Faded Jeans Bright Skies

The first time I saw Junior, he was stealing a bag of frozen peas.

Not stealing exactly. He was standing in the freezer aisle of the Save-A-Lot on Delmar, holding the peas against his jaw like a cold compress, his eyes squeezed shut. He had a split lip and a bruise coming up purple on his cheekbone, and he was wearing a hoodie that had seen better days, the kind of gray that used to be black. I was there for ice cream because my roommate Becca had just texted me that her boyfriend dumped her via a Post-it note, and I figured mint chocolate chip was the least I could do.

The peas were dripping. A little puddle had formed at his feet, and he didn't seem to notice or care.

"You know those aren't free," I said.

He opened his eyes. Dark brown, almost black, with these ridiculous lashes that any girl would kill for. He looked at me like he was trying to decide whether I was a threat or a joke.

"I'm good for it," he said. His voice was rougher than I expected, like he'd been yelling or crying or both.

"The peas or the face?"

That got a laugh out of him, a short one that ended in a wince. He touched his lip and came away with a spot of blood on his finger. "Both, probably. But the peas are a lost cause. They're gonna thaw before I make it to the register."

I should've walked away. That's what a normal person does. You see a guy bleeding in the frozen foods section, you mind your business. But I've never been good at that. My grandmother used to say I had a sickness, this compulsion to stick my nose where it didn't belong. She said it with love, mostly.

"Come on," I said, and I grabbed a fresh bag of peas from the shelf and a box of Band-Aids from the endcap because I'd noticed they had them there, the kind with the little cartoon dinosaurs on them. "I'll buy you the peas. You can owe me."

He stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "You don't know me."

"I know you're bleeding on the floor of a grocery store. That's enough for now."

His name was Marcus, but everyone called him Junior. He told me that while we sat on the curb outside, the peas pressed to his face, the dinosaur Band-Aids stuck across his knuckles because he had cuts there too, ones he hadn't mentioned. He told me he was a junior at the university, studying computer science, which was a lie he was telling himself because his father wanted him to be an engineer and he didn't know how to say no.

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

He looked at me sideways, that bruise already darkening under his eye. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, if you could do anything. If your dad wasn't in the picture. What would you do?"

He was quiet for a long time. The parking lot lights hummed overhead, and a car drove past with music bleeding out the windows, something with a heavy bass line that rattled my teeth. He picked at the label on the peas, peeling it back little by little.

"I'd write," he said finally. "Stupid stuff. Stories. Jokes. I don't know."

"It's not stupid."

"You don't even know me."

"I know you're bleeding on a curb outside a Save-A-Lot, and you still found time to make me laugh. That's not nothing."

He smiled then, a real one, and I felt something shift in my chest. Something small and warm and entirely inconvenient.

I was nineteen years old, a sophomore at the same university, living in a cramped apartment with Becca and a cat that hated me. I had a work-study job at the library and a boyfriend named Kyle who was tall and blond and boring in a way that I hadn't noticed until that exact moment, sitting next to a stranger with a bloody lip and a bag of melting peas.

I didn't know then that Junior would become the axis my whole world turned on. I didn't know that the next two years would be a series of small betrayals and large ones, of secrets kept and truths revealed, of my family's quiet, devastating disapproval and his family's fierce, suffocating love. I didn't know that I would learn to measure time in the spaces between his phone calls, in the weight of his hand on my lower back, in the way he said my name like it was a prayer and a question all at once.

Julissa. Three syllables. He stretched it out until it sounded like music.

But that night, I just knew I didn't want to leave him there.

"Give me your phone," I said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"So I can put my number in it. You can pay me back for the peas."

"I don't have a phone."

"What?"

He shrugged, and the movement was careful, like his ribs hurt too. "Broke it. A couple weeks ago. It's fine."

It wasn't fine. Nothing about him was fine, and I could see that, but I could also see the way he held himself, the pride that kept his spine straight even when everything else was falling apart. He wasn't going to ask for help. He wasn't going to admit he needed it.

