Chapter Text
It’s a weekend sometime after. Mirabel’s at Bruno’s apartment, where he’d welcomed her in with a smile and she’d spread her new writing assignment all over his table while he bobbed around her. She’s busier than ever, taking on leadership of sewing club, studying hard for her difficult physics and pre-calculus classes, plus she’d ended up doing so well in the creative writing class last year (thanks in large part to Bruno’s input) that her teacher had recommended her for the new Advanced Storytelling class, where the assignments were more freeform and much more difficult in terms of having less structure.
“Write a fantasy story, at least 5,000 words but no more than 25,000 words.” She taps her pen as Bruno takes a seat, humming thoughtfully to herself. “I need to talk to Luisa, this is really not my thing.” Her sister was the one scarfing down one novel a week, not her.
Bruno knuckles his chin. “Fantasy is fun. You’ve got wizards and magic, dragons and elves, dwarves, goblins, battles between good and evil‒”
“Yeah, I don’t… read or watch a lot of that.” She laughs nervously. Oh man, she was not going to do well at this assignment, was she?
He shrugs. “I guess that’s one kind of fantasy, but there’s others. Like, fairy tales are fantasies.”
Mirabel attempts to think of one, but all she gets are Disney cartoons. “So like… Cinderella and Snow White and that kind of thing?”
“Yeah–” He makes a waving motion with his hand like he’s holding a wand. “Fairy godmothers, things turning into other things, true love…”
“Oh, please no romance.” Dolores and Mariano have been gushing over each other so much since their engagement, if she has to subject herself to more of that, she might actually poke her own eye out with a spoon. “Fairy tales sound okay.” Better than the alternative. “So what’s the story here?” She has a vague image of a girl, maybe her age, perhaps living in a castle or whatever. Probably a princess, that seemed to be common. “How does this work anyway? We have a character, and something bad happens to her?” That seemed to happen to a lot of the heroines in the cartoons ‒ an evil stepmother or a magical spell…
“Yep, or something magical.” He spaces out for a second. “Like she meets a strange man and saves him and he grants her a wish. Or a strange lady in the woods who wants her to do some tasks for her. ”
Mirabel shakes her head. “Wouldn’t she find that a little bit weird?”
“No, no, in fairy tales you kind of just accept it.” At her look, he makes a surrendering motion. “Or, uh, she lives in a magical forest? That’s the kind of thing that happens there, you know. Or a magical house? Ooh!” He straightens excitedly. “A magical house in a magical forest ringed by mountains!”
She laughs. “That just sounds very lonely for her.”
“She’s not lonely! She’s got her entire family with her. And an entire village!”
“So, what, is she like the princess of the place then?” Princesses were a thing in fairy tales, weren’t they?
“Sure.” He nods eagerly. “The entire family is like royalty. Because,” he snaps his fingers, “they’ve got magic, but nobody else does!”
“Oh boy, an entire magical family.” She scribbles down the idea, smiling to herself. More characters. “So she has, what, a mom, a dad…”
“Sisters and cousins.” Bruno grins. “Maybe an uncle.”
“This is just us, isn’t it? A magical version of us?” She continues writing. “Fine, a mami and a papi… two older sisters… three cousins… a tía and a tío… nope, two tíos…” Mirabel gets a shoulder nudge for that. “An abuela and… an abuelo?”
Bruno thinks about it. “No. He’s gone isn’t he?” His eyes slide towards the direction of Abuela’s room.
“Maybe…” Mirabel rolls her pencil on the table. “Maybe he’s gone because… because he sacrificed himself for his family.” An idea sparks in her. “He’s gone… but his sacrifice created the magic. That’s why the family has magic. Because of him.”
“Write it down, write it down,” says Bruno eagerly, eyes focusing intently on her paper. “So we’ve got the whole family with powers, except for…” His eyes land on her, softening. “The main character.”
“Aw, that’s sad.” She glances at him. A silence of several seconds follows. “You’re thinking of me, aren’t you?
He blinks innocently at her. “I am not.”
