I decide to stay away from the office and the Founder’s house, both because I want to give Ryder a chance to run Lopez Luxury’s daily operations without me micromanaging, and so Dahlia sees I’m serious
about taking a step back.
I try to burn some nervous energy off by working out, making a few playlists, and having lunch with my mom, but relief doesn’t last long, especially after Dahlia sends me a message with her San Francisco travel itinerary.
Soon enough, I find myself pacing the long halls of my house while my thoughts spiral.
When I told Dahlia I would always fight for what’s in our best interest, even if it means fighting her, I meant every word.
But first, I need to finish the fight against my past. I have been battling my insecurities for years, and it’s time to face what I’ve put off for far too long…
Accepting that I am good enough—not only for Dahlia but, most importantly, for myself.
So tonight, I head over to the one place I never imagined entering again. My dad’s woodshop.
I’ve tried to return over the years, but the task seemed impossible every time, with me quickly fleeing the scene before ever walking inside the place he and I spent years working out of, carrying on the Lopez tradition that started with his great-great-grandfather.
There was one major reason I avoided it, and it has everything to do with the tools hanging on the back wall and all they signify.
My hand trembles as I slide the key into the lock and turn it. The click of the lock and the creak of the door sound far away due to the rushing blood pounding in my ears.
After five deep breaths, I reach for the light switch and flip it once I’ve taken a step inside. My feet remain glued to the concrete floor as I look around. Thanks to my mom’s routine dusting, the shed appears clean enough to eat off every surface, including the floor.
My dad would hate it.
I take another step inside the shop despite my feet feeling as though they are attached to cinder blocks. Too many memories fill the space, making my heart heavy and my breathing laborious.
Te extraño, Papi.
I walk to the back wall where my dad’s tools remain hung the way he liked it, making it seem like he might return at any moment.
God, I wish that were true.
A second set hangs beside his.
A Lopez family heirloom, he said with a small smile as he pointed out each tool that was passed down from generation to generation.
I grew up asking my dad when it would be my turn to receive the tools, and his answer never changed.
When you prove that you’ve earned them.
I might have missed out on my chance the day he died, but I’ve done everything possible to make him and the Lopez family proud as I took on the family business despite my lack of experience and college degree.
The dull ache in my chest intensifies, and I grip the counter with a chokehold. My itchy eyes have nothing to do with allergies or any lingering sawdust in the air. Neither does the tightness in my throat nor the pounding of my heart.
A drop slides down my cheek, and I swipe at it before staring up at the ceiling in search of a leak. Except my cloudy eyesight makes it impossible to see much past the tears clogging my vision.
They roll down my skin like raindrops, falling in quick succession. The last time I cried like this, my dad was being placed in the ground. While the hole in my chest has healed since then, the dull pain has never left, returning at the most inconvenient times.
Te extraño, Papi: I miss you, Dad.
My shoulders shake.
Take five. My dad would grip my shoulders and force me to copy his movements.
Again, he would say when the original five-count didn’t work. The tears don’t stop, but my panic lessens with each exaggerated breath.
At some point after breath number thirty-five, I pull myself together and reach for the first Lopez heirloom I see. My fingers tremble, but I’m quick to stop it by tightening my hold around the base of the hammer.
I step toward my old workstation. My mom might have accidentally placed a few tools in the wrong area, but everything else remains the same, down to the last project I was working on before I left for college.
The half-finished jewelry box was meant to be a special Christmas gift for Dahlia. Over the years, we mainly stuck to gag gifts or presents our mothers picked out, but the Christmas before everything went to shit was supposed to be different.
We were supposed to be different.
After the kiss we shared, I knew we couldn’t go back to the way things were before, and I didn’t want to. I wanted so much more.
But then my dad died, and my mom spiraled into another deep depression, which I felt responsible for helping her through. I shelved my own grief—a stupid decision in the long run—and pushed Dahlia away after calling her a distraction.
I let my insecurities get in the way of what I wanted, and my fears of not being good enough for her consumed me until I couldn’t stand the idea of being with her. She had all these dreams, and I was a broken mess with the odds stacked against me.
Now is your chance to right your wrongs.
Pain blossoms in my chest as I hold up the incomplete jewelry box. I want to find that courage again, starting with facing my biggest obstacle to date.
Overcoming my past.
With shaky hands and a pounding heart, I grab a few more of the Lopez tools and get to work on finishing the jewelry box. I don’t know how long I meticulously obsess over the project, but I’m addicted to the adrenaline pumping through my veins.
By the time I finish, I’m sweating all over and heaving like I ran a marathon. I use the hem of my shirt to wipe my damp forehead before checking out the final product.
One day, I plan on giving Dahlia the jewelry box. I’m just not sure when.