So I did what I always do. I pushed.

"Then I'll give you my number on a piece of paper, and you can call me from a payphone like it's 1995."

He laughed again, and this time he didn't wince. "You're weird."

"I know."

"I like it."

I felt my face go hot. The parking lot lights buzzed. Somewhere behind us, the automatic doors of the Save-A-Lot slid open and closed, open and closed, a rhythm like breathing.

"Julissa," I said. "That's my name."

"Julissa." He tested it out, rolled it around in his mouth. "I'm Junior."

"I know. You told me."

"I know I told you. I just like saying it. Makes it official."

I tore a corner off the receipt and wrote my number in blue ink, the pen I always kept in my back pocket because my grandmother had told me once that you never know when you'll need to write something down. She was right about a lot of things. She was wrong about Junior.

Or maybe she wasn't. Maybe she saw something I couldn't, something that would take me years to understand. But that night, I just handed him the paper and stood up, brushing dust off my jeans.

"Call me when you get a phone," I said. "Or don't. But if you don't, I'll find you."

He looked up at me, and his eyes were dark and bright and full of something I couldn't name. "Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise."

I walked away before he could respond. My heart was beating too fast, and my hands were shaking a little, and I didn't know why. I didn't know anything except that I wanted to turn around and look at him one more time, and I didn't let myself.

Becca was on the couch when I got home, surrounded by tissues and empty Ben & Jerry's containers. She looked up when I walked in, her eyes red and swollen.

"Did you get the ice cream?"

I looked down at my hands. I'd forgotten it entirely.

"No," I said. "I got distracted."

"By what?"

I thought about the boy on the curb, the peas, the dinosaur Band-Aids. I thought about the way he'd said my name, like he was already memorizing it.

"Nothing," I said. "Just some guy."

Becca snorted. "There's no such thing as just some guy."

She was right about that too.

---

Three weeks passed. I didn't hear from him. I told myself I didn't care, that it was a fluke, a random encounter that meant nothing. I went to class. I studied for exams. I let Kyle kiss me in the library stacks and tried not to think about dark eyes and a split lip.

But I looked for him everywhere. In the cafeteria, in the quad, in the crowded hallways between classes. I scanned faces until my eyes hurt, and every time I saw a gray hoodie, my heart did this stupid little flip that I couldn't control.

It was pathetic. I knew it was pathetic. I'd known the guy for twenty minutes, and most of those minutes he was bleeding.

But I couldn't stop thinking about him.

I started writing in my journal again, something I hadn't done since high school. I wrote about the way the light hit his face in the parking lot, the way his hands looked wrapped around that bag of peas, the way he'd said I like it when I told him I was weird. I wrote about the bruise on his cheek and wondered who'd put it there. I wrote about his father, the engineer he didn't want to be, and I wondered what it would take to make him choose something else.

I wrote about the way he made me feel like I was standing on the edge of something, a cliff or a wave, and I couldn't tell if I was going to fall or fly.

And then, on a Tuesday afternoon in October, my phone rang.

Unknown number. I almost didn't answer. I was in the middle of a paper on Victorian literature, and I was already three pages behind, and I had a shift at the library in an hour. But something made me pick up.

"Julissa?"

His voice was different on the phone. Softer. Like he was calling from somewhere quiet, somewhere private.

"Junior?"

"Yeah." A pause. "I got a phone."

"I can tell."

"It's a piece of crap. But it works."

"That's all you need."

Another pause. I could hear him breathing, slow and steady, and I wondered where he was. What he was looking at. If he was smiling.

"I owe you for the peas," he said.

"You do."

"And the Band-Aids."

"And the Band-Aids."

"So I was thinking. Maybe I could buy you dinner. To say thanks."

My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it through the phone. "You don't have to do that."

"I know. But I want to."

I closed my eyes. The Victorian paper was forgotten. The library shift was forgotten. Everything was forgotten except the sound of his voice, low and warm, like he was telling me a secret.

