Until my Last Breath

74

Ibiza, Spain

I finish adjusting my pink skirt and matching crop top, soft linen like his but the color a vivid pop against my skin. The skirt hugs my hips, the top ties delicately at the back. It's light, breezy, and for once, I don't second-guess it. When I catch his eyes on me, I know it was the right choice.

His smile widens. "You look..."

I raise a brow, teasing. "Say it and make it count."

He laughs, steps closer, fingers brushing my wrist as he leans in. "You look like every girl I wish I'd met when I was fifteen."

I let out a laugh, shaking my head as I grab my sunglasses. "Good save."

He leans in and steals a kiss before I can walk away. "You ready?"

I glance at him. "You're the one who insisted."

And he had. Gavi had spent the entire morning talking about the beach party his childhood friends were throwing-people he grew up with, who knew him before Barcelona, before all of this. I could see it meant something to him. And when he'd asked me to come, all bright-eyed and hopeful, I couldn't say no.

-
The beach is already crowded when we arrive. Music pumps from speakers planted in the sand, bodies move to the rhythm in lazy sways, and the scent of sea and citrus lingers thick in the air. I slip my hand into his without thinking, and together we begin weaving through the crowd, palms warm and knuckles brushing with each step.

He's scanning the crowd when suddenly I hear a series of loud cheers-shouts of his name echoing over the music. A group of guys is waving him over from near a cabana, beer bottles raised. His whole face lights up.

"There they are," he says, turning to me with that boyish grin. And then, without warning, he tugs me closer, arm curling naturally around my waist. "Come on, I want you to meet them."

We move faster now, feet sinking into the sand as we close the distance. A few of his friends rush up, pulling him into hugs and half-mocking jabs, their laughter ringing in the air. And then, like he remembers I'm still there, he glances over his shoulder, catching my hand again.

"This is Rita," he says, voice loud enough to carry over the music but soft when it hits my name. "Mi Novia."

My breath catches for a second-he's never said it like that before. Not with that much certainty. Not with that kind of pride.

I smile, steady, and give a small wave.

One of them whistles. "La piloto!"

I laugh, shaking my head as Gavi groans. "Be cool," he mutters, elbowing the guy beside him.

But they're all smiles-welcoming, warm. I can see the way they look at him, how they love him like family. It's the kind of loyalty that's built over long summers and scraped knees and growing up with the same streets under your feet.

-
A few minutes later, I find myself tucked into the corner of the bar with a handful of girls I'd just met-friends of Gavi's friends, girlfriends, cousins, or some combination of both. We're shaded beneath a wide linen canopy, the sound of waves brushing the shore behind us, and somehow, conversation has flowed easily. Maybe it's the sun. Maybe it's the energy. Or maybe it's the fact that, for once, I don't feel like I'm being watched because of who I am. Just as who I am.

"So wait-are you actually friends with Charles Leclerc?" one of them blurts, leaning forward across the bar with a mix of awe and disbelief.

I nearly choke on the sip of lemon soda I'd just taken. "Uh..."