The lobby hums with low chatter, the kind that never quite settles. A scratchy jazz tune drifts from the vintage jukebox—slow, sultry, clinging to the air like cigarette smoke. Dim light glints off black-and-white portraits—Miles mid-solo, Ella mid-laugh, Coltrane’s gaze sharp enough to slice through time. The whole place smells of old books and fresh coffee, a strange but oddly perfect mix.
Plush leather couches line the walls, their worn edges catching the glow of antique sconces. Across the room, the receptionist—red lips, retro waves, the effortless glamour of an old Hollywood starlet—leans on the counter, filing her nails with the kind of deliberate boredom that almost looks like an art form.
I drop onto the nearest couch, limbs sprawling. “Abuela,” I groan, stretching the word like I’m going for an Oscar in a telenovela. “You’ve got an entire dynasty of great-grandkids. Marisol, Margarita, Beto? They’ve practically formed their own soccer league. Isn’t that enough?”
Abuela stands in the center of the room, arms crossed, the floral print of her dress clashing defiantly against the muted tones around her. That stance—unyielding, carved from decades of stubborn victories. She doesn’t argue. She conquers.
“It’s not enough,” she declares, voice firm as a gavel. “It’s your turn, mijo.”
From her desk, the receptionist lifts her gaze, amusement flickering in her eyes. “I’m available,” she offers, voice honeyed with mock sincerity.
A laugh escapes before I can catch it. “Thanks, but I’m not hiring.”
By the entrance, two women exchange glances, their grins slow and knowing. “We’re interested too,” one teases, her friend nodding in mock solemnity.
Abuela lifts a brow, lips twitching. “See? Even strangers understand.”
I tip my head back against the couch with a dramatic groan. My curls bounce right back, as defiant as she is. “Sure, Abuela. Maybe I’ll start a harem. Would that make you happy?”
The receptionist snorts, her laugh sharp and unfiltered. I shoot her a look, but she just flicks her nail file, wholly unbothered.
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Abuela clicks her tongue and steps closer, voice softening just enough to slip beneath my defenses. “Ay, Carlos,” she sighs, exasperation and affection braided together. “You’re hopeless. But I love you enough to keep trying.”
Her hand disappears into her bottomless purse and reemerges with something unexpected.
A laptop.
The one I bought her years ago.
I blink. “Wow. This thing still works?”
“Claro.” She grins, flipping it open. The screen wakes up instantly, pulling up the last thing she was fiddling with before she closed it. At first glance, it looks like she’s just browsing. Then I catch the website header.
Plenty of Fools.
“Abuela,” I say, already shaking my head. “Tell me you’re not swiping left and right.”
She scrunches her nose. “Que?”
“It means dating. Are you—” I gesture vaguely at the screen.
She gasps. “Me? No, no.” Then, as if offended by the suggestion, she smacks my thigh. “You.”
“What?” My stomach tightens as she scrolls down, and there it is. My profile.
“‘Must like pan dulce and café negro?’” I read aloud. My soul leaves my body. “What in the—No.”
Her gaze remains steady. “Yes.”
“Abuela…”
“Carlos.”
She doesn’t blink. I eye the laptop like it might detonate, but she drops it into my lap with the weight of a verdict.
The receptionist leans forward slightly, clearly enjoying the show.
“Nope.” I shut the laptop and shove it back toward her.
“You could at least look,” she coaxes, her voice deceptively sweet—the kind that means trouble.
I drag a hand through my hair, buying time. “No.”
She starts to slide off her chancla.
I sigh. “If I humor this, will you stop ambushing me at work?”
She grins, patting my cheek, somehow both comforting and commanding. “We’ll see.”
The room settles. The only sounds are the slow scrape of the nail file and the distant hum of the jukebox.
“Fine.” Let’s get this over with. I have things to do.
I rip into the envelope with all the enthusiasm of a man cutting the wrong wire on a bomb.
From the doorway, the two women cheer. In my peripheral vision, Abuela’s victorious smirk sharpens.
My stomach sinks.
“Ca—” I start to swear but bite my tongue when Abuela’s head snaps up so fast she nearly gives herself whiplash.
“Que?” she asks, eyes narrowing.
“Nada.” I exhale.
And yet, under all the exasperation, something small and warm stirs—grudging, reluctant, but real.
Abuela pats my shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Eso espero.”