Wills wanted to celebrate making it another year. Sixty-one was a monumental feat, considering the life he’d led. Or so he promised.

“Never thought I’d make it to thirty, if I’m honest. Every decade after that is surplus.”

We were celebrating that surplus on a frigid, Saturday night in early February, with steaks, wine and the awkwardness that could only be provided by my mother, my ex-girlfriend, and her mother, who still wasn’t so sure she’d forgiven me for being a jackass, no matter how many chores I did around her property.

Luckily, my band filled in the lows of conversation, and Isaiah especially squashed the awkward silences when someone who didn’t know them asked my parents how they’d met or when they’d divorced.

“Never been married, mija,” my mother provided when Kyle’s wife sat next to my mama. “Too wild for marriage.”

On the tip of my tongue was “or a kid,” but I held that back, trying like hell to remind myself that we were all starting over, though Iris, at first, seemed to ignore that fact. She wasn’t as livid at me as she had been the week before, after the announcement, but I think her good mood had more to do with the wine she drank than with any ideas about starting over.

My father worked some serious magic, and Mrs. Daine, it turned out, was impressed by him, even laughed at his obvious flirting. To Iris, of course, Wills could do no wrong.

But it was my mother who brought the most calm, something that was out of character for her. She kept smiling at me, touching my arm, patting my face, and moved around my apartment, refilling drinks, making sure anyone who was hungry had a full plate. A couple of times, when someone commented on how generous she was, or how sweet, I’d catch Iris’s eye or Isaiah’s, and we’d shake our heads, or shrug. This new Juanita was nothing like the woman who made me. She was helpful; she listened, and advised even with the most mundane things. And, it turns out, she could be sentimental.

“I’d like to raise a glass to Wills,” she’d started, grabbing the attention of the loud crowd, and, as habit, my face flushed and I stood back, near the corner of the kitchen, waiting for whatever embarrassing thing would come out of her mouth.

She looked beautiful, dressed more conservatively than I’d ever seen her, in a modest pair of jeans and purple cardigan. Her hair fell around her waist and was straight and clean. Her makeup wasn’t overdone, and in her glass was pineapple juice, and nothing else. I’d been the one to make the drink for her.

“To the man who blessed my life. You may have brought the world together with your talent and music, but you brought the world to me with my son. Thank you, mi querido. I will forever be grateful.” She wiped her eyes, smile wide and brilliant. “To Wills.” Everyone echoed the toast, and my mother looked at me, winking. Iris came next to me, holding a full glass of red.

“I don’t understand how you could forgive her so quickly.”

We stood arm to arm, watching as Juanita hugged my father, as he rested his hand against her waist and whispered something that made her laugh. They had both destroyed me, in their own ways, but I couldn’t hate them. That took too much energy.

“She’s my mama. I’m not going to get another one.” I downed the rest of my bourbon, setting the empty glass on the counter in front of me. “Besides, you didn’t ask me why I forgave Wills so quickly.”

“Wills neglected you; he didn’t abuse you.”

“Semantics.” I turned to her, my fingers itching to touch her. “It’s a lot of work keeping up with the list of people who’ve wronged me. I’m tired of doing it. Especially since I know my name is at the top of so many similar lists.”

Iris turned from the crowd, watching me close. Something familiar caught in her eyes then, a glint of memory, a flash of light that reminded me of the way she used to see me. Before I destroyed everything.

“You get that from them.”

“What do I get?” I said, stepping closer. She didn’t retreat. She didn’t stiffen or frown, like our argument the other night had never happened. I wasn’t going to remind her of it and I wasn’t going to question why she looked at me the way she was.

“That charm, and the insufferable way you can smile or tell a joke or bite your damn lip, and every bad thing you’ve done are somehow erased from memory. Or at least, forgotten for a moment.”

“Am I charming you now?” I engaged that smile, because coño she was in a good mood, and I liked how her grin lit up her entire face. She was probably a little buzzed, and her anger only simmered instead of boiling up to the brim just then. That might change, but right then I took advantage of her mood.

“Well…” Iris laughed when I leaned toward her, and she pushed on my chest like she didn’t really want me so close but couldn’t find the fight to tell me to leave her alone.

“You’re drunk, florecita.”

“A little,” she admitted, moving the tips of her fingers over my arm.

“Then let me get you some coffee.”

She sighed, resting back against the stool next to the island as I walked to the other side of the room where Isaiah had set up a makeshift bar.

The crowd was getting louder, and someone cranked up the volume on the stereo, an old Crash Nelson song that made Wills bob his head and smile wide. It was a good night—the laughter and the buzz of conversation stirred something sweet inside me that I didn’t want to let go of. It was nice to feel connected again, to see people I loved and remember the good, to let go of the bad that seemed so constant in my life the past few years

The feeling was intoxicating, but even as I fixed Iris’s coffee, no sugar, two creams, I felt that sweetness dim. The hair on the back of my neck rose, and something unsettled and restless turned inside my guts as a loud voice shouted over the crowd across the room.

“Shit,” I said, forgetting the coffee as Winston and Gunnar walked through the door, and the crowd went quiet.