Chapter 24: Suspenders & Interruptions
The bassline from the community center hall thumped through the restroom walls, a visceral pulse that made the cheap paper towels in the metal dispenser vibrate. Ana stared at her reflection in the streaked mirror, the fluorescent light bleaching the color from her sunset roses. She adjusted the neckline of her dress—the navy blue one—feeling both absurd and armored in it.
Nevaieh leaned against the sink beside her, arms crossed. Her pink suspenders popped against her white beater, a ridiculous, joyful contrast to her usual dark palette. A gift from Crystaylia, who’d insisted they “match the theme.”
“You look like a punk rock candy cane,” Ana had said when she’d first seen them.
“You’re one to talk, Mrs. ‘I Swore I’d Never Wear Maternity Clothes,’” Nevaieh had shot back, tweaking the sash of the dress.
Now, in the humming quiet of the restroom, the pre-game adrenaline was curdling into something sharper. Ana could see the tension in the line of Nevaieh’s jaw, in the way her thumb tapped a silent, frantic rhythm against her bicep.
“They’re all out there,” Ana said, her voice barely audible over the distant salsa beat.
“Yeah,” Nevaieh replied, her eyes fixed on the chipped tile floor. “Both sides. All the ghosts.”
The phrase hung in the air, heavier than the cheap perfume scent. It wasn’t just Ana’s family, her mother’s memory a palpable presence in every dish Tía cooked. Nevaieh’s father, a stern, disapproving man from Carolina who’d never quite grasped his child, had RSVP’d. A brittle olive branch extended across years of silence.
Ana turned from the mirror, the strap of her heel catching on a loose thread in the linoleum. She stumbled, a small gasp escaping her.
Nevaieh was there in an instant, hands steadying her hips. “Whoa. Okay. Heels were a mistake. We’re buying you slides. Bedazzled ones.”
“I’m fine,” Ana breathed, but she didn’t pull away. She leaned into the solidity of Nevaieh’s grip. The warmth of her hands seeped through the dress fabric, a grounding current against the static in her head.
Nevaieh’s gaze lifted from Ana’s shoes to her face. Her eyes, usually so guarded, were wide open, dark pools of a fear so raw it stole Ana’s breath. It wasn’t stage fright. It was the terror of being seen, truly seen, by the two disparate worlds that had shaped them.
“Nev,” Ana whispered.
Nevaieh’s hands tightened on her hips. She pushed forward, guiding Ana back until the cool porcelain of the sink pressed against her lower back. The pink suspanders dangled between them, brushing Ana’s stomach.
“You keep looking at me like that,” Nevaieh murmured, her voice a low, rough scrape against the music’s rhythm, “and we’re missing our own shower.”
Her mouth was inches from Ana’s. The air between them crackled, a private storm in the sterile, humming room. Ana’s hands came up, fingers tangling in the loose curls at the nape of Nevaieh’s neck. She could feel the rapid beat of Nevaieh’s pulse under her thumbs. For a second, it was just them again—in a dressing room, on a porch swing, in their bed—a fortress of two against the everything else.
Then the restroom door crashed open with a sound like a gunshot.
Crystaylia stood framed in the doorway, a wailing, red-faced infant propped on her hip like a fussy football. A giant, plastic-wrapped pack of diapers was tucked under her other arm. She looked from Ana, pinned against the sink, to Nevaieh, whose body was still caging her in.
Crys didn’t blink. “Tía sent me to chaperone,” she announced over the baby’s screams. “She said if you two ‘get distracted,’ the flan will melt. Also, diapers.” She hefted the package. “From Lourdes. She says you need to start stockpiling ‘the artillery.’” She walked over and deposited the diapers on the edge of the sink with a thud. The baby’s cries escalated.
Nevaieh didn’t move, her body still shielding Ana. “Since when do you have a baby?”
“I don’t,” Crys said, jiggling the child mechanically. “This is Marisol. My coworker’s kid. She’s got colic. I offered to ‘walk her.’ Desperation makes you stupid.” The baby let out a particularly piercing shriek. Crystaylia winced. “Now, come on. The music’s started. Tía’s wearing a sequined jacket. It’s terrifying. Let’s go.”
