Page 43 of Capicú Summer

My hands curl into tight fists as tears gather, threatening to spill. I can’t let Lenny take the only piece of him we have left. I need to win to keep Altura alive, to bring money back into the neighborhood, to make sure his legacy doesn’t fade.

As much as I wanted to stay angry at Yael for not telling me the truth, I can’t. There’s no grand explanation, no poetic reason. I simply don't want to. I’ve wasted too many years, drowning in grief, when all Neno ever wanted for us was to be happy and thrive here in the place that raised us.

Outside, I spot my mother, hugging Rosita, both women swaying to the side. I’m sure they’re crying, voices trembling as they sing Abuelo’s favorite Sergio Vargas song. The merengue beats drift through the air, and I find myself moving to the rhythm. If heaven exists, my only hope is that he could see how loved he was by, not only his family, but the community. The song gives me the motion I need to head back downstairs and join in the festivities. It’s the last game, the one that determines which streets will compete for the ultimate prize.

This year includes maintenance work, gift cards up to $2,000 for household appliances, a year's worth of $100 monthly spending at any of the bodegas. Amongst other donations from people who simply wanted to help. Yael’s thirst trap videos did exactly what we intended them to do—brought eyes to the block and it’s become a movement on social media. Barrio Unite.

Slowly, more people join, and finally, I step outside. The heat wraps around me, instantly making me regret wearing the shirt, jean shorts, and black Air Forces that surprisingly still fit me. My hair is up in a messy bun, only a few curls escaping at my temples. Estrella catches my eyes, and mentally I prepare myself for a snarky comment.

Instead, we just stand there. Neither of us is moving, then she huffs out a breath, tips back her cup and walks over.

“My condolences,” she says with a cautious but sincere smile. “Don Santos was something else. Remember how he would give us candy as payment when we would help stock the shelves?”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Cabezonas⁠*, he would call us.” Her voice breaks, and without a warning, she wraps her arms around me. Tears quickly soak through my shirt, Estrella breaks in my arms.

“He loved you like family,” I whisper, running my hand down her back. It’s the truth. No matter what happened between us, Abuelo never treated her any differently.

“I’ma miss that old man,” she cries, and before I can stop my tears, they fall.

From behind her, Yael comes into view, his chin dipping in quiet approval. Not that we needed it. It is just nice to see two best friends reunite, even if it is because of a shared grief. In the end, Abuelo's wish came true.

We finally pull away, sniffling and smiling.

“Go win for him,” Estrella says, pushing me forward and right into Yael's waiting hand. To which he winks when my palm slides into his, igniting that familiar fire between us.

Manny hooks two fingers in each corner of his mouth and whistles, loud enough to make half the block turn to stare. Chinito smirks, still mid-conversation with the girl from the salon. By the smug look on his face, I’m sure he’s spitting game.

And I follow the man I love to the table. The dominoes are already set, the air thick with the smell of grilled meat and cold cerveza. Manny’s voice booms over the music. “Oye! If the South Side loses, I’m blaming Adri for bad luck.”

“Tu boca es mala suerte,”⁠* Alex fires back, drying the sweat from his face using the white towel draped around his neck. From the looks of it, they’ve just finished playing basketball which explains why they are all wearing their Altura jerseys. Black fabric, bold red ink, and white trimming that gleams under the streetlights.

Rosita waves her metal tongs from the grill. “If ya’ll lose, nobody’s eating my pinchos!”

Don Rogelio chuckles from his folding chair, his cane resting against his knees while he busies himself with the plate in his hand. Shoving a spoonful of ensalada rusa into his mouth. Beside him, Frank bites into Yael’s famous mezcla sandwich. Some might not like it, but I’m obsessed with them, especially if they come from my favorite bori.

The block hums with life. Rosita flips the meat and it sizzles. The smoke curls around her like perfume. Manny and Alex argue over who’s the better player, their voices cutting through the music. My heart swells inside my chest, filling me with a warmth that courses through my blood stream.

Yael pulls a milk crate beside him and pats it. “A mi lado, mi Ciela.”⁠*

I nod, sliding into the seat beside him, feeling butterflies when he leans in, his hot breath fanning my skin.

“You ready, baby?” The way he says the word sends the flutter in my stomach straight into my core, making me pulse with desire. Mustering every ounce of restraint, I peer up at him and smile.

“I was born ready.” I lift my hand, forming a capital L with my fingers—the same gesture we used as teens when we were still learning the game. Falling in love and everything in between. With a grin on my face, I press it to my forehead just so he can see it. “Hope you’re ready to lose.”

He chuckles at that, exposing his white teeth. “I already lost the only thing worth losing. Mi corazón, mami… Por dios⁠*.”

Manny looks down at Yael with disgust, humor dancing in his eyes as he clutches his chest dramatically. “Coño mamaguevo⁠*, you shouldn’t be playing dominoes. Somebody get this man a novella contract.”

Rosita laughs so hard she nearly drops her tongs. My mom shakes her head, trying hard not to join. That’s when I notice she appears sober and fuller. “Chulo, if you lose. You better start selling those sandwiches full-time.”

Yael grins, shaking his head. “You all talk too much.” He slides the first domino across the table, the tile clicking against the wood like a gun cocking, opening with a double six.

Chinito lets out a low whistle, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“He started heavy,” Chinto says as if we couldn’t tell.

That opening alone sets the pace, whoever controls the sixes controls the table. San Lucas’ captain, the guy in the Yankees cap answers with six five, keeping the chain alive. Yael nods, unfazed and plays another double. Five-five. Tightening the board and forcing us to play to his rhythm. Only one of us will make it to the last round, and that had to be me.