Love at Volume Ten [Flashback]

Love at Volume Ten [Flashback]
The moment the car door opened and I dropped into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of wood and mint hit me like a wave. Soft classical music mixed with a lo-fi beat drifted from the speakers, and behind the wheel sat the only man on earth who could tell me to shut up without earning a sandal to the head: Ruan Domingo.
He was wearing a navy hoodie with the hood down, black hair messily brushed in that infuriating way that still looked like a men’s fashion editorial. A neat shadow of beard lined his jaw, too precise to be called casual. Round glasses rested on his nose, and one eyebrow went up the second he glanced at me.
"How many people did you kill today?" he asked lightly.
I sighed, peeled off my hoodie, and leaned against the window. "Three. Two professors, one student. No witnesses. Evidence burned."
Ruan chuckled. "Good. I taught you well."
We rolled out of campus, past rows of maple trees with leaves just starting to turn orange, and for a few precious minutes, we sat in rare, comfortable silence.
"Oh, by the way, Mama’s in town."
My head snapped toward him. "What?"
"And Dominic."
I closed my eyes and cursed the sky. "Why does God hate me?" I muttered.
Ruan grinned. "Maybe because you always drew Edward Cullen in a public park."
I swatted his arm. "That is not the problem! I had plans this weekend. Naomi and I are going to a jazz concert in Brooklyn, and Joy booked an Airbnb above a gelato café...”
"Good bye, gelato," Ruan said calmly. "Mama already scheduled a family dinner. She said she will drag you out from wherever you hide if you try to bail."
I pressed my palms to my forehead. "Oh God… I can already hear her rosary beads."
"You haven’t heard the best part," Ruan teased. "Dominic brought his guitar. And a book of poetry. He says, ‘This time I’m reading Yeats in Central Park because it is the purest expression of my soul.’"
I sat up. "I am going to blow up Central Park."
Ruan burst out laughing. "And he… wears a beret now."
I let out a long groan. "Please, take out your knife and stab me. Here. In the heart. Quickly."
He shook his head, smiling like he’d just won something. "Save the theatrics for tonight. Mama says she wants quality time with her favorite daughter before you move away and marry some foreigner who cannot make arepas."
I narrowed my eyes. "That’s racist."
"That’s Mama."
:::
Villa Domingo, New York State – 07:03 a.m.
The morning air still hung damp from a night of light rain, and the faint chirping of little birds floated in through the half-open kitchen window. Sunlight slipped shyly through thin curtains, catching on the long wooden table scattered with breadcrumbs, a small mountain of ripe mangoes, and one plate of scrambled eggs I was forcing myself to eat.
Mama stood at the stove, cooking with a wooden spoon in her mouth as she spoke rapid-fire Spanish to someone on the other end of the phone.
"Mi amor, I miss you so much. I cannot sleep without you… You know it’s not a real bed if you are not holding me at night. I am cold. So cold. Like a broken refrigerator, you understand?"
I shoveled eggs into my mouth and stared at my phone like I could teleport back to my apartement. Or to another planet.
Papa’s voice, dripping with telenovela romance, came through loud and clear thanks to Mama’s obsession with speakerphone at full volume. "But mi cielo… you’ve only been gone two days."
"Dos días! That is an eternity, Rafael!"
I nearly choked. She had just said his full name with the kind of breathy drama that belonged in a soap opera.
I arched an eyebrow and chased my eggs with cold coffee.
Dear God, if she ever spoke to us the way she spoke to Dad, I’d probably be a nun by now.
She ended the call after one air kiss and two promises to come home soon. Then she turned around, her face shifting from abandoned-lover sweetness to… our local La Llorona.
“Gretta, qué demonios are you wearing that this early in the morning? Do you think you’re going to class or a ballroom dance?” 
I glanced down at my oversized hoodie and black leggings. “This is normal human clothing, Ma. I’m not some royal princess being chauffeured to class on a unicorn.”
“And you think that hair represents the Domingo family? You didn’t even brush it! Dios mío.” She shook her head slowly, like she was witnessing the moral collapse of an entire generation.
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe if I wasn’t up until three in the morning because someone wouldn’t stop lecturing me, I’d wake up looking like a functioning human.”
She pointed a spatula at me. “And who told you to be out all night? A dónde vas? College isn’t open at midnight. You think I don’t know Naomi and Joy are poison?”
“They’re poison that keeps me alive,” I said flatly, taking another sip of coffee.
Footsteps thumped overhead and the creak of the stairs announced that the other two monsters in this house were awake. 
Ruan appeared first, hair a perfect mess that still looked like it belonged in a cologne ad. White T-shirt, sweatpants, phone in hand, eyes on nothing.
“Morning,” he mumbled, heading straight for the fridge.
Behind him, Dominic shuffled in wearing a gray hoodie and loose jeans, yawning wide enough to unhinge his jaw. “Who’s waking up the chickens at six in the morning?”
“Not chickens,” I shot back, “but the sound of Mama and Papa’s love. Almost made me lose my faith.” 
Ruan smirked, grabbing the orange juice. “Papa still using that broken-record voice?”
“Worse,” I muttered. “They practically held a mini mass on speakerphone.”
Mama slammed the spatula down on the stove. “Dios Santo! You children don’t know what real love is. Love is like me and your Papa. Strong. Gentle. But full of passion.”
Dominic sat down, scooping fried rice onto his plate. “Real love doesn’t have to be at volume ten, Ma.”
“And you!” Mama turned on Dominic. “Philosophy major who thinks you know everything about life but can’t take out the trash without being reminded!”
Ruan bit back a laugh and sat down too. “Come on, Ma, let’s keep the peace this morning. Gretta’s got class, Dominic hasn’t eaten, and I’m not strong enough for a speech before coffee.”
Mama shook her head and drew a deep breath, the signature warning before round two. “You’re all like goats. Other people’s kids are married, own houses. You’re still arguing about who takes out the trash.” 
“Other people’s kids also have therapy every week, Ma,” I murmured under my breath.
Her eyes narrowed like she was considering throwing the pan at my head, so I ducked down and pretended to chew my toast.