If homesickness had a ringtone, it would be the cheap reggaetón remix Layla set as her contact ID three years ago and refused to change.
It starts blasting while I'm in the kitchen, elbow-deep in a bowl of cereal.
I freeze.
For a second, I think I imagined it. Brooklyn has a way of filling every silence with noise—cars, sirens, distant music. But this sound is different.
It's her.
My spoon clinks against the bowl as I fumble for my phone on the counter.
Laya Bean calling…
My heart stops.
"Answer it," Miles says from across the island.
He's perched on a stool, half-watching some boxing match on his iPad, half-watching me like I'm the main event.
My thumb hovers over the green button.
"What if she's mad?" I whisper.
"Then she's mad," he says. "But she's still calling."
That's what decides it.
I swipe to accept and lift the phone to my ear, suddenly more nervous than when I posted my video.
"¿Aló?" My voice cracks.
"¿Jayla?"
Just hearing my name in her voice punches the air out of my lungs.
"Layla," I breathe, switching to speaker before my sweaty fingers drop the phone. I set it between me and Miles.
He doesn't say anything, just leans in a little, elbows on his knees.
"You forgot how to call or what?" she demands immediately.
There she is.
All attitude. All heart.
Guilt slams into me.
"I know," I say, sinking onto the stool beside Miles. "I'm sorry. Everything's been… loco."
"That's not new," she mutters. "Your life has been loco since you were born. You still used to call me."
I bite my lip. No defense.
She exhales loudly on the other end. "Whatever. I was going to ignore you for, like, another week," she admits. "But then my phone blew up and I said, 'Okay, if the whole world is talking about my sister except my sister, then I'm calling myself.'"
I wince. "You saw it."
She snorts. "Which part? The sad Spanish telenovela edits of Dan pretending he's the victim, or your little A24 indie main-character ocean video?"
Despite everything, a laugh bursts out of me. "You saw that?"
"The whole barrio saw that," she says. "Tía Rosa replayed it, like, seven times. She cried on the third one."
My chest tightens. "I didn't…" I swallow. "I didn't mean for it to get this big."
"Too late," she says. "You're trending in markets. People are buying chips and arguing about you between the soda fridge and the lottery tickets."
I press the heel of my hand to my eyes. "Dios mío."
"Abuela's church ladies think you're very poetic," she adds. "They're praying for you and also for Dan to get diarrhea."
I choke. "They did not."
"They did," Layla says. "You know Señora Marta. She said, 'Que Dios la cuide, but that boy can choke.'"
I wheeze.
Miles raises an eyebrow, clearly wishing he spoke more Spanish.
"Okay, okay, slow," I say. "Tell me everything. What's it like there?"
Layla is quiet for a second.
Then, softer: "It's… weird."
My stomach drops.
"How?" I ask.
She hesitates.
"Well, first, the obvious stuff," she says. "People in school whisper. They pull up videos on their phones when they think I'm not looking. 'Is that your sister?' 'Did she really—'"
Her voice hardens. "They don't finish that part when I'm close enough to smack them."
Anger flashes through me. "Have they said anything to you? For real?"
She shrugs, the sound audible through the line. "Stupid things. 'Guess crazy runs in the family.' 'Don't date a Santos, they'll flee the country with your stepdad.' You know. Creative."
Shame and fury mix into something sour in my chest.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper.
"Stop," she says quickly. "This is not me calling to make you feel guilty. I'm just… answering your question."
"And Tío?" I press. "The store?"
She sighs. "He's mostly fine. He threatens to ban anyone who talks bad about you from buying cerveza," she says. "Business would die if he followed through, so he just glares and gives them the wrong change."
I snort, tears prickling my eyes.
"What about Mamá?" I ask, voice small. "I know she sees the comments. She has every gossip app downloaded."
Layla hesitates.
"She's… mad," she admits. "Not at you. Not really. At herself. At the internet. At America. At everything. She keeps saying, 'Yo solo quería una vida mejor, ¿por qué la gente es tan cruel?' — I just wanted a better life, why are people so cruel?"