The spell was broken. Nevaieh let out a long, shaky breath, her forehead dropping to Ana’s shoulder for a brief second before she pushed back, straightening her suspenders.
Ana smoothed her dress, her fingers trembling. She looked at the diapers, at the screaming baby, at Crys’s utterly deadpan expression. A laugh bubbled up, hysterical and helpless. It was all so absurd. The sequined jacket, the chaperone, the colicky prop baby, the monolithic pack of diapers next to the sink.
She grabbed the diapers. Nevaieh took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and offered Ana her arm.
“Okay,” Ana said, slipping her hand through the crook of Nevaieh’s elbow. The contact was solid, a tether. “Okay. Let’s go get showered.”
The noise hit them like a wall when Crystaylia pushed the main hall door open. The salsa was louder, a living thing that vibrated in Ana’s molars. The community center was a sea of familiar and unfamiliar faces under crepe paper streamers and giant, silver letters that spelled “BIENVENIDA, BEBÉ!”
And there, in the center, on a small stage with a microphone, was Tía. The sequined jacket was, indeed, terrifying—a blazer of shimmering gold that threw disco-ball dots across the ceiling. She spotted them hovering by the door.
Without missing a beat, Tía tapped the mic. It screeched feedback, bringing the room to a momentary, cringing halt.
“¡Oye! ¡Oye!” Tía’s voice, amplified, commanded absolute attention. She pointed a gold-painted fingernail directly at them. All heads turned.
Ana felt the weight of a hundred eyes. She saw her old coworkers from the gallery, her college roommate, cousins she hadn’t seen since her mother’s funeral. She saw Nevaieh’s few, fiercely loyal friends from the music scene, clustered together like a protective squadron. She saw Tía Lourdes, beaming. She saw, standing stiffly near the punch bowl, a tall, greying man with Nevaieh’s same strong nose and downturned mouth: Nevaieh’s father, Héctor.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. The baby inside her rolled, a slow, somersaulting echo of her panic.
Then Tía spoke again, her voice softening from emcee to something infinitely more personal. “Family. Friends. Loud people I tolerate,” she began, a ripple of laughter moving through the room. “We are here for many reasons. To eat too much. To give impractical gifts.” She gestured to a mountain of wrapped boxes. “To dance even if you have two left feet.”
Her gaze found Ana and Nevaieh again, holding them steady.
“But most of all,” Tía continued, the sequins on her jacket twinkling, “we are here to fence in a little bit of light. To make a space for joy. So… stop clapping for me and start clapping for them.” She raised her arm, a sweeping, dramatic gesture. “¡Damos la bienvenida a nuestras hermosas y badass futuras mamás!”
The room erupted. Not just applause, but a roar of sound—whoops, whistles, the shaking of makeshift noise-makers. The music swelled again, a triumphant trumpet line soaring over the clapping.
Ana’s vision blurred at the edges. She felt Nevaieh’s arm tighten around hers, a vise grip. They took a step forward, into the noise, into the crowd.
Hands reached for them. A blur of hugs and kisses on cheeks and well-meaning pats on Ana’s belly. She was passed from embrace to embrace, a whispered “Your mom would be so proud” in her ear from a great-aunt, a “Damn, you’re glowing!” from a friend.
She lost Nevaieh in the throng for a moment, panic spiking, until she saw her, surrounded by her own people. Héctor was standing before her, his posture rigid. He said something, his voice lost in the din. Nevaieh listened, her face unreadable. Then, slowly, Héctor extended his hand. Not for a hug, but a handshake. After a beat that stretched forever, Nevaieh took it. Her father’s other hand came up, resting awkwardly on her shoulder for a second before dropping away. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t understanding. It was a brick. A single, brittle brick laid on a very long, damaged wall.
Xavier materialized at Ana’s side, handing her a cup of sparkling cider. “He showed up,” he said, nodding toward Héctor. “That’s something.”
“It’s something,” Ana echoed, her throat tight.