"Okay," I said. "When?"

"Tonight?"

"Tonight."

"Seven o'clock. I'll meet you at the fountain in the quad."

"I'll be there."

"Julissa?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for answering."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I just said, "See you at seven," and hung up, and then I sat there for a full minute, staring at my phone like it had transformed into something magical.

Becca found me like that, frozen at my desk, and she knew immediately. She always knew.

"Who was that?"

"No one."

"Liar."

"Fine. The guy from the grocery store."

"The bleeding guy? The one you've been moping about for three weeks?"

"I haven't been moping."

"You've been insufferable. It's the same thing."

I threw a pen at her. She caught it, laughing.

"Go," she said. "I'll cover your shift at the library. Just tell me everything when you get back."

"I will."

"And Julissa?"

"Yeah?"

"Wear something cute."

I did. I wore a yellow sundress that my grandmother had bought me, the one with the little flowers embroidered along the hem, and I left my hair down the way I knew he liked it, even though I didn't know how I knew. I put on the locket, the one with my grandmother's picture inside, and I told myself I wasn't nervous.

I was lying.

The fountain in the quad was this big, ugly concrete thing that the university had installed in the seventies and never bothered to update. It had a statue of a bear in the middle, the school mascot, and the water was always a little green because no one ever cleaned it. But it was a landmark, a meeting place, and when I got there at 6:55, he was already waiting.

He looked better than he had that night. The bruise was mostly gone, just a faint yellow shadow under his eye, and his lip had healed. He was wearing a clean shirt, a button-down that was a little too big for him, and jeans that were faded but not ripped. He'd tried. I could tell.

"You're early," I said.

"So are you."

"I'm always early."

"Me too."

We stood there for a second, both of us smiling like idiots, and then he said, "You look nice."

"Thanks. You too."

"I look like I'm going to a job interview."

"Better than looking like you're going to bleed on the floor of a grocery store."

He laughed, that same short laugh from before, and I felt something loosen in my chest. "Fair point."

We went to this little Mexican place a few blocks off campus, a hole in the wall with plastic tablecloths and a jukebox that only played Selena. Junior ordered for both of us in Spanish, and the waitress smiled at him like she knew him, like he was family.

"You come here a lot?" I asked.

"When I can afford it."

"And when you can't?"

"I don't eat."

He said it like a joke, but I could see the truth underneath. The way his collarbones stuck out a little too sharp. The way he ate his food slowly, like he was savoring it, like he wasn't sure when he'd get another meal.

"Junior."

"What?"

"Are you okay?"

He looked at me, and for a second, the mask slipped. I saw something tired and scared and very young, something he didn't want anyone to see. Then it was gone, replaced by that easy grin.

"I'm fine," he said. "I'm always fine."

"You don't have to be."

"I know."

But he didn't say anything else. He just took another bite of his enchilada and asked me about my paper on Victorian literature, and I let him change the subject because I could tell he needed to.

We talked for three hours. He told me about his family, his father who worked two jobs and still couldn't pay the bills, his mother who'd died when he was twelve, his little sister who was still in high school and thought he hung the moon. He told me about the scholarship that had gotten him into the university, the one he was terrified of losing. He told me about the writing he did in secret, the stories he kept in a notebook under his mattress, the jokes he told himself when things got bad.

I told him about my grandmother, the one who'd raised me after my parents died, the one who'd given me the locket and told me to never take it off. I told him about my fear of being ordinary, of living a life that didn't matter. I told him things I'd never told anyone, not even Becca, and I didn't know why.

It was easy with him. It was the easiest thing in the world.

When we left the restaurant, it was almost ten. The air had that crisp October bite, and I shivered in my sundress, and Junior noticed.

"Here," he said, and he took off his jacket, this old denim thing that was soft from years of wear, and draped it over my shoulders.

"You'll be cold."

"I'm always cold. Doesn't matter."

We walked back to campus slowly, neither of us wanting the night to end. The quad was empty, the fountain still burbling, the bear statue looking slightly less ugly in the moonlight.

