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“It’s not whether or not you can believe me. It’s whether you want to.”
“Real as you and me, mi divina.” She sighed. “But how?” “He just fell right out of the sky.”
How could she not look for him when every time she saw her own reflection, fractures of him stared back at her? The parts desperate to be loved but never feeling quite whole enough to be loved.
He bit kisses at her neck. “Te amo, Divina.” Orquídea took his face in her hands and said, “You can love us both, now.” She guided his hand to her belly.
Some people were meant for great, lasting legacies. Others were meant for small moments of goodness, tiny but that rippled and grew in big, wide waves.
“You don’t get to talk about my grandmother like that,” Marimar said, a second thorn growing from her throat, twin to the first. “Maybe if you had loved her, if you’d done right by her, she wouldn’t have run away, and we wouldn’t be talking to you right now.”
Sometimes Marimar needed to leave, too. She tested the limits of her father’s gift. She thought of the things she was made of—flesh and bone, thorns and salt, bruises and promises, the sigh of the universe. Marimar Montoya flew into the unknown, but she always, always knew how to find her way back.