Guilt claws up my throat.
"I made it worse," I say. "By posting."
"No," Layla snaps. "Dan made it worse. Makayla made it worse. The people sharing without thinking made it worse. You just… told your side. You always tell your side. You've been doing that since you learned to talk."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Miles's hand finds my knee under the island, squeezing once.
"So you're not… ashamed of me?" I ask before I can stop myself.
The line goes very quiet.
Then: "Are you dumb?"
My head jerks back. "Excuse me?"
"Why would I be ashamed of you?" she demands. "Because you got your heart broken and then tried to keep living? Because some boy with no edges decided to use your name for views?"
I blink furiously.
"Here we go," she mutters under her breath. "The Jayla Guilt Tour."
"That's not—"
"You think you're the only one who left?" she says, cutting me off. "Everyone leaves San Ángel eventually. They go to the city, to the States, to other countries. Some send money, some don't. Some call, some disappear. You're not special because you got on a plane, Jay."
Her words sting.
"You are special," she adds, softer, "because you actually care what it did to us."
I stare at the marble countertop, her voice echoing in my head.
"Back home, people act like once you go, you don't exist anymore," she says. "You become a story they tell. 'Oh, she married rich.' 'Oh, he died.' 'Oh, he's in jail.' Nobody asks what it feels like when you're the one who left—or the one who stayed."
Something clicks into place in my chest.
"What does it feel like?" I ask quietly. "For you."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Like I'm holding both ends of a string," she says. "One end is you, over there with your fancy house and your new school and your drama. The other is Mamá, working double shifts and crying at novelas. I stretch and stretch until my hands hurt, but I can't let go of either."
Tears spill down my cheeks before I can stop them.
"I didn't know," I say. "I mean, I guessed, but… I didn't really know."
"I know," she says. "You were busy learning how to stay afloat. I was busy pretending everything here didn't change when you left."
I sniff. "Everything did."
"Yeah," she agrees. "It did."
The kitchen hums around us—the faint whir of the fridge, the tick of the clock over the doorway. Brooklyn noises.
San Ángel feels both a lifetime away and right next to me, pouring through my phone speaker.
"I feel guilty," I admit. "Every time I'm in this big stupid kitchen, every time I open a fridge full of food, every time I complain about Brooklyn when I know you're there, still stuck between the store and school and Mamá's moods."
"You think I want you to come back and be miserable with me?" she demands. "That's not how love works, idiota."
"I didn't say that," I protest.
"You didn't have to," she says. "I can hear it in your voice. You think you abandoned us. But you also forgot something."
"What?"
"I left too," she says.
I blink. "¿Qué?"
"I moved in with Tío full-time last month," she explains. "You know how Mamá's been… off. The fights with Abuela. The stress. The new husband in America. She's trying, but she's drowning. And I was tired of being the life jacket."
My heart aches. "Layla…"
"It's not as dramatic as you think," she continues. "I still see her every day. I go over after school, help her with bills and stupid video calls to your stepdad. But at night, I sleep above the tienda, in the little back room by the boxes of chips. It's louder, but it's… calmer."
I picture it—the small room, the rattling fan, the hum of the fridge downstairs, the neon sign buzzing faintly through the window.
"You didn't tell me," I whisper.
"You didn't call," she shoots back.
Fair.
"I wanted to handle it myself," she adds. "I didn't want you thinking you had to fix everything from another country. Or worse, come back because you felt guilty."
"Maybe I should," I say. "Come back. At least visit. See you. See Mamá. Show my face so they talk less."
She snorts. "They'll talk more if you show up. 'Look who came back from her castle.' 'Look who ran home when it got hard.' You know how they are."
She's right.
I hate that she's right.
"So what do I do?" I ask. "Just… stay here and post videos?"
"Live," she says simply. "Live well. Live loud. Don't let them scare you quiet. And… call me."
I let out a watery laugh. "That's it?"
"For now," she says. "You don't have to solve San Ángel from Brooklyn. That's not your job."
