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A tiny, humorless laugh escaped her. “That sounds like something men say right before they make everything worse.”
It startled a real smile out of you.
Then she went quiet.
For months, neither of you had spoken much about the private architecture of your attachment. There had been no declarations. No confessions. No kiss hidden under some moonlit movie scene designed by screenwriters who have never had to ration diesel or patch children’s coats through another winter. Love had grown there anyway, in the small daily trades. You mending the porch rail before Sofía could slip through. Laura setting aside the larger half of the cornbread without comment when you were doing fence work. Mateo beginning to ask your opinion on his school projects. Sofía falling asleep against your shoulder on evenings when the generator sputtered and the whole world narrowed to candlelight and the sound of Laura folding laundry nearby.
You could have lived inside that quiet forever, if the truth had stayed drowned.
Instead Laura looked at you and said, “Are you going back to being him?”
The question opened something in you.
“Do you mean Alejandro?”
“I mean the man who belonged to cameras and suits and people who would kill for his name.” She folded her arms, though not defensively. More like she was holding herself still against weather. “Or the man who hauled feed sacks and let Sofía braid his hair with ribbon because she said every real cowboy needed more style.”
You let out a breath that might have become laughter in another life.
“I don’t know if those are two different men.”
She looked away first.
That hurt more than it should have.