Page 62

I AM THE STORM

TEMPEST

P apá’s arm was warm and solid around my shoulders as we walked from the English building, where the College of Liberal Arts had held its graduation ceremony.

The midday sun beat down on the sea of emerald caps and gowns flooding the central quad, a kaleidoscope of colorful leis, honor cords, and beaming faces.

“I’m so proud of you, mija,” he said, pausing to press a kiss to my temple. “Your speech was magnificent.”

I flushed with pleasure at his praise. Being selected as the liberal arts student speaker had been a complete surprise—especially given the Miranda Milan revelation that had rocked campus mere weeks ago.

But rather than hiding from the attention, I’d embraced it, writing a speech about finding your authentic voice in a world that tries to silence it.

As we approached the parking lot, I spotted Flynn leaning against his car, still dressed in his own cap and gown from the Business School ceremony that had ended earlier. The sight of him—tall, proud, undeniably mine—sent my heart into a familiar flutter.

“I’ll see you both at the house,” Papá said, giving my shoulder a final squeeze before heading to his car. “I promised your mother I’d help set up the bar.”

As he walked away, Flynn wrapped his arms around me properly, lifting me off my feet in a quick spin that made my graduation cap teeter precariously.

“We did it,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Four years of college, and we actually survived.”

“Speak for yourself,” I laughed, clinging to him. “I’m pretty sure part of my soul died during that British Modernism final.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, setting me back on my feet. “You probably aced it while writing a steamy scene for your next book under the desk.”

I smacked his chest lightly. “It was a boring guest lecture, not a final.”

His eyes darkened with that familiar heat. “Still one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen, you writing a super filthy sex scene while looking all innocent and studious.”

“Filthy? It was a perfectly tasteful scene about?—”

“A filthy locker room shower after a game,” he finished, eyebrows raised. “I read it, remember? I had to take an actual cold shower after.”

I flushed, remembering all too well how that particular research session had ended. “Are you trying to distract me from my graduation party nerves with sex talk, Flynn Kingman?”

“Is it working? ”

“Maybe.” I bit my lip, studying his face.

He caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. “Now, are we ready to go face your family? Or should we make a run for LA right now, change our names, and become beach bums?”

I laughed, though a part of me was tempted. “Abuela would hunt us down. She’s been planning this party for weeks. And Ophelia has been cooking for days. Plus you’ll get to meet my Abuelo today.”

“Fair point. Never cross AbuelaNovela, especially when she’s planning a party.”

“Just be grateful she didn’t commission an ice sculpture of you in your football uniform.”

“Oh god, did she?—”

“Almost,” I confirmed. “I talked her down to a donkey ice sculpture.”

“Well, now I’m kind of sad.”

“I’m still nervous,” I admitted. “But I’m not afraid anymore.”

He lifted our joined hands to kiss my knuckles. “That’s my girl.”

Abuela had transformed the Navarro family home into something between a quinceanera and a royal coronation.

Purple and gold balloons festooned every available surface.

A massive banner reading “CONGRATULATIONS TEMPEST” spanned the living room wall, with “?ORGULLO DE LA FAMILIA!” —pride of the family— emblazoned beneath it.

In the backyard, Burrito Petito held court near the ice sculpture, sporting a miniature graduation cap that kept sliding rakishly over one ear .

“?Mi amor!” Abuela’s voice carried across the yard as she spotted me coming through the side gate. She descended upon me in a swirl of fuchsia silk and perfume, clasping my face between her jeweled hands. “?La graduada! ?Qué orgullosa estoy!”

“Gracias, Abuela,” I managed, before being enveloped in her embrace.

Ophelia had transformed the sprawling patio dining area into a gourmet buffet, showcasing the best offerings from her restaurant, Las Barditas.

Elegant platters of empanadas, ceviches, and colorful salads were artfully arranged alongside traditional family favorites.

A three-tiered cake, adorned with fondant books, a football, and a tiny donkey, commanded the center of the dessert table.

Freddie bounded over to me, grabbing me in a big hug. “Your speech rocked, T. I recorded the whole thing. Already has, like, ten thousand views.”

“What? Freddie, you didn’t?—”

“Relax. Your fans love seeing the real you, T. Miranda Milan, giving an inspirational graduation speech about authentic self-expression? It’s like catnip to them.”

“Just keep the comments turned off,” I reminded her. “I’m still not ready for that level of interaction.”

