I’ve never seen this side of him. This Pedro who gives heartfelt apologies and listens to me without trying to evade his responsibility in our fights.

Trust neither thin-bottomed frying pans nor Molinas.

Part of me feels guarded. Cautious. Scared of falling into a trap.

But part of me also wants to believe him. And if I’m being completely honest, that part is a lot stronger. Working with him at the club and at Vozes showed me a side of him I didn’t know. A side that probably was always there, hidden behind our families’ generational rivalry, only I couldn’t see it. The truth is Pedro is a dependable guy—talented, too, I’ll admit it—and he cares about our community and loves food just as much as I do.

“That means a lot,” I say.

A tiny smile spreads on his lips. He actually looks relieved. “Even though we’re enemies?”

“Because we’re enemies.”

And I realize how relieved I feel after finally hearing his apology, too.

“So...?” He kicks a pebble on the sidewalk, sending it back onto the cobblestone street. “We’ll go on working together or...?”

“Yes,” I confirm. “At the club. And with our truce.”

Pedro lets his smile widen. “I’m glad,” he says. “Because I didn’t want to break my promise to Amandinha.”

“What promise?”

“She asked me to come back. Together, you know?” Pedro looks off to the side, a little embarrassed. That’s a first. “All of us,” he explains quickly, “Not just, you know, you and me. Cintia, Victor, and PC, if he weren’t leaving for Caruaru. And I said we will. Don’t make me break my promise to her.”

Together.

My heart does a weird somersault, and I pounce on it, smothering it down. Hush. Why are you beating so fast like this?

We’re silent for a while and the air around feels electrified. Staticky. I don’t dare move. Or breathe. Does he notice it, too?

Maybe a thunderstorm is coming.

“I think you and I can learn to put our issues aside for now,” I reiterate, feeling a little light-headed. Why does this moment feel so much like a dream?

“You know, it’s actually a good thing, not just for Amandinha, if we do,” Pedro says with a smirk. He steps back into the rain and swings a leg over his bicycle. “I think it’s in the neighborhood’s best interest that a Ramires works alongside a Molina. Maybe some of my talent will rub off on you and your bakery will actually learn to make something that tastes good.”

He rides off.

“Don’t flatter yourself!” I shout at his back.

27

FRIDAY, MAY 20

I’m half listening to Pimentel’s lecture on Friday, when my phone buzzes with a text. I sneak a peek at the screen.