"Can I see you again?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Good." He stopped walking, and I stopped too, and we stood there in the shadow of the bear, close enough that I could smell him, soap and something else, something warm and masculine that made my stomach flip.

"Julissa."

"Yeah?"

He reached out and touched my face, just his fingertips against my cheek, and I felt it everywhere. My whole body lit up like a Christmas tree.

"I don't know what this is," he said. "But I don't want it to stop."

"Me neither."

He kissed me then. Soft and slow and sweet, like he was asking a question, like he was waiting for me to answer. I answered by kissing him back, by pulling him closer, by letting his jacket fall to the ground because I didn't need it anymore.

I was warm. I was burning.

When we finally pulled apart, he was smiling, that real smile that I'd seen only once before, and I knew I was in trouble.

"Goodnight, Julissa."

"Goodnight, Junior."

I walked home in a daze, his jacket still around my shoulders, and when I got to my apartment, Becca was waiting on the couch.

"Well?"

I sat down next to her. I couldn't stop smiling.

"I'm in trouble," I said.

"What kind of trouble?"

"The kind where I'm going to fall in love with him and it's going to ruin everything."

Becca looked at me for a long moment. Then she said, "Maybe it won't."

"Maybe it will."

"Maybe that's not the worst thing."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I just leaned my head on her shoulder and let her hold me, and I thought about Junior, about his hands, about his mouth, about the way he'd said my name.

Julissa. Three syllables. A prayer and a question.

I was already falling.

---

The next few weeks were a blur of stolen hours and whispered secrets. We saw each other every day, sometimes for just a few minutes between classes, sometimes for whole afternoons in the library, where he'd study for his computer science exams and I'd read Victorian novels and we'd pass notes back and forth like middle schoolers.

The notes were my favorite part. He'd write little jokes, little observations, little pieces of himself on scraps of paper. I kept them all in a shoebox under my bed, and sometimes I'd take them out and read them again, just to remind myself that he was real.

*You have a freckle on your left cheek that looks like a star.*

*I think your laugh is my favorite sound in the world.*

*I wrote a story last night. It was about a girl who fell in love with a boy who couldn't afford to take her anywhere nice. She didn't care. She just wanted to be with him.*

*I'm the boy, in case that wasn't clear.*

I wrote back.

*You're not a boy. You're a man. And I don't care about nice.*

*I care about you.*

He didn't respond to that one. But the next day, he showed up at my apartment with a flower, just one, a daisy he'd picked from somewhere, and he looked so nervous that I almost cried.

"It's not much," he said.

"It's perfect."

"You deserve more."

"I deserve you."

He kissed me then, right there in the doorway, and Becca walked in on us and made gagging noises, and we both laughed so hard we couldn't breathe.

It was good. It was so good.

But I knew it couldn't last.

---

The first sign of trouble came in November.

I was at my grandmother's house for Thanksgiving, sitting at the kitchen table while she peeled potatoes, and she asked me the question I'd been dreading.

"Are you seeing anyone?"

I hesitated. My grandmother was old, but she wasn't blind. She'd raised me since I was six years old, and she knew me better than anyone.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"His name is Junior."

"Junior?" She raised an eyebrow. "What kind of name is that?"

"It's a nickname. His real name is Marcus."

She set down the potato peeler and looked at me, really looked at me, with those sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. "And what does Marcus do?"

"He's a student. At the university."

"What's he studying?"

"Computer science."

"That's a good field."

I didn't say anything. I just kept peeling potatoes, my hands moving automatically, my mind somewhere else.

"Julissa."

"Yeah?"

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

I thought about Junior. About his worn-out hoodie and his empty fridge and his father who worked two jobs and still couldn't pay the bills. I thought about the way he kissed me, like I was something precious, something worth protecting.

"He's poor," I said. "His family doesn't have much."

My grandmother was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "Does he make you happy?"

"Yes."

"Does he treat you well?"

"Yes."

"Then what's the problem?"

