“It was,” I admit. “But now I understand him a little better.”

Pedro frowns. “You do?”

“I understand he loved my grandmother and father,” I say, and Pedro’s eyes widen. “And that he loves you more than anything. He’s made poor decisions, but I... I hope you two will find a way to mend things.”

He stares at me for a long second, his eyes scanning my face, traveling over my lips, and I realize he’s thinking about us, too. Measuring whether there’s a chance for us to mend things. But I shouldn’t get my hopes up. I hurt him, and he has a right to be guarded. I can tell he’s judging whether or not he can trust me. My heart sinks when his expression hardens, because I know he still feels something for me, but he’s fighting it.

Maybe PC, Victor, and Cintia were right when they told me to give him time. There’s nothing else I can do or say. It’s Pedro’s decision now to give us another chance. Or not.

“What if I don’t want an apology at this point?” he says. “What if it’s too late for that? What if I’m tired of feeling like I’m never good enough?”

Pedro looks away, crossing his arms over his chest. I don’t know what to say. Stubborn tears tumble to my chin and I look out the window to hide my face, too.

We continue the trip in silence. It hurts that I’m still wearing his jacket, his scent enveloping me with memories of the night at the beach, when it was just him and me, the neighborhood and our issues distant like the stars in the sky.

The bus swerves suddenly. Passengers scream. I stumble to the left, slamming into Pedro, and he passes a protective arm around me.

Passengers are craning their necks to see why the bus had to swerve off like that, and we do the same. The bus driver stands up, wiping his forehead with a hand towel.

“The flooding in the avenue is getting worse,” he announces. “Cars are breaking down all along the road. I nearly rammed into one!”

Just then I realize that I hopped on the wrong bus. This isn’t the route I normally take home. And this bus has led me straight into Avenida Coqueirais. My blood runs cold.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I mutter, panic rising in my chest.

“Can’t we go on?” a passenger asks, and others echo him.

The bus driver waves his hands nervously. “I’m not risking it. I’m stopping here.”

People protest when the driver opens the door and steps outside.

“What?” I shriek.

I peek through the window. There’s water outside as far as the eye can see. A couple of cars slowly try to make their way through the river that the avenue has become.