RICK HICKS PULLED up to Martina Lopez’s house in a van held together mostly by duct tape and reckless optimism. He didn’t bother to honk or even text but turned off the rumbling engine and slunk in the quiet dark of the morning up to the Lopezes’ cheery front door. It was painted a bright, improbable yellow and topped off with a welcome wreath made to look like fall leaves.
In contrast, the front mat Rick used before stepping through their door said come back with a warrant in bold black script. Martina’s mother was a lawyer with a sense of humor.
Rick let himself in, not bothering to knock. No one would hear him. The Lopez household in the morning was nothing but unbridled chaos delivered at high decibels. Rick had gotten his little sister ready for school this morning in dead silence because he didn’t want to wake his mother, who had worked the night shift at the diner.
He would cut out his own heart for his mother and sister, but that didn’t stop the familiar pang of jealousy when he stepped into the Lopez kitchen. Technically, the Lopez household was made up of Martina, her parents, her two younger siblings, her grandmother, and the family dog. In reality, there were always extra people about because not only did Martina have two aunts who lived nearby with their families, but the Lopezes were the kind of family that seemed to pull other people lovingly into their orbit. People like Rick. So this morning he was unsurprised to walk into the kitchen and find four kids, Martina’s parents, grandmother, and aunt, and two small dogs all competing with one another for attention as they grabbed breakfast and/or backpacks.
Rick thought that if coming home could be made into a sound, this was it.
None of the kids stopped their bickering or looked up from their cereal bowls to acknowledge him, treating him the same as they would anyone else in the family.
“Rick.” Mr. Lopez greeted him from his place over by the coffee maker, the only deep voice in the chorus of the room. He handed Rick a to-go mug of coffee as well as a cloth napkin tucked around a tortilla, which itself held the eggs and potatoes left over from yesterday’s breakfast.
Rick looked pointedly at the neon-colored dregs of milk in the Lopez children’s bowls. A toaster pastry popped up, which he knew was Martina’s. Rick crossed his arms.
“I’m just happy they’re eating,” Mr. Lopez said. “It’s not a hill I’m willing to die on this early in the morning. But
you, I know, won’t fight me.”
Rick sighed.
Mr. Lopez grinned over his coffee. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me you fed yourself when you fed your sister, I won’t make you take it.”
Rick glowered at him and took a reluctant bite of the burrito, making Mr. Lopez laugh. “That’s what I thought.”
“I was going to get breakfast at school,” Rick mumbled. Breakfasts at school were free for him, and even though the food wasn’t very good and there usually wasn’t enough for him to actually feel full, it saved his mom money. “If I had time.”
“Sure you were,” Mr. Lopez said with a smile, sipping his coffee.
Martina stomped up, her jacket and backpack dangling off of one shoulder, her winged eyeliner just a shade darker than the hair she had pulled back into two braids. “Papi making you eat again?”
Rick grunted, because really, he didn’t need to answer that question. He motioned to the new streaks in her hair. “I like the purple, Teeny.”
Martina preened, turning her head to the side, making her gold earrings flash in the light. “It turned out good, right?”
“That’s because your tía is amaaaazing,” her aunt Gabrielle singsonged from her side of the table. She pointed one bloodred fingernail at Rick. “You need a cut. When you coming in?”
“What,” Rick said, jerking his chin at her, “the tousled look isn’t working for me?”
“There’s tousled and then there’s unkempt.” Gabrielle rolled her eyes at him. “Come in after Dani gets home. I can do you both.”
Rick nodded sharply, giving in to the steamroller that was the Lopez family. It was then that the raptor gaze of Martina’s grandmother landed on a torn pocket of his hoodie. She clucked her tongue.
Before Rick could say anything, Gabrielle had taken the food out of his hands, while Martina unzipped his hoodie, shucking him out of it with the speed and ease of someone used to dressing small, flailing children. Rick blinked as his breakfast was deposited back into his empty hands.
Martina gave the hoodie over to her grandmother. “It’s just faster this way,” she muttered, grabbing her toaster pastry before herding him toward the door. “Okay, that’s enough. We’re going to be late. Bye!”
She gave him a final shove, slamming the door behind them.
Copyright © 2026 by Lish McBride. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