I looked at her, and I felt tears prick at my eyes. "I don't know. I just... I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"Of what people will think. Of what you'll think."

She reached across the table and took my hand. Her skin was papery and warm, and her grip was surprisingly strong.

"I think," she said slowly, "that you are the only person whose opinion matters. And I think that if this boy makes you happy, then you should be with him. The rest is just noise."

I wanted to believe her. I really did.

But I knew my grandmother. I knew the world she came from, the world she'd raised me in. She believed in hard work and good manners and marrying someone with prospects. She believed in the kind of life that was safe and predictable and nothing like the life Junior could offer me.

She was being kind. But kindness wasn't the same as acceptance.

---

Junior's family was different.

I met them in December, a week before Christmas. He took me to his apartment, a cramped two-bedroom on the south side of town, and his father opened the door.

"Papá," Junior said. "This is Julissa."

His father looked at me for a long moment. He was a small man, wiry and weathered, with the same dark eyes as Junior and the same tired smile. He was wearing a work shirt with his name embroidered on the pocket, and his hands were rough and calloused.

"Julissa," he said, and his accent was thick, but his voice was warm. "Junior talks about you all the time."

"He does?"

"All the time. I'm starting to think you're the only thing he talks about."

Junior groaned. "Papá."

"Come in, come in. Dinner's almost ready."

The apartment was small, but it was full. Full of people, full of noise, full of life. Junior's little sister, Sofia, was sitting on the couch, doing her homework, and she looked up when I walked in with the same dark eyes, the same mischievous grin.

"You're prettier than he said," she announced.

"Sofia," Junior warned.

"What? She is."

I laughed. "Thank you. I think."

Junior's father had made tamales, the real kind, the kind that took all day. The kitchen smelled like cumin and chili and something sweet, and I stood there awkwardly while Junior set the table, feeling like an intruder.

"Sit," his father said. "You're family now."

I sat.

Dinner was loud and chaotic and wonderful. Sofia asked me a million questions about myself, about my family, about why I was so short. Junior's father told stories about Junior when he was little, embarrassing ones that made Junior hide his face in his hands. There was a pitcher of horchata on the table, and someone had put on a Selena album, and the whole apartment felt like it was vibrating with warmth.

I thought about my grandmother's house, quiet and orderly and cold. I thought about the way she'd looked at me when I told her about Junior, the way she'd said *the rest is just noise* like it was something she believed, even though I knew she didn't.

I thought about how different this was. How alive.

After dinner, Junior walked me to my car. The night was cold, and I could see my breath in the air, and he pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me.

"You survived," he said.

"Your family is amazing."

"They're a lot."

"They're perfect."

He kissed the top of my head. "They liked you. Sofia already asked if you were coming back."

"I want to come back."

"Good."

We stood there for a while, just holding each other, and I felt something settle in my chest. Something that felt like certainty.

"Junior."

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

He went still. For a second, I thought I'd made a mistake, that I'd said too much, too soon. But then he pulled back and looked at me, and his eyes were wet.

"I love you too," he said. "I've loved you since the first time I saw you. Standing in that grocery store, looking at me like I was a person and not a problem."

"You were bleeding on the floor."

"I know. And you still saw me."

I kissed him then, hard, and he kissed me back, and we stood there in the cold for a long time, neither of us wanting to let go.

I didn't know what was coming. I didn't know about the fights, the tears, the long nights of wondering if we were making a mistake. I didn't know about my grandmother's ultimatum, or Junior's pride, or the way everything would fall apart before it came back together.

But I knew I loved him. And that was enough.

For now.

---

The trouble started in January.

I was back at school, back to the routine of classes and papers and library shifts, and Junior was... different. Distracted. He'd been quiet over break, our phone calls shorter than usual, and when I saw him again, there were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there before.

"Hey," I said, when he opened his apartment door. "You look tired."

"I'm fine."

"You always say that."

"Because I'm always fine."

