“Your smile ignites just like a candlelight.” -Melting, Kali Uchis, 2015.
Dinner was chaos–classic Noche Buena chaos. Cousins zig-zagging between chairs and counters, snatching slices of pineapple-glazed ham, scooping arroz de coco and arroz con gandules into paper plates, already sagging under the weight of too much food. The uncles barged in from the back porch, smelling like cigars, beer, and cold December air, laughing too loudly and talking over each other.
Izzie had claimed first dibs, fair and square, she’d argue, considering she’d survived the hell of taking trays out of the oven for three different tias. She strutted through the kitchen like a parade marshal, plate in hand, Livie bouncing beside her like her tiny hype woman, Eddie balancing his mountain of food like a seasoned acrobat, and several cousins trailing behind in a messy formation.
Her phone buzzed on the dining room table. Just one soft vibration, but it stopped her right in her tracks.
For a split second, the warmth of the kitchen dimmed around her. The laughter blurred. The smells faded.
And she could almost hear it–the hollow clank of an auditorium catwalk, Potter’s voice cracking as he defended them, the sharp sting of Mrs. Wallaby’s accusation slicing the room open, Elaine’s fleeting smug grin like a knife twisting beneath her ribs.
It wasn’t a memory that haunted her daily, but it lived in her still, like a ghost resting on her shoulder. Small, invisible, and cold. Just like it was when Simon first announced the two of them were dating.
Then a new sound rose under it all: the kitchen’s clatter, Livie’s giggling, Eddie arguing with a cousin about tamales versus pasteles. The warmth seeped back in, slowly, like chocolate melting over a warm stove. The ghost loosened its freezing grip; the present pulled her back in.
“Hey uh, who’s Quinn Rivera? Because he is fine,” Adamaris announced with absolutely zero volume control.
Izzie jolted.
Right now. Stay in the now.
“Livie, watch the plate!” she yelped as her niece wobbled dangerously, then Izzie made a dramatic dive for the phone, just as Adamaris reached for it.
Snatching it up like it was a live grenade, she pressed speak and tried to pretend she wasn’t slightly out of breath.
“Hey Quinn,” she said, trying to sound composed.
“Hey, Iz.”
His voice was warm, steady, familiar–and it did the rest of the melting for her.
Of course, it was Quinn; he always had this uncanny talent for pulling her back into herself. Into the now.
“Were you running a marathon for Noche Buena or something?” he teased.
“Ha-ha, very funny,” Izzie huffed out a breathy laugh. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to check up on you, make sure you made it home safely.”
“Oops,” she laughed. “Forgot that part.”
“Yeah, yeah, you did.”
“Well, luckily, I know my way home, am I right?” she joked.
“You’re not funny,” Quinn snorted–and she could hear the moment how he remembered it: him drunk off his ass, forgetting to get home…even though he lived two minutes down the street.
Izzie couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at her lips. The earlier tension, the ghost of that theatre room, the knot in her chest, melted another inch. Quinn’s voice had always done that. Softened the edges. Warmed the cold places.
“I just wanted to say Merry Christmas,” he continued, quieter now. “And…I hope you get to enjoy it with your family. I know you must’ve missed them a lot.”
The words hit her like a soft, unexpected blow. Her heart leapt, from her chest to her throat, sitting there, bright and aching.
Quinn was always intentional. Always gentle in the way that mattered. And knowing he was here, in the same city, in the same cold December air…it sent butterflies flickering through her stomach. The good kind.
The dangerous kind.
For a moment, she almost said it–where are you? I’ll come meet you. But both of them needed this. This grounding. This coming-home, to themselves, not just the city.
That’s when Izzie reminded herself to breathe.
“Merry Christmas to you too, Quinn. Thank you for that. I hope you and your family get to enjoy Chicago’s beauty, hopefully the cold isn’t too harsh on you guys.”
“Nah, this is a cake walk compared to Julian or Big Bear,” he chuckled.
“Good.”
“Hey, uh, before I go–where’s the best place to go for a hot girl walk?”
“Why?”
“We should go on one.”
Hot girl walks, as Izzie and Quinn both playfully called them, were sacred between them. When Rosa broke up with Quinn–the first time–Izzie had inadvertently followed him as she had gracefully gotten lost at the UCLA campus.