The party swallowed them whole. There were games—a truly disgusting one involving melting candy bars in diapers that Nevaieh won by identifying a Snickers bar blindfolded (“A lifetime of dedication,” she deadpanned). They opened gifts, a chaotic hour of tiny clothes, wooden toys, and a truly alarming number of wipe warmers. Through it all, Ana felt buoyed, carried by the collective, noisy love of the room.
Then Tía wheeled out a large, flat box, wrapped in simple brown paper. “This,” she announced, “is from the family. All of us.”
Ana glanced at Nevaieh, who shrugged, just as bewildered.
Ana tore the paper. It was a shadow box frame. Inside, against a deep blue velvet background, was a tiny, perfectly knitted baby sweater in soft cream wool. And nestled next to it, preserved under the glass, was a small, worn, chocolate-brown leather guitar pick guard. It was unmistakable. It was from Manuelis’s first, battered acoustic, the one he’d learned every riff on.
Ana’s hand flew to her mouth. Nevaieh’s breath left her in a sharp, silent rush.
“The sweater,” Tía said, her voice uncharacteristically soft over the mic, “is from the wool of the blanket your mama brought Ana home in. We unraveled a piece. The pick guard…” She looked at Nevaieh, her eyes glistening. “Manuelis would have been the fun tío. The loud one. He’d have taught her all the wrong chords first.”
Nevaieh reached out, her fingers hovering over the glass as if she could touch the worn leather. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The set of her shoulders, the bow of her head, said everything.
Xavier stood up, clearing his throat. He held a long, rectangular case. “This,” he said, walking toward Nevaieh, “is from me. And Crys. And… well, it’s from him, too. His memorial fund covered it.”
He placed the case at Nevaieh’s feet and flipped the latches.
Inside, nestled in plush blue lining, was a guitar. It was a small-bodied acoustic, its wood a rich, warm amber. And inlaid across the entire lower bout, in stunning, intricate mother-of-pearl and abalone, was a breathtaking scene of marine life—a whale shark swimming through a school of glittering fish, an octopus curling around the sound hole, corals and seagrass dancing up the neck. It mirrored the sleeve on Ana’s arm perfectly.
The room fell completely silent.
Nevaieh sank to her knees in front of the case, her hands shaking. She didn’t take the guitar out. She just stared, her fingers tracing the air above the mother-of-pearl whale shark.
“So she can hear you play,” Xavier said, his voice rough. “From the very beginning.”
Nevaieh looked up, first at Xavier, then at Ana, her face a battlefield of grief and love and a hope so fierce it was painful to witness. A single tear tracked through the stubble on her cheek. She nodded, a sharp, definitive motion, and closed the case. She stood, holding it against her chest like a shield, or a promise.
The music started up again, louder now. The spell broke, conversation swelling back to fill the space. Nevaieh carried the guitar case to their gift table, placing it gently atop the mountain of onesies. When she returned to Ana’s side, her hand found Ana’s, their fingers lacing together tightly.
They danced. Or rather, Ana swayed, her body a slow, grounded pendulum, and Nevaieh moved around her, a satellite, one hand always on Ana’s back or her belly. The sequined lights spun. Laughter rang out. Tía orchestrated a conga line that snaked through the tables.
The conga line dissolved into happy chaos, a tangle of swaying bodies and spilled punch. Ana felt a fine sheen of sweat at her temples, the navy dress suddenly constricting. She caught Nevaieh’s eye and tapped her own shoulder, a silent signal.
“I’m melting,” Ana shouted over the music. “And I think my feet are staging a rebellion.”
Nevaieh nodded, her own brow damp. “Back room? Tía said there was a space to ditch stuff.”
They wove through the crowd, accepting one last shoulder squeeze from Tía Lourdes. The back room was a quiet shock, a storage area doubling as a haven. Folding chairs were stacked against cinderblock walls. Their gift boxes formed a colorful fortress in one corner, the guitar case prominent on top.
Ana immediately reached for the zipper at her side. “Get me out of this uniform,” she said, the words laced with relief.