"Whose job is it, then?" I ask.
"There is no job," she says. "There's just… us. Surviving. Making choices. Sometimes leaving. Sometimes staying. Sometimes both."
Silence falls for a moment.
Then she clears her throat.
"So," she says, her tone shifting, "is he there?"
My eyes flick to Miles, who's been respectfully pretending not to hear while also obviously hearing everything.
"He who?" I stall.
She scoffs. "Don't play dumb. The underground fighter. The one who carried your drunk ass. The one Abuela thinks is handsome from that one blurry photo you tried to pretend was an accident?"
Heat floods my face. "Abuela said that?"
"Focus," Layla says. "Is he there?"
Miles smiles slowly, mouthing, "She knows?"
I nod, resigned, and tap the speaker icon again.
"He's… here," I admit.
"Put me on FaceTime," she orders.
Panic flares. "No."
"Jayla."
"I look like I fought a hurricane."
"You always look like that," she says sweetly.
Miles snorts.
I glare at him and reluctantly switch to video. His face appears over my shoulder; he leans in so we're both in the frame.
Layla's face fills my screen a second later—thicker curls piled into a messy bun, hoodie half-zipped, background noise of San Ángel life bleeding in—honking, someone yelling "¡Pan caliente!", a radio playing badly tuned bachata.
"Hi," I say lamely.
Her eyes flick between us.
Then she cackles.
"Oh, he's fine-fine," she declares. "Okay, I approve."
I bury my face in my free hand. "Can we not."
Miles, traitor that he is, grins. "Hola, Layla," he says carefully, his accent chewing her name a little.
Her eyebrows shoot up. "He speaks?"
"Un poco," he says. "Enough to know when people are talking shit."
She barks a laugh. "Good. You'll need that."
Her expression softens slightly.
"So," she says. "You're the guy from the closet?"
I choke. "LAYLA."
Miles looks at me, amused. "You told her about the closet?"
"I tell her everything," I say defensively.
"Not everything," Layla mutters. "But enough."
She squints at Miles through the screen. "Listen to me, Mister Fight Club," she says. "If you break her heart, I will swim from San Ángel to Brooklyn and punch you in the throat."
He nods solemnly. "That's fair."
"And if you make her happy…" Her voice wobbles for the first time. "If you give her someone solid to lean on over there… then, I don't know, I'll… I'll pray for your hands in your next fight or something."
He smiles, something soft flickering in his eyes. "Deal," he says.
"Good," she says, sniffing. "Now move. I need to look at my sister."
He laughs and steps out of frame, pressing a kiss to my temple as he passes.
"Te amo, enana," he murmurs.
My heart jumps.
Layla's eyes immediately narrow. "What did he say?"
"Nothing," I say too fast.
"Mm-hmm," she says. "We'll circle back."
We talk for another half hour.
About stupid school gossip. About our old neighbors. About which novelas Mamá is obsessed with now. The conversation dances between heavy and light, past and present, the rope between our worlds stretching but not snapping.
At one point, a little face appears in the corner of her screen—our cousin's baby, hair sticking up, drool on her chin.
"Dile hola a tu tía famosa," Layla coos.
The baby babbles something that sounds like "La-la" and smacks the phone.
My heart swells and breaks at the same time.
"Don't you dare let her forget my name," I say.
"Never," Layla promises.
Eventually, the call has to end.
Time zones. Homework. Life.
"Te amo," she says.
"Te amo más," I reply.
We hang up.
The kitchen feels… different.
Smaller and bigger at once.
Miles leans against the counter, arms crossed. "You okay?"
I wipe my eyes. "If you ask me that one more time, I'm going to scream," I say thickly.
He raises his hands. "Then don't answer. I can see it anyway."
I take a shaky breath.
"I feel like I've been walking around with one foot in Brooklyn and one foot still on the pier back home," I admit. "Like I'm trying so hard to start over that I pretended San Ángel is just… a place I left. Not a place that's still moving without me."