—-
Four Years Ago
“Figures,” Izzie muttered, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. The midday sun reflected off the UCLA buildings like it was personally trying to blind her. Her phone buzzed in her hand, her campus map spinning uselessly as she tried to make sense of it.
She huffed. “Why is everything on this campus uphill?
Someone cleared their throat.
“Hey, uh–you’ve been following me for a while,” a voice said, warm and amused. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
Izzie’s head snapped up, and the world genuinely stopped.
A dazzling smile.
Golden-tan skin.
Soft, tapered curls peeking under an LA Dodgers baseball cap–and the coolest pair of sunglasses she’d ever seen.
For the first time in two years, her heart skipped. Like, actually skipped. Like a stupid little hop-skip in her chest that she hoped he couldn’t see.
—-
“Well?” he asked.
“I know the perfect park for that hot girl walk.”
“That’s the spirit!”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Late afternoon, before the 4 pm sunset?”
“Perfect. I’ll send you the park.”
And just like that, Isabella Wallace had a hot girl walk date with Quinn Rivera on Christmas day. Who would’ve thunk?
When the line went dead, she sat there for a second, phone still in her hand, warmth blooming in her chest like it was trying to fight off the entire Midwest winter. She could feel her grin spreading, uncontrollable, ridiculous, the kind that pulled the dimples she forgot she had.
She tried to fix her face into something normal as she emerged out of the bathroom, but of course her nosy primas clocked her immediately.
They paused, mid-bite, mid-gossip, mid-literally everything.
Three sets of eyes zeroed in on her like heat-seeking missiles.
“Ohhhh no,” Izzie muttered under her breath.
They smelled romance.
And blood.
And mess.
A deadly combination.
“Who’s got you smiling so hard?” Mirabella asked, already leaning in like a chismosa-in-training.
“None-ya,” Izzie shot her cousin a look, grabbing her plate before they tried to snatch that too.
“Oh, c’mon, I won’t snitch!”
“Like hell you won’t!” Eddie cut in with a loud laugh behind her, nearly bumping her into a tray of pasteles.
Mirabella gasped dramatically. “Wow. The betrayal in this family? I’m wounded.”
“You’ll live,” Izzie muttered, trying–and epically failing–to wipe the grin off her face.
The damage was done. The cousins were circling.
Adamaris squinted at her like she was analyzing evidence like Criminal Minds.
Giselle leaned over the table, whisper-screaming, “Was it Martin? No wait–Sunwoo? Oh my god, is it Simon?”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Izzie barked so quickly that the entire table turned.
Eddie coughed into his drink. “Damn, the speed–she meant that with her whole chest.”
Before the interrogation could go nuclear, Tio Lorenzo stuck his head out of the kitchen.
“Yo! Come grab some tostones before I eat them all!”
The cousins scattered like roaches under a light. Izzie sighed in relief, following after them–until Mirabella fell into step beside her with a sly smirk.
“So…” she whispered. “It’s a boy.”
“Drop it,” Izzie warned.
“And he made you smile like that? On Christmas Eve?”
“I said drop it.”
“Oooh, you’re blushing–”
“I WILL THROW YOU INTO THE SNOW!”
Mirabella squeaked and darted back into the dining room, laughing.
Izzie shook her head, sliding into her seat between Dani and Livie. The noise surged around her, the clatter of plates, the swirl of voices, the warmth of home she missed.
And underneath it all, grounded, soft, that flutter in her chest again.
Hot girl walk. Christmas Day. Quinn Rivera.
Yeah. She was a melted puddle, and her cousins knew it.
As relative after relative piled into the kitchen for extra plates or just a snack, Izzie felt the warmth bloom deep in her chest. A warmth she hadn’t realized she’d been starving for. It had been so long since she’d been surrounded like this, voices melding, cousins tripping over each other, tias arguing over who added too much garlic, tios gliding past them innocently, pretending not to hear. She made a silent promise to herself, right then, that she would hold nights like this close. Fix them into memory. Never let them slip away.
