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QUEENCON

TEMPEST

T he door to Cool Beans swung open with dramatic flair.

Every head turned as my grandmother made her entrance, resplendent in a flowing emerald kaftan with an honest-to-god feather-trimmed wrap draped around her shoulders.

Behind her, Tío Pedro grinned, carrying what appeared to be several shopping bags.

AbuelaNovela never just arrived anywhere. She made an entrance .

“Mi Tempestina!” She threw her arms wide, her array of gold bangles jingling like wind chimes.

“Abuela,” I whispered, relief washing over me as I crossed the room into her embrace. The familiar scent of her perfume enveloped me, a comfort I hadn’t known I desperately needed until this moment.

“Shh, mi amor,” she murmured against my hair, somehow knowing exactly what I needed to hear. “This is not the end. It is merely the beginning of a new chapter, yes? And who knows better how to write those than you? ”

I choked on a laugh that was half sob. Trust Abuela to make a writing pun at a time like this.

When she released me, her eyes, the same deep brown as my own, scanned the room with the appraising gaze that had intimidated telenovela directors for decades. Her attention settled on Bridger Kingman, who had risen from his seat as she entered.

“Ah,” she said, her voice carrying in that perfectly modulated way actresses of her generation had mastered. “You must be the father of these magnificent boys I’ve heard so much about.”

Something passed between them, a recognition, perhaps, of two people who had shouldered the weight of raising families through both joy and tragedy. He gave her a slight nod, the barest hint of respect in the gesture, but I didn’t miss it.

“Welcome to our impromptu family gathering, Mrs. Ramirez,” he said, extending his hand.

“Estrella, please,” she corrected, taking his hand in both of hers. “Any family that embraces my Tempest is family to me.”

The tightness in my chest eased slightly at her choice of words. Embraces . Not judges, not tolerates. Embraces.

“So you’re the fabulous AbuelaNovela?” Jules appeared at my side, practically vibrating with excitement. “I’ve got ‘Corazón Dividido’ added to my playlist. But Dad is a huge fan of the Agent Jaguar movies. He’s kind of a movie nerd.”

Abuela’s eyes lit up with delight. “Ah, a young woman of culture. You must be Jules.”

I glanced at Flynn, wondering exactly what he’d said about his sister to my grandmother. He grinned and winked at me from across the room, and some of the day’s tension melted away.

“Ladies,” Kelsey Best said, rising gracefully from where she’d been sitting with Declan. “I think we need a little Kingman Queens conference. Pen, Willa, Trixie?”

Before I could process what was happening, the Kingman women plus my grandmother were forming a circle in the corner of the café, and I was being gently but firmly guided to join them.

The “queen conference” turned out to be exactly what I needed, even if I hadn’t known I needed it.

“I think we can help with this media frenzy about your secret identity,” Kelsey said, leaning in.

The international pop star who had a freaking Bowl commercial was now giving me media advice.

This day couldn’t get any more surreal. “I’ve dealt with more media scrutiny than most people will see in ten lifetimes, and I’ve learned one crucial thing.

You have to control your own narrative.”

“Before others twist it,” Penelope added. “I used to think hiding was the answer. But sometimes owning your story is the most powerful thing you can do.”

“But how?” I asked, the question bursting from me before I could stop it. “People are so damn mean online. I don’t even read my reviews anymore because they made me cry. My mother is going to be mortified. The school paper already has that article up linking me to Miranda Milan, and I?—”

“Take a breath,” Trixie said gently. “The world is always going to try to tell you how much space you’re allowed to take up. Too loud, too quiet, too big, too much. But here’s the thing, the only person who gets to decide that is you.”

Tears pricked at my eyes and I blinked hard trying to hold them back.

“Your work matters,” Willa added, her gaze steady on mine. “Do you know how many women have never seen themselves as the heroine? As worthy of love and happy endings? You’re giving that to people.”

“Practical advice time,” Penelope said, pulling out her phone. “I’ve drafted three potential statements. One confirming, one neither confirming nor denying, and one requesting privacy during this time. We can tweak whichever approach you prefer.”

My head was spinning. These women, who really didn’t even know me, were rallying around me with a level of support I’d never experienced from anyone except Abuela, Abuelo, Tío Pedro, and Parker. And now Flynn. The few people I’d let see me. The real me.