“Sure, everybody in this family is so perfect and special except for this one child…”
“I think you are very special,” he says quietly. At which point he sat up. “And so is the main character. She only thinks she isn’t.” His eyes flick towards her.
“You’re not helping your case, you know.” Nevertheless, she scribbles it down, and more ideas down as they start flying at her. “So in this family of magical people, in a magical house, in the magical woods, treated like magical royalty in their village, we have the one character without magic. And one day she discovers…” She taps her pencil, thinking of the worst thing in the world that could happen to this magical family. “She discovers that the magic… is fading. It might actually go away. So she has to save it!”
They keep exchanging ideas and bits of dialogue back and forth, until they’ve got a rough outline hammered out, then take a detour to figure out everybody’s magical powers (“And he can talk to animals, while she can grow plants, and she can…” “Fire powers?” “That sounds scary… what about… controlling the weather? And that one, that one is… indestructible?” “Or super strength, that might be cool…”). Bruno at one point sketches an entire family tree. Both of them then take a break to admire it, and the blueprint for the magical house that they had started to make.
Afterwards, homework done, she pulls out her newest project: a shawl for Abuela. After her first attempt to make Abuela something had ended so badly, she hadn’t even thought of making something else, but with things so different – so much better – she finally dared to try something new, with Bruno’s help. He’d smuggled one of Abuela’s black shawls to her after one of their dinners, and she’s been hiding it at his place since.
The challenge for her was taking the black shawl, with its all its attendant connotations of grief and aloofness and stoicism under tragedy, and transform it into something warm, nurturing, caring. She doesn’t want Abuela to put aside her grief, necessarily – it was such a fundamental part of her, made her who she was, that she doesn’t think Abuela could let it go of it any more than she can change the color of her eyes. And it was borne out of love, her enduring love for Abuelo Pedro, and from it, her love for her family.
But it was also something that must change, had changed, for them to forge their new path. Abuela was not alone anymore, she had spoken to her familia, talked to them quietly of all she had endured. She had seen her mamá and her tía and her tío with Abuela, tears shining on their faces, sitting together in a circle, Abuela’s locket of Abuelo Pedro on her lap, all of them clasping hands. And it’s that image she thinks about as she continues her shawl, as her mind wanders here and there to her story, of an abuelo who had given up his life so that his family could continue living.
The best thing she could do, Mirabel had decided, was something similar to her own clothing, to imbue it with symbols of all the members of the family – a reminder of those who Abuela loves and who love her back, those whom she protects and those who support her in turn. “You don’t have to watch,” she tells Bruno in amusement as he shifts his chair closer, but he insists, almost as invested in the project as her.
It’s almost finished now, a ménage of colors: cyan herbs and lavender flowers, blue music notes and purple weights, all on one side; on the other yellow sunbursts and amber umbrellas, red earmuffs and orange chameleons and tan capybaras; weaving through the center, green hourglasses with brown sand; and spinning the borders, bright flames and maroon triangles that look almost like mountains. Bruno traces the line of her name that Mirabel’s sewn in turquoise, follows the weave of white edging, crinkles the tassels she adds (a copy of the ones she added to a skirt of hers in a vibrant pink), and runs his fingers along the threads.
And everywhere, butterflies. Shining, iridescent, in golden thread that sparkles under light, she weaves in butterflies. And as she sews, she thinks of the shawl as wings; like the shedding of a chrysalis, Abuela will discard the black draperies of grief and loss to spread, to grow.
“You know, how you’ve been going to talk to someone?” says Mirabel casually as she fills in yet another corner with a butterfly. “I think it’s helped.”
Bruno stiffens at the unexpected shift in topic. “Um, I don’t, I don’t know what–”
“Tío Bruno, it’s fine, remember?” she says, looking up from her sewing. “I’m really glad it’s working out. My mom and dad and everyone else helped, right? And now you’re helping them and Abuela with stuff too, aren’t you?”
Bruno nods, eyes wide and searching.