I scanned the growing crowd for the family members I was most anxious about seeing. Catalina was near the drinks table, deep in conversation with one of Papá’s colleagues. But Mamá and Rosalind were nowhere to be seen.

A familiar hand touched my elbow. “Looking for someone?” Papá asked gently. His knowing smile told me he already knew. “Your mother is inside, helping Aunt Lucia with something in the kitchen. She was very moved by your speech, though she’d never admit it.”

I nodded, unsure what to say. Since our blow out, things had been civil but strained between us. Mamá had stopped actively trying to get me to give up writing, but she hadn’t exactly embraced my choice either.

“And Rosalind?” I asked.

Papá’s expression tightened slightly. “Running late, apparently.”

Rosalind had been making herself scarce ever since Abuela had discovered her role in leaking my identity to the media. No one had told the rest of the family yet.

Catalina approached, immaculate as always in her signature white pantsuit that somehow remained pristine despite the party chaos.

“There’s the woman of the hour,” she said, surprising me with a genuine smile. “Cum laude, departmental honors, and student speaker. Not bad for the girl who used to hide under the bed to avoid school.”

“That was one time,” I protested, “and it was because I hadn’t finished my book report.”

“Well, now you write the books that other students read while procrastinating writing their reports,” Catalina replied smoothly. “Full circle moment.”

Something in her tone made me look at her more closely. “Have you actually read my books, Cat?”

She took a deliberate sip of her drink. “I may have picked one up. For market research purposes only, of course. My clients are extremely interested in the crossover between sports merchandise and romance readers.”

Coming from Catalina, this was practically a rave review. I grinned. “Careful, Cat. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Take it while you can get it,” she advised, before her gaze shifted over my shoulder. Her expression cooled noticeably. “Heads up. Mamá alert at two o’clock.”

I turned to see my mother emerging from the house, elegant as always in a tailored navy dress, her hair swept into a perfect chignon. She paused on the patio, surveying the festivities with an expression I couldn’t quite read.

“There’s my favorite graduate,” said a warm voice behind me. Arms slipped around my waist and Flynn’s chin came to rest on my shoulder. “Your mom’s heading this way. Want me to create a distraction? I could get Burrito to eat the centerpiece.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “I can handle this.”

And surprisingly, I realized I meant it. After everything, the public revelation of my identity, the media frenzy, the initial family fallout, a conversation with my mother no longer seemed like the end of the world.

“Tempest,” Mamá said as she approached, her voice carefully neutral. “Your speech was... well written.”

Not exactly effusive praise, but coming from Dr. Luz Navarro, it wasn’t nothing either.

“Thank you for coming, Mamá,” I said, stepping forward to accept her brief, formal embrace.

“Of course I went. It was your college graduation.” She turned to Flynn with a polite nod. “Flynn. Congratulations on your own achievement today.”

“Thank you, Dr. Navarro,” he replied, easy and confident beside me.

An awkward silence stretched between us until Mamá cleared her throat. “Tempest, when you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you. About your plans.”

And there it was. The conversation I’d been dreading all day.

“Actually,” I said, squaring my shoulders, “now is good.”

Flynn’s hand found the small of my back, a silent show of support.

“I understand from your father that you’ve finalized your living arrangements in Los Angeles,” Mamá began, her tone carefully controlled.

I nodded. “Yes. We found a house not far from the Bandits’ practice facility. It’s also near a great coffee shop that’s perfect for writing.”

She pressed her lips together, a familiar sign of disapproval. “And this is truly what you want? To leave Denver? Your family? Your academic prospects?”

“Mamá,” I said, keeping my voice even, “we’ve discussed this. I’m not abandoning my family by moving to LA. And I’m not giving up on my career, I’m pursuing it. Writing is my career.”

“A career that could end at any moment,” she argued. “These trends, these... fads in publishing. What happens when people lose interest in your books? What’s your backup plan?”

Flynn shifted beside me, and I could feel him restrain himself from jumping to my defense. But this was my battle.

“What was your backup plan, Mamá?” I asked quietly.

“That’s different,” she dismissed. “Medicine is—” Her expression hardened. “Writing romance novels isn’t the same as saving lives, Tempest.”

“Tempest’s books helped me through some of the darkest times of my life.” The voice came not from me, but from Freddie, who had apparently wandered into our conversation bubble. She stood with her arms crossed, unusually serious for my typically exuberant sister.