“I’m not disrespecting you!” Pedro shouts back, stunning Seu Romário into silence. This is the first time I’ve heard Pedro raise his voice to his grandfather. “I was just trying to offer something to our customers that Deals Deals doesn’t already.”

“You don’t change anything at Sugar without my permission, do you hear me?” Seu Romário says, his voice low but trembling with so much anger. It’s scarier than when he shouts. “You think I don’t know you’re dying to leave again? I know you don’t care for Sugar. Why don’t you go back to that good-for-nothing father of yours?”

Standing from my spot in the alley, I see Pedro run off.

I wait for Sugar’s door to slam shut before emerging from my hiding place. I find Pedro unchaining his bicycle, fumbling to get it unlocked. He looks up, his expression pained like he’s fighting back tears. He’s so surprised to see me, like he forgot I was hiding next to Sugar all along.

“You...heard all that?” he asks, clearly embarrassed.

“Pedro, I’m so sorry.” I take a step closer. “Don’t listen to him. He didn’t mean it. He’s just angry.”

“Do you want to run away together?” he offers with a sad smile. “Forget the bakeries, the feud, everyone and everything?”

“Pedro...”

I know he doesn’t mean it, but I still glance at Salt and think of Mom all alone inside.

“I know, I know.” He chuckles dryly. “Well, how about we run away for a few hours?”

I hop on behind him on his bicycle, and he takes off, pedaling quickly. The wind is blowing against us, like we’re indeed running away from our lives. He only stops when we reach the beach, the salt in the air so heavy I can taste it. He chains his bicycle next to a coconut water stand, and after we purchase two cold coconuts, we sit on the sand, watching night fall over the Atlantic.

I don’t know how long we sit in silence, our shoulders pressed together, sipping coconut water while staring at the waves lapping over the sand. But we stay long enough that the first stars begin to twinkle in the sky.

That’s when Pedro pulls his phone out of his pocket and leans in to show me something. His head rests against mine and his hair tickles my forehead, sending goose bumps down my neck.

The website for a restaurant loads up, and there’s the photo of a man in a kitchen, commanding everyone with a pirate-like aura about him, ears pierced, tattoos up and down his arms, wearing sunglasses just like Pedro’s. Exactly like Pedro’s.

“My dad,” Pedro says. “And his restaurant.”

“Your dad?”