Page 16 of Loco

“Shame.”

“Right?” She took a slow sip of her drink before setting it down. “But honestly? I don’t care anymore. I wouldn’t even waste my breath if I saw him today.”

I wanted to believe that, but I knew wounds like that didn’t just disappear. I could still feel the anger simmering under my skin, but I knew she didn’t want sympathy, didn’t want me to make a big deal out of it. So, I did the only thing I could—I changed the subject.

Wanting to break the tension before it became too much, I leaned back and smirked. “You know, I once got stuck in a drain.”

That earned me a confused look. “What?”

Sayla raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

I sighed. “I was twelve, and my baseball rolled into a storm drain, and I thought I could fit in there easily to get it. I could—just not when I wanted to get back out.”

She blinked. “You got stuck in a drain?”

“Oh, it gets better. I was freaking out the whole time, convinced the clown from It was going to get me.”

She gasped, then scrambled for her phone. “Oh my God, please tell me there’s evidence.”

I froze. “Sayla?—”

“Oh, there is,” she cackled, typing furiously.

“Don’t,” I warned, lunging for her, but she dodged and sprinted into the kitchen, phone held high. “Sayla!”

She pressed play, bursting into laughter as the grainy news footage played. There I was—twelve-year-old me, wide-eyed and dirt-streaked, being interviewed by a reporter.

“There’s no clowns in that drain… that I’m aware of,” my past self declared, eyes darting around.

Sayla wheezed, gripping the counter for support. I seized my chance, grabbing the phone as the reporter asked, “What were you thinking while you were stuck?”

Onscreen, young me sighed dramatically. “Honestly? That I was probably surrounded by shit and piss?—”

The bleep cut off the expletives, but you could clearly see my lips saying the words, even if you couldn’t lipread. By this point, Sayla was already in tears, laughing as she watched over my shoulder at my dad’s horrified expression as he stepped in front of me and took over the interview, like a man determined to salvage what was left of his family’s dignity.

I grimaced and turned the phone off. Sayla, still cackling, wiped at her eyes. “Oh my God, I needed that.”

I shook my head, fighting my own smile. “Yeah, yeah. Bedtime.”

She grinned but didn’t argue, heading toward the bathroom. I let out a slow breath. I wanted to kiss her more than anything, but she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

The following day,the incident happened. The one neither of us talked about, but both of us remembered it in excruciating detail.

The accidental, very steamy, very mortifying for Sayla shower encounter.

It wasn’t my fault, really, it wasn’t. The water pressure was finicky, and I’d warned her about it, but she didn’t listen, and when the pipe shuddered, and the water abruptly cut off mid-shower, she did what any rational person would do—yelled for help.

Unfortunately, in my haste to be the hero, I swung open the door without thinking.

Time slowed. Steam filled the room, swirling around her like some dramatic movie scene. My brain short-circuited, and I froze where I was just inside the doorway. Seeing me through the condensation in the mirror, she shrieked and spun around, nearly slipping as she grabbed the only thing available to cover her body up… which, unfortunately, turned out to be the translucent shower curtain I had every intention of replacing.

“Close the damn door, Roque!”

Right, yes, door. Important.

I slammed it shut and immediately walked into the wall because, apparently, my coordination had abandoned me in the face of absolute untouchable heaven.

For the rest of the day, neither of us made eye contact. Every interaction felt like stepping through a minefield, both of us carefully avoiding any reference to the morning’s disaster. Breakfast had been a silent, awkward affair—me staring way too hard at my coffee and her determinedly buttering a piece of toast with the precision of someone trying to solve a complex math equation.

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