“That’s really good. That they all know and stuff. You shouldn’t hide it.” She shrugs, the shawl shifting under her hands. “Not from them, not from us. We want to know too.”
He just stares at her for a moment, undisguised affection in his eyes.
Her phone buzzes as a text comes through from the grandkid chat.
LUISA: On our way up.
Mirabel blinks. Our way?
The door bangs open, making both of them jump. “She’s right,” Luisa says, marching in whilst encumbered by several packs and tossing the first of them, her gym bag, to the floor. “I actually went to talk to someone at my school.”
“Really?” says Mirabel, recovering quickly from the shock; the same can’t quite be said for Bruno, who’s grasping his chest and sucking in deep breaths.
“Yeah. For managing my time.” She shrugs off her other bag so that it lands next to the sofa. “It was really helpful. Lots of strategies for organizing stuff, learning to say no.” She strides over to Bruno, grabbing him in a one-armed side hug that almost lifts him off the chair. “Hey, Tío. Sorry for the scare.”
“‘s fine,” mumbles Bruno, looking like he’s halfway between being pleased at getting a hug from his niece and pain because the hug is so tight.
“Mami wanted to go when she was younger,” murmurs Dolores, Mariano-less for once. She’s accompanied by Isabela, striding arm-in-arm with her. Luisa drops Bruno to take her usual spot on the couch, and is instantly replaced by Isabela, who kisses Bruno on the cheek.
Dolores hovers nearby a moment longer. “She never did, obviously, and she never told Abuela because she didn’t want her to know, and she said she didn’t need to after she met Papi, but now that you’ve been talking to her, she’s been thinking about it again. You should ask her about it.”
“She already told me,” Bruno says faintly, still looking mildly embarrassed at the fuss being paid over him.
Dolores, for once, looks surprised. “Oh. That’s good then.” She kisses him as well on the other cheek, then hauls out a chair next to Isabela.
“What’re we talking about?” says Camilo, popping in with Antonio in tow. Bruno goes from embarrassment to growing rapidly more dazed at everyone just strolling into his living room.
“Therapy,” says Luisa.
“Talking to people,” says Dolores at the same time.
“Counselors,” says Isabela over all of them.
“What are counselors?” asks Antonio, clambering over onto Dolores’s lap. She sits him down comfortably and hums a faint song while stroking his hair.
“People you talk to if you need help with something,” Isabela explains on his other side, ever the responsible oldest child.
“Oh, those.” Camilo joins Luisa in flopping on the couch. She kicks him off and he flops instead on the floor. Dolores conceals a snicker; Antonio doesn’t even bother. For a second he seems to consider fighting, but then he just sighs and resigns himself to a place on the floor. “I see one, too.”
“You do?” they all chorus in varying tones of disbelief.
“Yeah. Once a year. To go over my classes.”
They all groan. “Not those kind of counselors, Milo,” says Mirabel.
“Whatever. Same thing. They’re there to help, and they help.” He cocks his head at Mirabel’s project, eyeing the part hanging off the table. “Those are the weirdest teardrops I have ever seen.”
Mirabel tugs the shawl out of sight. “Those are flames!”
“They’re the most teardrop-y looking flames I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, the point is…” Mirabel bundles up her project to look back at Bruno. “A lot of us have been there. It’s not bad or shameful to get help from someone.” They all nod along with her.
Bruno manages a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. But maybe – maybe I need reminding. Sometimes.”
“Well, whenever you do, we’ll remind you,” says Mirabel.
“Or Mami will,” Camilo adds.
“Or our mom,” Luisa puts in.
“Heh. Yeah.” Bruno drops his head, then lifts it. “Thanks.”
Mirabel grins at him as an evil idea occurs to her. “Hey guys, I think Tío Bruno needs a group hug.”
“What?” Bruno stares frantically around at all of them. “Oh no no no, I’m good here–”
“Group hug!” Antonio crows, abandoning Dolores’s lap to run over to his tío.