I stepped inside. The apartment was messier than usual, clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink, and Junior's laptop was open on the coffee table, a half-finished essay on the screen.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Junior."

He sighed. He ran his hands through his hair, and I noticed they were shaking.

"My scholarship," he said. "They're reviewing it. There's been some... issues."

"What kind of issues?"

"Financial. They think my family makes too much money now. My dad got a raise, and it pushed us over the threshold, and now they're saying I might not qualify for next semester."

I felt my stomach drop. "But you need that scholarship."

"I know."

"Without it, you can't..."

"I know, Julissa."

He sat down on the couch, and I sat next to him, and I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to fix this. I didn't know if it could be fixed.

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to appeal. But it takes time, and I don't have time. I've got tuition due in two weeks, and if I can't pay it..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

"I can help," I said.

"No."

"Junior, I have savings. My grandmother left me some money, and I can loan it to you..."

"No."

"Why not?"

He looked at me, and his eyes were hard. "Because I'm not going to take your money. I'm not going to be that guy."

"What guy?"

"The guy who can't take care of himself. The guy who needs his girlfriend to bail him out."

"That's not..."

"That's exactly what it is." He stood up, started pacing. "I've been taking care of myself my whole life. I've been the one who holds it together, who makes sure everyone else is okay. And now you want to swoop in and save me, and I can't... I can't let you do that."

"I'm not trying to save you. I'm trying to help you."

"Same thing."

"It's not the same thing."

"It is to me."

We stared at each other. The apartment was quiet, except for the sound of traffic outside, the distant hum of the city.

"I love you," I said. "And I want to be with you. And that means when you're struggling, I struggle too. That's what it means."

"I know."

"Then let me help."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because if I let you help me, then I'm admitting that I can't do it alone. And I've never admitted that to anyone."

I stood up. I walked over to him. I took his face in my hands, and I made him look at me.

"You don't have to do it alone," I said. "You never have to do it alone again. That's what I'm here for. That's what love is."

He closed his eyes. A tear slipped down his cheek, and I wiped it away with my thumb.

"I'm scared," he whispered.

"I know."

"I don't want to lose you."

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"I do know that. Because I'm not going anywhere. No matter what happens, I'm not going anywhere."

He kissed me then, desperate and hungry, and I kissed him back, and we fell onto the couch together, tangled up in each other, and for a little while, the world disappeared.

But the problem didn't.

---

The next few weeks were a blur of meetings and phone calls and paperwork. Junior appealed his scholarship, and I helped him fill out forms, and we waited. And waited. And waited.

In the meantime, I started picking up extra shifts at the library. I told myself it was for the money, that I was saving up for something, but really, I was just trying to keep busy. Trying not to think about what would happen if the appeal didn't go through.

Becca noticed. She always noticed.

"You're stressed," she said one night, when I came home at midnight, exhausted and hungry.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"Maybe a little."

"Talk to me."

So I talked. I told her about Junior's scholarship, about the tuition, about the way he'd refused my help. I told her about the fight, about the way he'd looked at me, like I was both his salvation and his doom.

"He's proud," Becca said. "That's not a bad thing."

"It's not a good thing either."

"Maybe not. But it's who he is. You can't change that."

"I don't want to change him. I just want him to let me in."

Becca was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Have you ever thought that maybe he's not used to being let in? That maybe no one's ever offered before?"

I hadn't thought about that. I'd been so focused on my own frustration, my own need to fix things, that I hadn't stopped to consider what it might be like for him. To have someone who wanted to help, after a lifetime of having no one.

"I'm an idiot," I said.

"You're not an idiot. You're in love. It's basically the same thing."

I laughed. It felt good to laugh.

"Thanks, Becca."

"Anytime. Now go to bed. You look like death."

I went to bed. But I didn't sleep. I lay there in the dark, thinking about Junior, about his tired eyes and his shaking hands, about the way he'd said *I'm scared* like it was a confession.

I thought about what I could do. What I could say. How I could show him that I wasn't going anywhere.

And then I had an idea.

