Page 26 of The Sweet Spot

Mizuki, one of Mom’s favorite instructors, smiles brightly from the counter. She’s been teaching at the studio for eons, but her pregnancy has progressed to the point where it’s easier for her to work the reception desk. “Wren! How’re you doing? How’s UCSC?”

“Hey, Mizuki.” Grinning, I walk over and clasp her hands. “It’s everything I hoped it would be. How’ve you been? How’s the baby?” Standing on tiptoe, I peer over the counter and down to her very round, pregnant belly.

“I feel good! I actually taught a prenatal yoga class this morning.” Her cheeks flush with pleasure. She and her girlfriend have wanted this baby for years, enduring one miscarriage after another. Seeing her at this stage feels like such a victory. “And the baby’s doing great. Kicking a lot, especially when I lie down. We took a video last night if you want to see it?”

“Yes! Send it to me.” I squeeze her hands. “Is Mom in the office? I told her I’d be stopping by.”

“She mentioned that,” she says, inclining her head toward the closed door across the small foyer. “Go ahead—she’s expecting you.”

Mom opened Lotus Studios fifteen years ago, when I was three. I can’t count how many late nights I found her poring over bills and receipts at our kitchen table, trying to work the numbers in her favor. The recent rent increase wasn’t the only time we worried we’d lose the studio, but we’ve always pulled through thanks to Mom’s tenacity and her very loyal following amongst Santa Cruz’s locals.

She sits now behind an intricately detailed cherry wood desk, a cherished antique from my great-grandparents. A watercolor with the wordsFollow Your Blisshangs on the wall behind her. “Little bird,” she says with a pleased smile, raising her arms to me.

“Maternal goddess.” Rounding the desk, I bend to give her a hug and a kiss.

“How are things? How’s school?” she asks. “Want some kombucha? That batch I’ve been brewing is ready.”

I wrinkle my nose, remembering the large, glass container of dark, floaty muck in the kitchen. “Eh, I’m good. Thanks, though.”

“You sure? You know it’s great for the microbiome, and it’s essential we nourish our immune systems, especially during winter.”

I smile fondly at her, sinking onto the purple corduroy couch across Mom’s office. “I’ll be okay.”

“How’s Saira doing? I saw her Mama at the store last week.” Mom rests her chin on her palm, a small smile playing at her lips.

“She’s good—I just Facetimed her. She’ll be back for Thanksgiving.” Saira’s over at Berkeley, although she’s been talking about coming home and transferring to UCSC. I steal a ginger candy from the crystal bowl on Mom’s desk, popping it into my mouth. “So, what did Rodrigo send? The suspense is killing me.”

“Oh, yes!” Mom reaches into her desk, pulling open in a drawer. “Here you go.”

It’s a large envelope, a little bulkier and heavier than the average letter. I rip it open, hoping it’s a couple of paychecks because I’m broke as a jokethese days.

But it’s not. Instead, there are three slightly battered postcards from Brazil. My heart gives a surprised lurch in my chest as I flip one over and read the back.

Wren,

I hope these postcards are getting to you.

This is the São Paulo Cathedral. As an architecture nerd,

it’s one of my favorite places in the city.

Hope freshman year’s everything you

hoped it would be.

Luca

Swallowing, I flip the card over and examine the cathedral in the picture for a moment. The next card features Christ the Redeemer against a bright blue sky. My heart skips a beat—he remembered. The postmark on this card, and the message, tell me it was sent first.

Hey Wren,

Greetings from São Paulo.

Sorry we couldn’t hang out again.

Didn’t know where to send this,

so I sent it to the Sweet Spot. Hope you get it.

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