And before Bruno can do more than put up the tiniest protest, Luisa, Isabela, and Dolores are all on him as well. Luisa proclaims, “I give the best hugs!” Camilo joins in, his impish grin suggesting that he’s doing it more out of a wish to make Bruno suffer than out of goodwill. When Mirabel dives in, it’s a complete hugfest, all of them intent on squishing Bruno with love and care.
“Okay, great, guys,” he says when they make no attempt to leave. Even his voice sounds squashed. “I’m good. Really good here.”
They disband to give Bruno a second to recover, and Mirabel changes subjects, sensing that he’s still feeling a bit uncomfortable, even if he secretly enjoys all the affection. “Hey, what are all of you doing here anyway?” Not that it isn’t weird to have several people in Bruno’s apartment at once, but it is unusual to see all of the youngest generation gathering there, like Bruno’s place is their unofficial crash pad.
“Uh, the weekly dinner?” Camilo retorts, raising his eyebrows at her as he retakes his place on the floor.
“Abuela says it’s going to be special,” Dolores murmurs. She beckons Antonio back over, presumably to smooth out his clothes in preparation. “It’ll be at her place.”
“She’s going to show off our mural,” Camilo declares.
“That was finished days ago, though,” Mirabel points out. “I think everyone in Casita has been to see it.” Which doesn’t make her swell with pride. It doesn’t. But the reminder makes her think, and she fluffs out her shawl. It’s practically done anyway… perhaps today is the best time to present it to Abuela.
“Is this the thing you’ve been working on all this time?” Isabela says, popping up behind her and startling Mirabel. Without waiting for a response, “Hey, this is all of us, isn’t it? Let me guess – I’m the flower.” A tiny frown crinkles her forehead. “You know, I’m way past the lavender phase of my life.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll add in some more color…” She grabs some of her other hanks of threads.
“Am I the weights again?” calls Luisa from the sofa.
“Look, I was trying to do symbols, I’m not stitching you guys’ portraits–” That’s what the mural was for.
“What’s that?” Antonio gestures as Isabela scoops him up from Dolores’s lap.
“Capybaras, primito, just for you!”
“That’s me?” Dolores, now Antonio-free, points to the earmuffs.
“I’m a chameleon, aren’t I? I need to put in for a name change…”
“You should see what Mami and Papi are…”
The babble of voices rises. Bruno raises his eyebrows at Mirabel and smiles. Antonio wriggles away from Isabela and comes around to the table, asking for more rat and guinea pig stories; Dolores and Isabela lose interest and start talking about their respective jobs; Camilo, resigned to his chameleon-status, decides it’s time to heckle Luisa again for a place on the sofa. Mirabel shuts it all out of her mind and bends over the shawl, finishing up the last details. She’s still a novice in many ways, and it shows in the crooked stitching, the places where she had to rip out old embroidery to put in new, areas that are too large or too small, not quite the right color or off-center. But when she unfurls it the imperfections do not detract from the overall look – in fact, Mirabel decides they add to it. It was made with love and with the skills she has grown over the last year, and that is enough.
At the dinner that night, they are all scattered about Abuela’s dining room. The place still has the faint smell of newly hewn wood and fresh paint from its recent rebuilding, the surfaces are losing their shine and getting more of their former wear and splatters. The family portrait has been repainted; the photos have been placed up on walls and new ones added to fill in the spaces. Mirabel is there too, and Bruno.
And another difference: there are no longer just posed photos of awards or ceremonies or accomplishments. There are others too: a photo of Julieta and Pepa and Bruno, laughing as they shove each other on a playground. One of Julieta and Agustín, holding each other, standing in front of the apartment kitchen, no special occasion apparent, just taking a photo for no reason. A similar one of Pepa and Félix shows them sitting on a bench together in a park, beaming. Bruno, his face a picture of concentration as he bends over his rat cage. Photos of Isabela and Luisa and Mirabel together, playing with their toys; of Dolores and Camilo, welcoming Antonio into the family. All of them out celebrating after Dolores’s engagement, the adults half-tipsy with drink, the younger generation all taking it upon themselves to tease Dolores, only Abuela making an attempt to be serious, and even she seems to be hiding a tiny smile.