---

The next morning, I went to see my grandmother.

She was in the garden, tending to her roses, and she looked up when I walked through the gate. She didn't seem surprised to see me. She never did.

"Julissa," she said. "You look tired."

"I am tired."

"Come inside. I'll make tea."

We sat at the kitchen table, the same table where we'd had the conversation about Junior, and I told her everything. About the scholarship, about the tuition, about the way Junior wouldn't let me help.

"He sounds proud," she said.

"He is."

"Good. You don't want a man who isn't proud."

"I want a man who lets me in."

She sipped her tea. She looked at me over the rim of her cup, and her eyes were sharp and knowing.

"You love him."

"Yes."

"More than you've loved anyone."

"Yes."

"Then you have to decide what you're willing to do. What you're willing to sacrifice."

"I'm willing to sacrifice anything."

"Are you?"

I didn't answer. Because I didn't know. I didn't know what she was asking, or what it would cost.

"Julissa," she said, "I'm going to tell you something, and I want you to listen. When I was young, I fell in love with a man who wasn't right for me. He was poor, and my family disapproved, and I let them talk me out of it. I married someone else, someone with money, someone with prospects. And I was miserable. For forty years, I was miserable."

I stared at her. I'd never heard this story before.

"Your grandfather was a good man," she continued. "He provided for me. He took care of me. But he wasn't the love of my life. And I've spent every day since wondering what would have happened if I'd been brave enough to choose differently."

"Grandma..."

"I don't want that for you. I don't want you to spend your life wondering. If you love this boy, if he makes you happy, then you fight for him. You do whatever it takes. Do you understand?"

I nodded. I couldn't speak. There were tears in my eyes, and I couldn't speak.

"Good." She reached across the table and took my hand. "Now. Tell me what you need."

---

I went to Junior's apartment that night. I had a check in my pocket, the money my grandmother had given me, enough to cover his tuition for the semester. I knew he'd be angry. I knew he'd refuse. But I also knew I had to try.

He opened the door, and he looked worse than he had before. His eyes were red, like he'd been crying, and his hands were shaking.

"Julissa."

"I know," I said. "I know you don't want my help. But I'm not here to help you. I'm here to be with you. And if that means I use my money to pay your tuition, then that's what it means. Because I'm not going to let you drop out. I'm not going to let you give up on your dreams. Not when I can do something about it."

He stared at me. He didn't say anything.

"I know you're proud," I continued. "I know you've been taking care of yourself your whole life. But you don't have to anymore. You have me now. And I'm not going anywhere."

"You don't have to do this."

"I know."

"I don't deserve..."

"Stop." I stepped closer to him, and I put my hand on his chest, and I felt his heart beating under my palm. "You deserve everything. You deserve the world. And I'm going to give it to you, whether you like it or not."

He laughed. It was a wet, broken sound, but it was a laugh.

"You're stubborn," he said.

"I know."

"I love that about you."

"I know."

He pulled me into his arms, and he held me tight, and I felt his body shake with sobs. I held him back. I held him until he stopped.

"I love you," he said. "I love you so much."

"I love you too."

We stood there for a long time. The apartment was quiet. The city was quiet. Everything was quiet except for the sound of our breathing, our hearts, our lives tangled up together.

"Okay," he said finally. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll take the money. I'll let you help me."

"Good."

"But I'm paying you back. Every penny."

"Fine."

"And I'm going to make this up to you. Somehow."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

I kissed him. He kissed me back. And for the first time in weeks, I felt like everything was going to be okay.

---

The next few months were hard. Harder than I expected. Junior was stressed, and I was stressed, and we fought more than we ever had before. About money, about time, about the future. About whether we were making a mistake.

But we always came back to each other. We always found our way back.

In April, Junior got a job. A real one, at a tech company downtown, writing code for a startup that was doing well. The pay wasn't great, but it was something, and he was good at it. He was really good at it.

"I'm going to pay you back," he said, when he got his first paycheck. "I'm going to pay you back, and then I'm going to take you somewhere nice. Somewhere you deserve."