Nevaieh helped, her fingers gentle on the fabric. She’d thought ahead. From a duffel bag behind a stack of chairs, she pulled out two fresh outfits. For herself, soft black trousers and a loose, silky shirt with a subtle, synth-wave pattern that shimmered under the fluorescents. For Ana, a deep emerald green knit dress, its fabric buttery and stretchy, with wide sleeves that would hide the sweat.
“No elastic,” Nevaieh said, holding it up. “Just… cloud.”
“You’re a saint,” Ana breathed, stepping into the softness. The dress fell around her, forgiving and cool. She slipped off the torturous heels and pulled on a pair of designer sneakers Nevaieh produced, sighing as her feet expanded.
Nevaieh changed quickly, the silk shirt flowing over her tattoos. She left the top buttons undone, the gold nose ring catching the light. They looked at each other in the dim storage room glow—not like attendees of their own event, but like themselves again. Comfortable. Ready.
“Better?” Nevaieh asked, running a hand through her curls.
“Infinitely.”
They turned to go back, re-entering the roar. The music had shifted to a classic merengue, faster, its rhythm infectious. Ana felt the beat in her chest. She took Nevaieh’s hand, pulling her toward the clearing that served as a dance floor.
For a few glorious minutes, it was perfect. The green dress swirled. Nevaieh’s silk shirt billowed as she spun Ana with a careful, confident grace, one hand always firm on the small of her back, the other cradling hers. They were in a bubble of movement and sound, smiling at each other, the worries about who was watching dissolving in the pure physical joy of it.
Then, mid-turn, it hit.
A deep, internal cinching, a band of iron tightening around the entire lower hemisphere of Ana’s body. It stole her breath, not with pain, but with an immense, startling pressure. She froze, her hand clamping down on Nevaieh’s shoulder.
The music, the laughter, it all faded to a dull roar. Her world shrank to the relentless squeeze inside her.
Nevaieh felt the change instantly. “Ana?” Her voice was close, cutting through the fog.
Ana couldn’t speak. She shook her head slightly, eyes wide, focusing on a crack in the far wall as her entire abdomen went hard as stone. She felt the baby go very, very still inside the contraction.
Nevaieh’s hands were on her arms now, grounding her. She didn’t panic. She watched Ana’s face, her own expression carefully neutral. “Breathe,” she murmured, her thumb stroking Ana’s wrist. “Just ride it. I’m right here.”
Thirty seconds. A lifetime. The pressure peaked, held, then began to ebb, loosening its fist finger by finger. A shuddering gasp finally broke from Ana’s lips as the sensation fully released. The baby gave a tentative kick, as if reasserting herself.
“Okay,” Ana whispered, her legs feeling watery. “Okay.”
“Braxton Hicks?” Nevaieh asked, her voice low, for Ana alone.
“Has to be,” Ana said, nodding, trying to convince herself. “No rhythm. Just… practice.” She managed a weak smile. “My body’s doing a drill. Without my permission.”
Nevaieh didn’t look entirely convinced, but she mirrored the smile. “Overachiever.” She kept an arm around Ana’s waist, her grip supportive but not smothering. “Want to sit? We can watch Crys attempt the cha-cha.”
“No,” Ana said, surprising herself. She didn’t want to surrender to a chair, to be sidelined. The echo of the contraction lingered, a phantom grip, but it was gone now. The music was still playing. Her daughter was kicking again, a familiar roll. “No, I want to dance. Just… slower.”
Nevaieh searched her face, then nodded. She guided Ana back into the movement, not a spin, but a close, gentle sway. Her hand spread wide over the emerald green knit on Ana’s back. Ana rested her head on Nevaieh’s shoulder, her cheek against the cool silk.
They moved like that, a slow-turning anchor in the cheerful storm of the party. Ana closed her eyes, tuning into the sensations within. The practice tightenings, her body rehearsing for the main event. The solid, living weight of her daughter. The steady beat of Nevaieh’s heart under her ear.
It wasn’t a warning. It was a reminder. The fence was built. The gate was ready. Everything was just waiting.