“What I wish someone had told me earlier,” Kelsey added, “is that you don’t owe anyone access to every part of yourself, even when you’re public about some parts. You get to decide which pieces of your heart stay private.”

Abuela, who had been watching this exchange with bright eyes, finally spoke.

“My Tempestina,” she said, reaching for my hands.

“When I was your age, women were told to be small, to be quiet, to be proper. When I chose to act, my own mother didn’t speak to me for two years.

” She squeezed my fingers. “But here’s what I learned.

The only shame is in denying who you truly are. ”

The tears I’d been fighting spilled over.

“I’m scared,” I admitted, my voice barely a whisper.

Scared that when the rest of the world, outside of the very carefully curated people I’d chosen to let in, would tell me I didn’t belong, that who I was and what I had to offer wasn’t what they wanted or expected of me.

That who and what I was would always be the ugly duckling and never the beautiful swan.

“Good,” Abuela said firmly. “Courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s action in the face of it. And you, mi amor, have more courage than you know.”

Did I?

I wanted to believe Abuela. I wanted to be the woman everyone here thought I could be.

Trixie tipped her head and took off her glasses, studying me like I was, well, an open book. “And if you’re not quite sure of your own bravery yet, you can do what I think most of the rest of us have done. We fake it, till we make it.”

“Really? You’re all so... confident.”

The whole circle of women either, smiled or chuckled. But Abuela was the one who gave their response a voice. “The world’s a stage, querida, and we are all merely actors, every one of us. Of course we have faked it a time or two.”

That brought a round of giggles. “But not with the Kingman men,” Trixie said and gave her fiancé a wave. He blew her a kiss and winked.

I could fake it. Just like these women did. Except for with Flynn. Trixie was right. I definitely didn’t need to.

“Okay,” Willa clapped her hands together. “Now that we’ve solved the problems of the world once again, let’s go wipe the floor with these boys. I’ve got twenty bucks on Declan flipping a table by the end of the night.”

The Kingman Queens each gave me a hug and reassurances that they were all on my side no matter what I chose to do. I was completely overwhelmed by this outward and open show of support.

Abuela took my hand and kept me in my seat as the others joined the boys to set up the game night.

“Do you think I wouldn’t recognize my granddaughter’s heart in those pages?

” Abuela asked, giving me no quarter. At my startled look, she laughed.

“Oh, Tempestina. I’ve known since your first book.

The way you nailed Catalina and her bossiness.

The way you described the food that Ophelia, I mean Pheobe, makes for her hockey player in the second book?

Pure Navarro. And your wise, fabulous grandmother giving love advice while making tamales? I believe I recognize that advice.”

Heat rushed to my face. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“For the same reason you didn’t tell me,” she said simply. “You needed that part of yourself to be yours alone, until you were ready to share it.”

I stared at her, processing this. “I thought everyone would be ashamed. Mamá is going to be so disappointed. Romance novels are?—”

“Joy,” Abuela interrupted firmly. “They are joy and hope and the promise that everyone deserves love. Even girls who look like us, who take up space, who have curves and opinions and don’t fit into little boxes. ”

“That’s why I wrote them,” I admitted, the truth I’d never fully acknowledged to myself finally finding voice. “Because growing up, I never saw heroines who looked like me. Who felt like me.”

“And now, thousands of girls all around the world do. Just like Latino men and Latina women saw themselves in the Agent Jaguar books your Abuelo wrote.” Abuela’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears and fierce pride.

“Representation matters and you have made so many people feel seen, even as you have hidden.”

Something shifted inside me, a weight I’d been carrying for so long I’d forgotten it was there. My writing wasn’t something shameful. It was something powerful. Something necessary.

“I don’t want to hide myself anymore. I need to face them,” I said, the decision crystallizing with unexpected clarity. “Mamá and Papá, and the girls.”

“Yes, you do.” Abuela nodded approvingly.

I glanced across the room to where Flynn was laughing with his brothers, his entire face lit with joy. Something tightened in my chest, not anxiety this time, but a different, sweeter ache.

“I think I want Flynn there when I talk to them,” I said. “Not to fight for me, but just... with me.”

“Of course you do,” Abuela said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “Love is not about someone rescuing you, mi amor. It’s about having someone who stands beside you when you rescue yourself.”