"I don't need nice."

"I know. But I want to give it to you."

I kissed him. He kissed me back. And I knew, in that moment, that we were going to be okay.

---

In May, I graduated. Junior was there, in the crowd, cheering louder than anyone. He took me out to dinner afterward, to a fancy restaurant with white tablecloths and candles, and he told me he loved me, and I told him I loved him, and we talked about the future.

"I want to marry you," he said.

"Someday."

"Someday soon."

"Someday soon."

He smiled. That real smile, the one I'd seen only a handful of times, the one that made my heart skip.

"Julissa."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For seeing me. For loving me. For not giving up on me."

I reached across the table and took his hand. His fingers were warm, and they fit perfectly in mine.

"I didn't do anything special," I said. "I just loved you."

"That's everything."

We sat there for a long time, holding hands, watching the candles flicker. And I thought about the first time I saw him, standing in the freezer aisle with a bag of peas against his face. I thought about the way he'd looked at me, like I was a question he couldn't answer.

I thought about how far we'd come. How much we'd been through.

And I thought about how, in the end, it was all worth it.

---

We got married in October. A small ceremony, just family and close friends. My grandmother was there, in the front row, crying happy tears. Junior's father was there, beaming with pride. Sofia was the flower girl, and she took her job very seriously, scattering petals with the precision of a surgeon.

Junior wore a suit. He looked nervous. He looked beautiful.

"You clean up nice," I said, when we stood at the altar.

"So do you."

"I'm always nice."

"I know."

The officiant cleared his throat. We both laughed.

"Do you, Marcus, take Julissa to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

He looked at me. His eyes were wet, and he was smiling, that real smile, the one that made everything else disappear.

"I do."

"And do you, Julissa, take Marcus to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

I looked at him. At this man who had been a stranger, a bleeding boy on a curb, a joke and a prayer and a question. At this man who had become my whole world.

"I do."

We kissed. Everyone cheered. And for a moment, just a moment, everything was perfect.

---

The years passed. We moved into a small apartment, then a bigger one. Junior got promoted, then promoted again. I got a job at a publishing house, reading manuscripts and falling in love with stories all day long. We fought, we made up, we built a life together.

And sometimes, late at night, when the city was quiet and the world was still, I would think about that first night. The grocery store, the peas, the dinosaur Band-Aids. The way he'd looked at me, like I was a person and not a problem.

I would think about how lucky I was. How lucky we both were.

And I would think about my grandmother, who had told me to be brave, who had told me to fight for what I loved. She was gone now, but I still had her locket, the one she'd given me when I was six years old. I still wore it every day.

I would think about how, in the end, love was the only thing that mattered. Not money, not status, not what anyone else thought. Just love. Just the person beside you, the one who saw you, the one who stayed.

Junior was beside me. He was always beside me.

And I knew, in my bones, that we were going to be okay.

---

The first time I saw Junior, he was stealing a bag of frozen peas.

The last time I saw him, he was holding my hand in a hospital bed, his hair gray, his face lined, his eyes still dark and bright and full of mischief.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For seeing me."

I squeezed his hand. I didn't have the words. I didn't need them.

He closed his eyes. He smiled. And then he was gone.

---

I'm old now. Older than I ever thought I'd be. My hands are wrinkled, and my hair is white, and I live in a small house by the ocean, the one Junior and I bought when we retired.

I still wear the locket. I still think about him every day.

And sometimes, I think about that first night. The grocery store, the peas, the dinosaur Band-Aids. The way he'd looked at me, like I was a person and not a problem.

I think about how it all started with a small act of kindness. A bag of frozen peas. A handful of Band-Aids.

I think about how, in the end, that's all love is. Small acts of kindness. Repeated over and over, until they become something bigger. Something that lasts.

I think about Junior. I think about his laugh, his hands, his heart.

And I think about how lucky I was. How lucky I am.

I think about how, in the end, it was all worth it.

It was.

It was all worth it.