And the mural was finished.
“Ay Mira, Brunito,” Abuela had said when she looked upon it. “It’s wonderful.” She had run her hands over each of their painted faces, lingering on Pedro’s, drawn from memory, their replacement because Abuelo Pedro’s portrait was lost, as was the candle. Abuela had her little miniature, but the original was gone, the things she had brought all the way from Colombia.
“It was only a painting,” Abuela had told them. “Just as this is. I love it, yes, but because you helped make it. Pedro will always be with us. I see him in all of you.” And she had touched each of her children’s, and grandchildren’s, cheeks, arrayed out from beneath Abuela Alma and Abuelo Pedro, the next generation flying out to make their own lives.
For the occasion, they’ve abandoned their usual places for something more informal. Abuela has seated herself near her three children, while Julieta is next to Agustín and Pepa next to Félix. Camilo has devilishly seated himself between Mariano and Dolores, but is looking like he regrets it as Dolores pointedly ignores him to engage in nauseatingly lovesick conversations with Mariano. Luisa has abandoned her usual spot at the end to squish herself in with Isabela and Mirabel, while Bruno, who has an eye on Antonio in front of him, surreptitiously pushes himself on his chair until he’s next to Mirabel.
When she pulls out the shawl and hesitates, he smiles encouragingly at her and nudges her forward.
“Um,” Mirabel says, only relaxing when Abuela turns and smiles at her. “Here, Abuela. For you.”
Abuela unfurls the shawl. Only the tiniest indrawn gasp betrays her awe at what she sees, but it is more than enough. “Oh, Mira,” Abuela murmurs. Still holding it, she cups Mirabel’s cheeks. “Mirabel, mi vida… it is beautiful.”
She’s wearing it when she unveils the last part of the evening, a camera of the old-fashioned variety, on a tripod with Mariano behind it, and the finished mural in the living room, photos all around it, for all of them to take a family portrait to replace the one lost.
“Everyone!” proclaims Abuela, and they all get up out of their seats, the legs scraping against the floor, a mass of people arguing and pushing and elbowing each other into position. Abuela stands in the center, serene, watching the controlled chaos with none of her usual urge for perfectionism but a newfound tranquility. One side is occupied with Julieta, Agustín, Isabela with her gorgeous new style, and Luisa in the back right by her. On the other Pepa, Félix, Dolores and Camilo together, Antonio in front of them, holding Chispi. Mirabel tries to take her usual place at the end, but Abuela is beckoning her over, and Bruno too, the three of them in the center, Abuela with her magnificent new shawl spread over her shoulders. Bruno grins, a little shyly, and takes Mirabel’s arm.
“Together!” exclaims Abuela, as Mariano gives them a thumbs up. “La Familia Madrigal–”
The camera goes off one second earlier than it should have, catching them with their eyes closed, their faces pulled in a grimace, a smile only half-forming, and they all clamor to get another shot, a better one – but Abuela only laughs, and proclaims it will go on the wall regardless, that it is perfect in all its imperfections.
“Mirabel,” says Abuela afterwards, with a touch of her old imperiousness. “It is so wonderful.” She indicates the shawl. “I must share it with everyone.”
“Oh Abuela…” She’s sure she’s blushing. Never has Abuela made such a fuss over anything she’s done. “Seriously, it’s fine, everyone saw it at dinner, and it’s in a photo! I definitely think we won’t forget it.” Especially if Abuela takes to wearing it everywhere.
“But we must have some other way of remembering it,” Abuela insists. “To show it to others. Come…” And from out of a utensil drawer, she pulls out her phone. “Show me how to put it in this… chat that the familia has.”
Mirabel thinks she hears her brain exploding.
Hours later, Bruno closes the door of his apartment and reclines against the wall, decompressing after the wearing events of the evening.
