“That rascal...” Pedro says under his breath, brushing an eye with the back of his hand. When he notices I’m looking, he straightens his back. “I wasn’t crying or anything.”

“I should go,” I say, turning around to open the side gate.

“You don’t want a ride?” he asks, his words coming out quickly. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he’s anxious. “It’s no big deal,” he adds, suddenly nonchalant.

No big deal?

The rain is now falling harder, and Pedro’s hair mats on his forehead. He impatiently brushes his bangs off his eyes over and over.

I let out a shaky breath and hop on behind him.

26

MONDAY, MAY 16

How can someone so annoying smell so good?

The wind stirs Pedro’s hair and balloons his shirt. I guess after years of preparing buttercream, melting chocolate with delicate precision, and kneading sweet rolls with his bare hands, the scents have remained on him like a second skin. He smells like Sugar’s early mornings, when they fill their ovens with the first batches of bolo de rolo and coconut buns.

The rain pours down harder, and I’m soaked down to my bones. The road is flooding, hiding potholes and bumps, and even though I cling to the metal seat of Pedro’s bicycle, every time he swerves through traffic, I’m this close to slipping.

He suddenly veers off to avoid riding into a massive puddle, and I wrap my arms around his waist with a panicked gasp.

I feel him tense beneath my arms. “I can’t breathe if you’re squeezing me like this,” he says.

My face is burning up. I never thought I’d ever be this...cozy with Pedro Molina. “You almost sent me flying back there!”

He winces. “Can you not yell in my ear?”

I place my hands lightly on his shoulders. I’ve barely touched him, and Pedro’s already twitching like that annoys him, too. So I let go, my fingers precariously wrapping around the metal seat again.

Pedro keeps on riding, this time more carefully.

He taps his shoulder. “It’s okay to hold on to me. If you fall off, I don’t want you going around saying I did it on purpose!”

I let out a tired breath, my hands going back to his shoulders. Accepting this ride was probably a mistake.

We travel past school, in and out of the streetlights along the way, and when the twinkling lights at the feirinha appear in the distance like the first stars in the night sky, Pedro stops. We both know we can’t risk being seen together.

I hop off, darting for the protection of the drugstore’s awning. But instead of riding straight home, Pedro leaves the bicycle resting against the sidewalk and comes to join me, the thick raindrops pelting the metal above us.

“Do you have a minute?” he asks.