God, Please Let Him Be Dead

The Alaskan sky looked deceptively calm this morning. My suitcase was already loaded into my father’s private jet because of course, he's incredibly generous when it comes to things like "flying home for your ex-husband’s possible funeral."

I wore a long beige wool coat, oversized sunglasses, and a black scarf that did absolutely nothing to keep me warm but made me look like a scandal-ridden socialite trying to escape the tabloids. My hair was thrown into a lazy bun, and my face, well, I was blessed enough not to need much makeup.

The moment I stepped into the cabin, I sank into one of those ridiculously soft leather seats. I heard the door shut, the quiet shuffle of the crew moving around, and then the pilot’s voice crackling through the intercom like always.

“Good morning, Miss Bahr. We’ll be taking off shortly for New York. Estimated arrival time is 11:45 AM. Please sit back and enjoy the flight.”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

Theo Rodriguez.

An accident. Critical injuries. A coma, maybe. Or, God, please make it real. Like .. DEAD.

My mind wandered. I pictured myself at his funeral in a scandalously tight black velvet dress, sky-high heels, and the most sincere smile I could possibly summon.

I’d stand in front of some overpriced, oversized tombstone because the Rodriguezes don’t do modest and raise a glass of red wine like a toast.

“Rest in pieces, darling.”

And if God was feeling extra kind, I’d do a little dance over his grave in my stilettos before dropping a couple of lilies. One for Theo, and one for his fiancée. Or... let’s just call her what she is: a high-end accessory with great boobs.

I laughed to myself.

The engine hummed softly before roaring as we took off, the jet slicing through clouds like they were nothing. My heart, on the other hand, stayed grounded somewhere between twisted fantasies and the far less exciting reality.

Nearly five hours of attempting to sleep later, we finally began to descend.

We landed at the Bahr family’s private airstrip because of course, my father’s way too wealthy for commercial terminals. I unbuckled, straightened my scarf, and walked down the steps with the calm poise of someone used to arriving like a main character.

The morning sun greeted my face. The sticky, humid summer breeze felt like an ex who refused to move on.

XXXXX

The second the car pulled up in front of the Bahr mansion, I knew I should’ve extended my stay in Alaska.

My mother stood at the top of the wide stone staircase like a living marble statue, hands planted on her hips. She wore a fire-engine-red dress that screamed ‘First Lady of a telenovela with a production budget,’ her black hair pulled into a severe ponytail, and her face full of battleground readiness.

Next to her stood Papa, calm as always, in a forest green sweater and linen pants, cradling Butters like he was a human baby. Butters, my orange cat with a flair for melodrama and existential nausea, rested contentedly on Papa’s chest and stared at me like I was a minor inconvenience in his otherwise luxurious life.

I sighed and stepped out of the car like I was walking a runway, dragging my suitcase behind me as I climbed the steps at a deliberately casual pace.

“Dianna!” my mom practically sang in a pitch laced with threat. “How dare you disappear for almost three weeks without a single message? What is this? Survivor: Alaska? Do you think we don’t have hearts in this house?”

“Ma, Papa’s heart seems fine,” I said, kissing Papa’s cheek.

He smiled at me, eyes soft. “Welcome back, sweetheart. Chanel and Butters have been impossible without you.”

“They’re impossible because Mama’s stingy with snacks,” I winked at him, then looked at Butters. “And you, little traitor. You’re more attached to Papa now, huh?”

Butters gave a soft meow, then turned his back on me, refusing to be picked up.

Mama rolled her eyes. “See? Even your own child doesn’t want to be near you! Five of them! You left five! And the poor sitters nearly quit because Chanel went on a hunger strike and Lucifer peed in my Hermès bag!”

“Lucifer has taste, Ma. I’ve wanted to pee on that bag more than once.”

“¡Dios mío!”

I walked inside without a care, tossed my suitcase into the hallway corner, and was immediately greeted by a scene that made everything worth it.

Chanel strutted across the living room table like she owned the place. Morticia sat by the window, gazing out with the melancholic expression of a cat composing an existential poem. And Nacho, my beloved troublemaker, sprinted toward me with a loud meow and leapt onto my legs.

“There’s my baby...” I crouched down, petting his now slightly matted fur. “Who knocked over the flower vase last week, huh?”

“HIM!” Mama shouted from the kitchen. “HIM! You have to get them into therapy, Dianna. Therapy!”

I just laughed and kissed the top of Nacho’s head as he started to purr.

We sat down for lunch at the classic Bahr family table. Long, formal, littered with porcelain dishes and, of course, served with a side of lecture.

Mama sat at the head of the table, still wearing that expression like she was two seconds away from throwing a spoon if I got sarcastic again. Papa sat calmly next to me, ladling lentil soup into my bowl like the peacemaker he always was.

“Did you hear about Theo?”

My first spoonful nearly went down the wrong pipe. “Ma, can we have one lunch, just one, without bringing up the man I’ve permanently blacked out of my life with a Sharpie?”

She ignored me, as usual. “He had an accident. Car crash. His fiancée too. But don’t you dare get any wild ideas, Dianna.”

I snorted and reached for a piece of bread. “Already got my black velvet dress ready. If they’re dead, I’m showing up to the funeral with prosecco and dancing the lambada on the fresh dirt.”

“¡Ay Virgen Santa!”Mama smacked the table like I’d personally offended the Holy Trinity.

And right on cue, my two older brothers, Dante and Damian, came down the stairs like they were walking into the opening scene of a mafia telenovela.

My first brother : Dante wore a navy suit with one too many buttons undone on his white shirt, and My second brother : Damian, the family’s golden boy pilot, looked exhausted in his full uniform, complete with gold pin and that annoyingly handsome, sleep-deprived face.

“What now?” Dante asked, grabbing a glass of water from the table.

“Dianna wants to dance at her ex’s funeral,” Mama snapped.

“Oh God,” Damian muttered as he sat down and poured himself a coffee. “You’ve been back for a day. Can we go two hours without you provoking Mama?”

“Nope,” I said cheerfully. “Tried it. Failed. It’s a natural gift.”

Papa chuckled under his breath. “I’d say you inherited that from your mom.”

“And from you too,” I shot back. “You’re calm not because you lack opinions. You’re calm because you’re wise enough not to argue with a Cuban woman.”

Papa raised his teacup. “You’ve learned well, my daughter.”

And around that table, surrounded by a family that was too loud, too dramatic, and too damn colorful, I felt completely, inexplicably at home.

For now.

Because I could feel it. The storm hadn’t hit yet…But the air already smelled like it.