Page 46 of Lunar Crest University

And my head is fucked.

You’re an anti-hero.

Finley’s words repeated like a prayer in my head for days. The conversation was already a week old, but it was fresh in my mind, like she’d just spoken it aloud again for the first time. If I was smart, like I should have been, I would have never gone to her apartment.No—instead, I was the stupid motherfucker who murdered a man in broad daylight, stuffed him in my trunk, andthenwent to her apartment.

The memories of what happened next bleed back into my brain, and I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles pale as I stare at the house.

Fuck me.

Pulling my hood over my head, I push open the car door and step out into the rain. The sound of the droplets against my raincoat distracts me from the impending thoughts of how good Finley tasted on my tongue, and I straighten my shoulders as I approach the craftsman front door of my mother’s house. Rapping my knuckles against the wood, my chest heaves with a quiet sigh.

Mi mamáwill know something is wrong with me right off the bat if I don’t get my shit together before this door opens. She has always been impossible to lie to and even more impossible to hide anything from, so it was inevitable when she found out how I managed to get her and my sisters to the States twelve years ago. She nearly beat me senseless with a frying pan after I admitted it to her while she was making breakfast in her brand-new kitchen, but she eventually accepted it.

My sisters don’t know, and I prefer to keep it that way.

The less people who know how much of a fuck up I am, the better.

The door swings open, and I peer down atmi mamá,who has a dish towel thrown over her shoulder and flour strewn across her worn apron. Her brown eyes are lighter than mine, and so is her soul. They’re warm, a few shades darker than honey,squinting at me as her brows knit. Wrinkles accent her eyes and the corners of her mouth from smiling so much. Her thick, dark hair is in her usual braid—her go-to while she’s cooking.

“Luca?” She takes the dish towel from her shoulder and whacks me with it. “Where have you been,mijo? You hardly text or call, and you know how much that worries me. You could’ve at least told me you were coming over. I would’ve made morebuñuelos.”

Resting my hands on her shoulders, I lean down to kiss her cheek as I shuffle past her and into the dry house that smells like my favorite dessert. “I know,mamá.I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with this teaching job.”

“Too busy to talk to your mother or sisters?”

The jab stings my chest, and I turn around in the entryway to give her an apologetic look. “I deserve that. Iamsorry.”

She walks toward me, the top of her head coming up to my chest, and she reaches up to place her palm against my scruffy cheek. “You’re here now.I’m so happy to see you,mijo.”

“I’ve missed you,mamá.” Kissing her forehead, I turn to head into the kitchen. Baking supplies scatter the marble island in the middle, and the light above the stove illuminates thebuñuelosas they fry in the pan. It smells like cinnamon andhome. “Where are the girls?”

I haven’t seen my sisters in months. Emilia is the middle child, five years younger than me, and resembles our father. Her black hair falls to her waistline, and her hazel eyes are round like his. She’s his twin, and she can’t deny it—not with her fiery attitude. Carmen is the youngest, freshly graduated from high school, and the sweetest human being on the planet. She radiates light, and she’s everything I wish I could be—a mirror of our mother, inside and out.

I’ve missed them.

“They’re young, Luca.” She shuffles into the kitchen behind me and peeks into the pan. “They have lives. Had they known you were coming, they’d be here.Sí?”

Masking the disappointment that floods me, I nod. “Iknow, I know. I’ll just catch them next time.”

“Which will be soon, I hope.”

“You’ll hear from me more.” Shedding my wet coat, I hang it on the back of one of the dining room chairs. “I promise.”

She is quiet as she whisks the pan from the stove eye and dumps the dessert on a plate covered by a paper towel—but I know silence isn’t good when it comes to my mother. She’s either angry or upset, and honestly, I never liked being on the receiving end of that. It’s one thing to disappoint just any person, but disappointing her is another thing entirely. My family’s opinion of me means, well—fuck,everything.

“If it’s just the two of us,” I say, trying to break the ice. “Why can’t I have somebuñuelos?”

She narrows her eyes. “Because they’re forme.”

I know she’s joking, since she can only have sugar in moderation because of her diabetes, but I play along anyway.

I drop my chin as I jut my lip out just a tad. “You’re going to eat all of those?”

She has been a sucker for that since I was little. As a boy, I probably got away with way too many things because of that look.Those puppy dog eyes, she’d say. It was always obvious when it was working because she’d roll her eyes and wave her hands in a dismissive way—just like she’s doing now. The sight makes me crack a smile as I lean against the marble counter of the island.

“You can have one for each question you answer.” She raises her eyebrows expectantly as her hands rest on her hips.

Sighing, I rub a palm down my face. “Mamá.”

---