Chapter Three

It’s been a week.

One week of neon lights burning into my skin, of music pounding through my bones, of men’s eyes crawling over me like I’m both a feast and a weapon they’re afraid to touch.

At first, it felt like drowning. Every step onto that stage was a battle against the panic clawing at my chest. But I’ve learned something in the seven days I've worked here, when the world strips you bare, you can either shrink, or sharpen your edges until no one dares touch you.

I chose the latter.

Today, I’m stretched out on the worn couch in my little apartment, finally enjoying the silence. The air is warm, the sun filters through the thin curtains, and for once there’s no bass thumping in my chest, no flashing lights, no watchful eyes. Just stillness.

I've been working every night since I arrived in Mexico, and today V.V gave me the night off. Not like I have anything to do with it anyway.

My phone buzzes across the table. I almost ignore it, until I see Sofia’s name flashing on the screen.

I groan, already knowing what’s coming. They've been trying to get me to go out with them, but I don't really feel like I belong in their circle. “Hey,” I answer, my voice tired.

“Leina! Don’t tell me you’re still at home?” Her tone is horrified, like I’ve just confessed to a crime.

I laugh weakly. “Where else would I be?”

“At the mall. At the beach. Anywhere but hiding in that shoebox of an apartment. We’re going out.”

“I can’t,” I say quickly, shaking my head even though she can’t see me. “I’ve got things to do.”

“Like what? Napping?” Her laugh is sharp and playful. “Girl, you’ve been working every night. Today you breathe.”

“I’m serious, Sofia. I don’t…”

Before I can finish, I hear Rosa’s voice in the background. “Put her on speaker!”

And then they’re both yelling at once.

“Leina, don’t you dare bail on us! We’re already halfway to your place!” Rosa says. “You need clothes that aren’t lingerie”

“She needs tequila more than clothes, Rosa.”

I press my palm over my face, smiling despite myself. “You two are insane.”

“Insanely good for you,” Sofia counters. “Come on. You’ve been here a week and you’ve only seen your apartment and the club. That’s not living.”

“I’m not here to live, Sofia,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

The silence on the other end is heavy for a second, until Rosa speaks up, softer this time. “Then maybe it’s time you remember how.”

Their words sit heavy in my chest. I want to argue. I want to stay home, safe in my cocoon of walls and shadows. But the truth is I’m tired of hiding.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “One drink. Just one.”

“Ha!” Sofia cheers so loudly I wince. “You hear that, Rosa? We broke her!”

“You didn’t break me,” I grumble. “I’m humoring you.”

But even as I hang up and drag myself off the couch, I feel a flicker of something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Anticipation.

I barely have ten minutes to throw my hair into something halfway decent when a knock rattles my door.

When I open it, Sofia and Rosa sweep in like they own the place. Sofia’s in ripped jeans and a red halter that brings out her full breasts, her perfume hitting me before her voice. Rosa’s a little softer in style, floral dress, sandals, but no less commanding.

“God, this place is tiny,” Sofia says, dropping a shopping bag on the couch and heading straight for the kitchen without asking. She pulls open my fridge and makes a face. “Leina, you’ve got half a bottle of water and leftover noodles. That’s it?”

“I’ve been busy,” I mutter, shutting the door behind them. The truth is I haven't been in the mood to leave my apartment for grocery shopping.

“Busy starving?” she fires back. “Girl, you definitely need grocery shopping.”

Meanwhile, Rosa plops the bag onto my lap. “Don’t argue. You’re wearing this.”

I peek inside and blink. A silky black dress, short and slinky with spaghetti straps that scream not me. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” Rosa insists, tugging the bag from my hands before I can push it back. “You’ve got the legs for it. Don’t waste them.”

Sofia reappears from the kitchen holding my lone fork like evidence in a crime scene. “You own one fork?!”

“It’s enough for me,” I say defensively.

“Not anymore.” She sets it down with exaggerated care, as if placing a cursed artifact. “Step one: clothes and jewelry. Step two: tequila. Step three: grocery shopping. By the end of the day, you’re going to remember how to smile.”

“I smile,” I argue weakly.

