Page 135 of The Fall Classic

She held it up, made a small clicking sound with her tongue, and smiled.

“This one.”

“Whose was it?”

“Rosa’s dama dress,” she says of her daughter. “She wore it to Marta’s quince twenty-five years ago.”

Alma held it against my hips like she was doing alterations in her head.

“It’s too much. I fix it.”

I sat on the edge of the bed while she laid the dress across a desk and took a seam ripper to the lace and to bows all along the back. When she finished, she stood, handed me the dress, and turned her back so I could change.

When I was dressed, she turned around, looked at me for a long moment, and sighed.

“Pareces un angelito bajado del cielo, mija.”

That’s the dress I’m wearing now, and it’s gorgeous. It doesn’t make me feel quite like an angel, but I feel beautiful.

Also cold.

Alma fixes a stray strand of hair and tucks it in the gold clip holding my side ponytail. I’m grateful my hair is at least buffering one shoulder.

“You look pretty. Stop shivering.”

“Gracias, Alma, but next time, can I wear a shawl?”

“No. A shawl would ruin the look. You can shiver.”

I give her a smile. “You told me to stop shivering.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. I’ve always been close with Alma, but this level of talking back is new. She nods, though, like she’s glad to see me finally get some mettle. “You’re right. The problem isn’t the shivering—it’s the moping, and after only a few hours.” She tuts. “Pull yourself together.”

I’m posted near the dessert table when Alma leaves me to watch her son-in-law—Ava’s dad—change out Ava’s flats for heels, symbolizing her transition to womanhood. I put my hand over my heart as Ava’s dad tears up and then gives her an emotional hug. The mariachi band strikes up the opening chords of El Vals, and he leads her out into the father-daughter waltz. I huddle under the outdoor heater and watch wistfully. Soon, Ava is rotating dance partners, through her mom, grandparents, godparents, and uncles.

The whole evening is enchanting—a kind of magic I can’t relate to, let alone understand. My circle has always been so small. Alma’s made a point of including me as much as I want to be included, but I’ve never felt comfortable to be this included. To Alma, I’m family.

I wish I could reciprocate more.

More dances follow, including the choreographed dance with her damas and chambelanes, and then the rest of Ava’s family and friends take the dance floor, leaving me shivering in spite of the heat lamp. I haven’t danced many times in my life. Once with my dad at Alma’s son’s wedding. Once or twice at dances in high school.

I know I’ve never glowed during any of those dances the way Ava is glowing now. Not the glow of true love, but the glow of being seen and cared for. The glow that can only come from knowing that people care so much about you that they would dress up, learn ornate dances, sacrifice time, money, and energy, all to make you happy.

What would it be like to be loved like this?

I feel a light touch on my shoulder at the same time that a voice says, “Can I have this dance?”

I whip around to see my very own Prince Charming wearing a dark suit with a burgundy tie, his blond hair less styled than the rest of him, his intensely blue eyes sparkling in the string lights.

Logan is here.

I freeze, and my brain freezes with the rest of me, but Logan hasn’t. He takes my hand and spins me, and we start dancing right there, behind the dessert table, under the heat lamp.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper, half convinced I’m dreaming.

Logan takes a deep breath like he hasn’t inhaled since the moment we parted. He answers against my ear. “I missed you, so I canceled my flight and booked a red-eye.” Then he backs up, his eyes taking me in like I’m fine art as we sway. “Besides, I absolutely had to see you in this dress.”

I laugh as he spins and dips me. When I’m upright, he says, “You are beautiful, but where are your dress Chucks?”