He nods slowly. "That's what leaving is," he says. "You don't stop existing in your old life just because you got a new one. You just… duplicate for a while. Until it hurts less."
"It hurts," I say quietly.
"I know," he says.
I stare at the empty cereal bowl in the sink.
"Layla's holding the string," I murmur. "And I've been acting like I'm the only one stretched."
He bumps my shoulder gently. "So share the weight," he says. "Call more. Visit when you can. Send stupid videos. Let her see you're not just over there drowning without her."
"I don't want her to feel like she has to hold me up too," I say. "She's already holding Mamá. And Tío. And herself."
"Maybe she doesn't want to hold you up," he says. "Maybe she just wants to hold you. There's a difference."
I blink.
"Since when are you deep?" I ask.
He grins. "Since I started dating a girl who says stuff like 'my home is the water' on main."
Heat creeps up my neck. "We're not dating," I mumble.
He rolls his eyes. "Sure, princesa."
The rest of the day moves in fits and starts.
Classes. Hallway stares. A pop quiz I definitely failed. Seraph shoving a cookie into my mouth during lunch when I start zoning out.
After school, I sit on the bleachers behind the gym and scroll through my DMs again.
There are more messages from strangers, from girls in little towns and big cities, from people with ocean emojis in their bios, from one boy who writes, I wish my sister had your voice when she left.
I don't open anything from unfamiliar names that look too close to home.
No more San Ángel drama.
Not today.
I type a quick message to Layla instead.
Me: send me a pic of the store rn
Three dots appear.
Then a photo comes through—Tío behind the counter, chin propped on his hand, the fridge of sodas humming behind him, the dusty shelves of snacks, the crooked lottery sign.
My throat closes.
Another text follows.
Layla: still here. still ugly. still ours.
I laugh out loud.
Me: i'll visit soon. not bc i feel guilty. bc i want to. promise.
Layla: good. i'll make sure the chismosas are on break.
I tuck my phone away, the image of the store burned into my brain.
My roots.
Not cut.
Just… stretched.
When I get home, Miles is already in the driveway, leaning against the car, scrolling his own phone.
He looks up as I approach.
"How's San Ángel?" he asks.
"Loud," I say. "Messy. Nosy. Perfect."
He smiles. "Sounds like here."
"Yeah," I admit. "Maybe that's why it hurts so much. They're not that different."
We stand there for a second, the evening air cool against my skin, the city humming quietly around us.
"Hey," he says after a beat. "Random thought."
"Those are never random," I reply.
He ignores me. "What if we went down there?"
My head snaps toward him. "To San Ángel?"
He shrugs. "Not now. Not tomorrow. But, like… soon. Weekend trip. You see your people. I meet the ocean that made you weird."
I snort. "You would not survive my barrio."
"Please," he scoffs. "I've survived underground rings and Brooklyn barbers. I can handle your tío's store."
Just the idea sends panic and excitement crashing together in my chest.
Bringing him there.
Letting the two halves of my life touch.
"What if they hate you?" I ask.
He grins. "Then I charm them. Or I buy everyone snacks. Same strategy I used on you."
"You didn't buy me snacks," I point out.
He raises a brow. "Yet."
I think of Layla's threat.
If you break her heart, I will swim from San Ángel to Brooklyn and punch you in the throat.
I think of Abuela's church ladies praying for his hands.
I think of Mamá, watching from her little kitchen, judging everything.
I think of the ocean.
Always the ocean.
"Maybe," I say slowly. "One day."
His smile widens. "I'll take that 'maybe.'"
He bumps my shoulder with his. "Come on," he says. "Yoga, then homework, then you can overthink our future travel plans in peace."
I roll my eyes, but my heart feels… lighter.
Less like I'm suspended between two worlds.
More like I'm standing on my own feet, one on each shore, finally learning how to balance without breaking.
As we walk inside, I glance back at the sky.
No ocean in sight.
But I can feel it.
In my blood.
In my sister's voice.
In the girl I was and the girl I'm becoming.
Roots and waves.
Both mine.
Both home.