“Not the kind that counts,” Rosa says gently, her eyes searching mine like she sees the cracks beneath the sarcasm.

I want to tell them no. I want to shove them out the door and crawl back under my blanket where it’s safe.

But there’s something about the way they move around my space, so sure, so casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to raid my fridge or dump clothes on my bed.

Like I’m already part of their world.

And for the first time in a long time, the idea doesn’t make me want to run.

I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “Fine. I’ll wear the damn dress. But if I hate it…”

“You won’t,” Sofia cuts me off, already tugging me toward the bathroom. “Now hurry. We’re on borrowed sunshine.”

The dress clings more than I’d like, but Sofia beams when I step out of the bathroom. Rosa whistles low.

“There she is,” Sofia declares like she’s unveiling a prize. “Leina, the mystery girl. Men are going to lose their minds.”

“I’m not looking for men,” I mutter.

“You don’t have to,” Rosa grins. “They’ll come to you.”

Before I can protest further, they’ve linked arms with me and swept me out into the sunlit chaos of the city.

The market is alive in a way New York never was.

Stalls overflowing with handwoven fabrics, bright jewelry, sizzling food that makes my stomach twist with hunger. Music pulses from somewhere nearby, guitars, laughter, voices raised in rhythm.

I keep waiting for the familiar tightness in my chest, the whisper that I don’t belong. But with Sofia tugging me toward a stand selling roasted corn and Rosa pressing a pair of silver earrings against my ears to “test them,” the weight lifts just a little.

We eat tacos dripping with sauce that burns my tongue, drink icy horchata from sweating cups, and haggle with vendors in rapid Spanish that makes my head spin. I barely understand half of it, but the girls are relentless, sharp-tongued and bold, until we walk away with bags full of trinkets for half the price.

At one point, a street musician strums a guitar near our table, and Sofia stands up, grabbing Rosa’s hand, forcing her to sway to the beat. People clap. Someone whistles. And suddenly, they’re dragging me into it too, spinning me into the small circle of movement.

I’m stiff at first, embarrassed. But then Rosa throws her head back and laughs, and Sofia’s eyes glint with mischief, and the music is so alive it thrums in my bones. For the first time since my life shattered, something cracks open inside me.

Not happiness. Not yet. But something close.

Later, as the sun dips low and the heat eases into something bearable, we wander back through the streets, sticky-fingered from candied fruit, weighed down with cheap jewelry and laughter.

They made me buy clothes and groceries I'm definitely going to need.

By the time we reach my apartment, my feet ache and my hair’s a mess, but there’s a strange lightness in my chest.

Sofia tosses herself onto my couch like she lives there. Rosa takes it upon herself to arrange the groceries in the kitchen. Minutes later she emerges with a bottle of water

“You really are hopeless,” she says with mock severity.

I should feel invaded, maybe even irritated. But instead, the sight makes something inside me ache, the kind of ache that comes from remembering what it felt like to have sisters, to have family.

When they finally leave, the apartment feels quieter than usual. Too quiet.

And I realize, with a start, that I’m already looking forward to the next time they burst in and tear the silence apart.

That night, the apartment is too quiet for me to be in. I throw on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt and head out to the club.

When I get there, I head straight to the dressing room. The girls are there. Noisy as usual.

“Look who's here!* Rosa says rushing to hug me. She smells of sweat and vanilla, which tells me she just had a performance. “You are surviving, girl.”

“More than surviving,” I shoot back, and the others laugh, clinking their glasses against mine when someone hands me a drink.

For the first time in a week, I feel almost included.

Later when I get home, I push a call to Natalie. We always talk every night before I go to sleep. Her advice is what's been keeping me sane.

“I'm happy you made some friends. Mexico needs you to have someone you can count on,” she tells me after I tell her of my outing with the girls.

“Things are working rather well, Nat. What's the news back home?”

“Well…” she drags out like she's contemplating on not telling me. “Cara and Marcus got married yesterday. It was the wedding of the year. The press are still streaming it online.”

My heart twists with pain and betrayal. They are living happily after casting me to the shadows.

But not forever.