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“It’s different this time, isn’t it?” Gryff joined me, leaning against the railing. I didn’t bother pretending not to know what he meant. “Yeah. But I think I screwed it up before it even started.” “Nah.” He bumped my shoulder. “You’re just finally playing in her league instead of trying to get her to play in yours.”
I had convinced myself that first kisses, and sex, and falling in love weren’t actually important to me. I had to because I was sure I’d never get to experience any of them. If they didn’t matter, then it wouldn’t hurt so much that I missed out when everyone else around me got their cake and had fun eating it too.
“The way I see it, you have two options,” Abuela said. “You can continue keeping these various parts of your life, school, family, career, love, separate, which means more lies and complications. Or...” I didn’t pretend not to know what she was talking about. She was one of the only people in the world who knew almost all my secrets. Even so, I kept certain parts of my heart hidden away. “Or?” I prompted when she paused. “Or you can start letting people in,” she said gently. “Not everyone. Not all at once. But maybe it’s time to stop hiding yourself away, Tempestina.”
Romance novels are—” “Joy,” Abuela interrupted firmly. “They are joy and hope and the promise that everyone deserves love. Even girls who look like us, who take up space, who have curves and opinions and don’t fit into little boxes.”
“Love is not about someone rescuing you, mi amor. It’s about having someone who stands beside you when you rescue yourself.”
Tomorrow, I would face my parents not as the dutiful daughter desperate for approval, but as Tempest Navarro, best-selling author, college senior, and a woman who was finally ready to take up exactly as much space in the world as she deserved. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t going to make myself smaller to fit someone else’s expectations. I was going to stand tall in the fullness of who I was, and that felt like the most revolutionary act of all.
So when Flynn and Gryff headed off to LA for their mini camp, which sounded adorable, but apparently was going to kick their asses,
the patron saint of badass women, Carrie Fischer
“To stories,” Flynn said, raising his glass. “The ones we read, the ones we write, and the ones we live.” “To stories,” we echoed, clinking glasses.