It’s not that he doesn’t like it – he does! He does, he does, he does. The warmth of belonging, of being able to speak of things he could not speak of before, of no longer always being the one to mess things up, of no longer being afraid of all the ways he’ll mess things up – it was something he never thought he’d feel.
But sometimes, he just needs to be alone.
It’s still a little odd to be here, here in the Casita, to think that he can make his way over to any of his hermanas’ apartments whenever he wants. It’s weird to cross the length of the place, much longer than the dingy apartment he’d occupied for a decade, to what he had in his mind always thought of as the bed – not his bed – and then later as Mirabel’s bed. A bit strange to not be on the battered sofa, its grooves familiar (somewhat to the regret of his aging backside). Sometimes he would turn around, lost in thought, and be momentarily disoriented because that’s now what the kitchen looks like, that’s not my table, that’s not where the chairs are supposed to be…
But the scratching of the rats is familiar as they run about their cage (because while Abuela might tolerate having rats as pets, she put her foot down when it came to letting them roam about Casita, having babies in the walls). The whisper of wind through the beams and the soothing sighs of the building settling for the night – familiar too. And if it sometimes became too familiar – if he wakes up at night forgetting where he was, thinking that with his mismatched furniture about, he was still trapped in his other apartment, in his unbearable loneliness, away from his family – then he had only to look at the new things around him to get his bearings.
Isabela’s vine, growing almost despite his lack of care (it helps that she comes by every weekend to check up on it). The photo of Luisa at a city fair, wielding her newly won unicorn like a weapon, propped on his end table (she put it in a simple frame before presenting it to him). The small things Abuela had brought over to brighten his room, a rug, some sheets, a new set of plates. An armchair poking out of the corner of the living room, one that Julieta and Pepa had foisted on him and would practically shove him into when they visited. The large, square shape of the piano that Agustín and Félix had hauled into his place, insisting that it was because they had no space for it but really an excuse for them to come over and hang around, chatting him up. Dolores had left her guitar next to it; Antonio had added a wheel to his rat cage and he could hear it creaking as they ran on it; a pile of rags was probably Camilo’s costumes that he refuses to clean up.
He doesn’t think Mirabel’s put anything in his apartment yet. She doesn’t need to. Her whole presence infuses it; she was the one who had made this all possible, when he had thought that he could never and would never return.
Wait. She did sew that hourglass on his sweater. So she has left something of herself around.
He makes his way to his bed, stepping over the cracks of the wood floor planks. Except one. He can risk one. He steps on it deliberately, trying not to hold his breath in anticipation of the ceiling falling on his head.
It doesn’t. He moves on.
Relaxing on the mattress, he lets his knuckles slide, but not knock, over the bed headrest. Okay, maybe one knock. A gentle one, not enough to even scrape the surface off his skin. He finishes it, then holds his hand deliberately over the wood, letting it hover. He could do it. He won’t, though. It’s just a habit. A comforting one, but a habit. It won’t bring or negate bad luck.
Again, deliberately, he lets his hand settle. Not near his head, or else the urge to smack bone against skull might overtake him. He’s still working on that. The shivering too – that still grips him now and then. Now, especially. He breathes, though, as he was told to – four seconds in through the nose, four with breath held, four out through the mouth. Again. He takes hold of the blankets beneath him, running the texture through his fingers, trying to feel each individual thread. No counting though. That could grip him just as relentlessly as the ritual – habit – of tossing salt over his shoulder. But feeling it is fine, it steadies him.
It takes a few moments for the tremors to subside, but subside they do. He sinks more fully into the bed, feeling the small tension of the last few hours dissipate as well. Sometimes things would… go badly, but… he was figuring out that they would also pass. And when they did – and even in the midst of them – he was no longer alone. He was home, with his familia.