Dinner was loud and lawless in the best way. Tios migrated back into the back porch again, where old salsa classics blasted from the old stereo system such as Fruko y Sus Tesos’ “El Preso”, Joe Arroyo’s “En Barranquilla Me Quedo, and Héctor Lavoe’s “Periódico de Ayer”, Willie Colón’s “La Murga,” to name a few. Colombian, Caribbean, Puerto Rican–every branch of the family was represented in the playlist, and every generation was represented on the dance floor.
After dinner, the alcohol started flowing, like clockwork, the living room transformed into a nightclub. Couches were shoved aside; someone turned off the lights and switched on the Christmas disco bulbs, and Tia Conchita shouted, “MOVE! MOVE! I NEED SPACE FOR MY SPINS!” And then the party truly began.
Even Izzie, tipsy off two Cut Waters and a shot of guarapo1, found herself swept into the music. Vallenato melted into bachata, which melted into salsa, which melted into the occasional rogue throwback Daddy Yankee reggaeton or Bad Bunny that one of her younger cousins would slip in. She spun and laughed and stumbled, letting the rhythm pull her like a tide.
And for a moment, the haze of the night split open, revealing a memory so bright it hurt.
Her mom–right there in the center–hips loose, insanely fast footwork, shoulders rolling with effortless precision. A woman who didn’t dance to music, but with it. She commanded every beat like it was hers. Who always winked at Izzie before dragging her into the circle, saying, “Tu naciste pa’ esto, mi Izzie bella.”2
The pang hit her hard enough that her step faltered. She swallowed the ache. Almost cried, but didn’t.
Then, as if the universe had mercy on her, someone shouted:
“MIDNIGHT!”
And just like that, it was Christmas.
Chaos resumed–pure, unfiltered chaos–as everyone scrambled towards the couch, diving onto couch cushions, rugs, and bean bags, anything but the bare carpet, as the tias fought to maintain order.
“¡“No abran NADA hasta que yo diga3!” Abuela warned, wielding a wooden spoon like a scepter.
The elder tias stood next to her in solidarity. Like an army of abuelitas.
“Hands where I can see them!” Tia Victoria added.
The cousins all murmured to each other and held their hands up playfully.
Eventually, gifts were passed around. Gasps, laughter, playful insults. Izzie opened hers–a gleaming new set of pens and a planner so intricate it looked like a dissertation in binding form.
“Aww, you guys…” she grinned at Eddie and Dani
“You’re welcome,” Dani sniffed, even though Eddie whispered, “Bro, that planner was expensive as shit.”
She adored Abuela and Tia Victoria with her whole soul, but as usual, Abuela’s gift was a dress two sizes too optimistic, and Victoria’s contribution was a sweater meant for someone who lived in the deep, dark depths of Norway.
Every year, Izzie begged them to check her Amazon wishlist.
Every year, they refused.
Then came Livie’s cute, heartfelt ornament with her handprint on it. Her little hand had already grown so much bigger. She scooped her niece up with a smile.
“This is so cute, Liv! I love the purple and blue! How did you know those were my favorite colors?”
“I had some help,” she said, looking over to Abuela, who gave her a little wink.
The night thinned out after that. The sober relatives hugged goodbye, slipping out into the cold. The drunk ones claimed whatever surface wouldn’t result in a lawsuit. By one in the morning, the house exhaled into a softer hum.
Izzie slipped away to her old room, pushing the door open quietly so as not to wake Stelly, who was curled in the middle of the bed like she owned the place.
When Izzie turned on the light, the past rushed in at her so fast she forgot to breathe.
The lavender walls. The Polaroids tacked up in a constellation of memories. The macrame fairy-light net, still hanging crooked in the corner.
The desk framed with snapshots: her and her mom at her high school graduation, smiling like they’d won a key to the world, the infamous last photo of the Party Rock Crew, and Abuelo’s weathered Chicago Cubs Cap resting like a relic.
It felt like walking into a preserved version of herself.
A girl who once thought she knew exactly who she’d become.
A girl who couldn’t yet imagine major losses.
A girl who still believed life would be linear.
Izzie pressed a hand against the doorframe, steadying herself.
Some ghosts ached.
Some ghosts melted.
Some ghosts lived inside lavender-painted walls.
Tomorrow, she’d wake up and walk through the park with Quinn Rivera. The old life and the new one would collide again.
But for tonight, she let herself simply be home.
Me, You, & The Party Rock Crew 
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