliatory. But today, I say, “This is what’s next, Mom. I want Play It Forward to be my past, present, and my future.”

Drake’s arm tightens around the back of my chair, his fingertips brushing my shoulder in a show of support.

I lean into the contact, grateful. “You should be proud of your daughter, Mr. And Mrs. Smith. The work she does at Play It Forward is amazing.” Though his words are kind, there is a hint of a reprimand in his tone—something I didn’t think Drake was capable of. My parents look slightly abashed.

“It’s about time you ran the place, chica ,” Marcos says. “I mean, let’s be real, she was already running it. But now it’s official.” He raises his glass in a cheers, and I clink my drink with his.

“Thanks, Marcos.”

“I was thinking we were all going to have to stage a coup on your behalf,” Hazel says with a raucous laugh.

“I didn’t realize it meant that much to you,” my mom says softly.

I smile and nod. “It really does, Mom.”

Josie and Marcos go on to regale my parents with story after story of instances where I ‘saved the day’ (their words, not mine), with occasional commentary from Drake and Hazel.

By the end, I’m blushing furiously—but my parents look impressed.

Well, at least as impressed as their genetic makeup will allow them to look.

For once, I don’t deflect the praise. I let myself enjoy it. Not because I need the validation, but because I’ve earned it. And maybe I’m finally ready to let myself enjoy that.

“I wish we’d met all your friends sooner,” my dad says from across the table. “They’re giving us a fuller picture of you, and your work. Sounds like you’ve got a good thing going at Play It Forward.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Hazel leans in close to me. “It’s about time they realize what the rest of us already knew,” she says quietly, giving my shoulder a nudge.

I glance around the table at Drake, Hazel, my coworkers, my parents. And something in my chest settles. We talk and laugh together, the sound drifting over the waves crashing not far away. The golden hour light catches Drake’s profile beside me, making him look like he’s aglow.

And I know: I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.