Mamá, who stroked his hair when he felt himself start to float. Julieta and Pepa, who rub slow circles on his back when they feel him tense up. Félix and Agustín, who would do breathing exercises with him until his heartbeat smooths out. Isabela who brings a bouquet of subtly sweet scents, nothing heavy that would intensify his stress headache; Dolores who offers him her earmuffs when the noise gets too much; Luisa who crowds him into a safe corner when he feels too many eyes on him; Camilo who doesn’t stare or treat him with kid gloves but makes the silliest, stupidest jokes that never fails to make him laugh; Antonio who brings him a rat and gently guides his fingers over their fur when he feels lost. And Mirabel, who takes his hands when he loses focus and says nothing with her words but everything with her eyes.
When he opens his eyes, he sees his phone has lit up with a new message.
It’s not the only one. He’s just been keeping his phone on silent most of the night, lest the urge to check it every time it vibrates drive him to distraction. He scrolls to the oldest of the new messages, sent from the GUYS IN LOVE WITH THE FAMILY MADRIGAL group chat.
FELIX: Happy hour at Las Margaritas!
AGUSTIN: Felix, you know Bruno…
FELIX: I didn’t say we would be drinking! Just to hang out as bros
AGUSTIN: Speaking of which, do you want to invite Mariano to this chat?
FELIX: Sure, he can see what kind of family he’s marrying into
The next most recent was Pepa, dominating the TRIPLETS REUNITE group chat with her work rants, while he and Julieta occasionally contribute.
PEPA: And I SAID that it was irrelevant to the case
PEPA: But the judge ALLOWS it
PEPA: This judge is going to kill me. KILL ME
JULIETA: There there, Pepa
BRUNO: Remember your mantra, Pepi
PEPA: I can’t mantra in court Bruno!
JULIETA: I think you need an anger list
For some reason, he was in the SO MANY KIDS IN THIS HOUSE chat that Dolores, Camilo, and Antonio had created. The last texts had been only a couple hours ago, probably right during the dinner.
CAMILO: so since the grandkid chat is IGNORING me
CAMILO: round of applause for the mural everyone
CAMILO: esp me
DOLORES: you only did the background
CAMILO: imma need a source for that
DOLORES: mirabel
CAMILO: mirabel is a lying liar who lies
DOLORES: isa
CAMILO: isabela didnt even do anything
DOLORES: tio bruno
CAMILO: how dare he
And, of course, the CHAT OF THREE SISTERS.
ISABELA: Guys, check out this new shipment of dwarf fruit trees!
LUISA: Looks good
LUISA: Do you need help carrying them to the front?
ISABELA: No, I got it!
The GRANDKID ROUNDUP chat has also had an update.
CAMILO: I still think they’re teardrops
MIRABEL: Milo let it go!
Meanwhile, everyone had been ominously quiet in the FAMILY MADRIGAL chat since this:
ABUELA: Family, why is everyone saying Bruno is dead?
But the latest text he got wasn’t from any of the group chats. It was one sent just to him. Mirabel’s name pops up at the top.
Of course it’s Mirabel. As warmth curls in his chest, he picks up the phone.
An apartment away, Mirabel relaxes in bed, scrolling through her own messages. It’s the usual round of group and individual chats – Camilo, between firing back at her over the mural, also wants her to tell her Tía Pepa and Tío Félix that he had an unexpected rehearsal tomorrow (“You tell them, they’re your parents!” she texts right back), her mom telling her that she would be out late and that there were leftovers in the fridge, updates in the group chats (she has a feeling nobody’s going to be talking in the family group chat for a while after Abuela’s text). As she flips through them, she sees one she hasn’t used, not since he moved back in. Smiling a little, she sends off a text.
MIRABEL: Goodnight Tio
She doesn’t expect a reply, but one comes just a few minutes later.
BRUNO: Goodnight Mirabel
BRUNO: You know I’m in the apartment next to you, right
Mirabel laughs.
MIRABEL: It’s just like old times
MIRABEL: But better
MIRABEL: Right?
BRUNO: Yeah
BRUNO: A lot better
BRUNO: Thank you
Mirabel smiles again. Reaching over, she flicks off the lamp, leaving only the glow of her phone screen.
MIRABEL: Night Tio
BRUNO: Night Mirabel
BRUNO: I’ll see you tomorrow
END