But this year, I’m not thinking about Abuela’s tamales or what stories Tía Camila will bring to share. All I can think about is Claudia and Lydia, and whether they could actually be behind these notes. It makes sense in a way that Eric never did. Abuela doesn’t let me stay in my head for long, though. She never does.

“You don’t have to worry about giving up the bed,” Abuela says, tossing her coat on the coatrack. “I can sleep on the couch this time. You’re a growing girl, and you don’t need me to take over your room.”

“She’s young,” Abuelo says, pulling in the suitcases. “I’m sure that one night on the floor isn’t going to kill her.”

“It’s great to have you all back,” Pops says, sticking his tongue out at me when their heads are turned. “I have the guest room set up. Camila, you can stay in the office—we have an air mattress up there. And Dave can sleep in Simone’s room.”

“I don’t need to sleep. I think I’m still jet-lagged,” Tía Camila says, shuffling in. She’s wearing a trench coat, probably something she bought in Paris. I swear, she’s always on a different business trip. “Mony, I’m going to tell you absolutely everything about England. You’d love West End. I’ll have to take you one day.”

“Maybe this year,” I say, forcing a smile for her. “I’ll have to beg, but the parental units might let me do it. You never know.”

Tía Camila is the coolest person in this family—besides me. Every time she comes over, I feel shy around her, like she’s a celebrity I’m finally getting the chance to meet. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, pulling me to her side.

As if on cue, Dad and Dave stumble in. Looking at the two of them, standing side by side, is like a before-and-after photo. Dave is Dad’s spitting image. Same darkly colored big eyes, same studious air, even without the glasses. The only difference is the hint of a beard growing on my half brother’s face. I don’t remember what his mother looks like—I guess I met her once, maybe a long time ago—but it must be weird for her to look at a replica of Dad all the time.

God, that whole relationship is a mess.

“Hey,” I say, wrapping my arms around him. Abuelo and Abuela always say something if they notice that we aren’t spending time together, so I usually get it over with early. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good,” Dave murmurs, his touch light. “How’s school?”

“Good,” I say. “How’s college?”

“It’s nice,” he says, glancing over at Dad. “Lots of intellectuals.”