CHAPTER 2 - HOMECOMING BLUES

Bella's POV

Six weeks. The numbers danced in my head while I stared at the ceiling. Four in the morning and sleep wasn't happening. Six weeks to find money that didn't exist.

I grabbed my laptop and started hunting. Grant applications. Teaching positions. Research assistantships. Anything.

"Mija?" Papa knocked softly. "You awake?"

"Yeah."

He pushed the door open, carrying a tray. Coffee. Toast. Scrambled eggs with too much cheese, just like when I was sick as a kid.

"You need to eat."

"I need to work." But the coffee smelled like heaven, and my stomach had started remembering it was empty.

He sat on my bed while I picked at the eggs. "You know, if you need help..."

"Papa, no."

"Just listen. Miguel's cousin works at the university. Maybe he knows about positions?"

"It's not that simple." I pushed eggs around my plate. "I need specific funding for my research. Art authentication isn't exactly..."

"Or maybe some of my friends could help? You know, Mr. Blackwood has connections everywhere. Or the Chens, they're always saying how smart you are."

My fork clattered against the plate. "I'm not taking charity from your restaurant buddies."

"It's not charity if they care about you."

"Papa, please." The eggs turned to sawdust in my mouth. "I can figure this out myself."

His face did that thing. That disappointed but trying not to show it thing. "Of course, mija. You always were independent. Just like your mother."

Great. Now I felt guilty on top of everything else.

After he left, I spent two hours writing emails that all basically said "please hire me, I'm desperate but trying not to sound desperate." My inbox stayed empty except for more university spam about campus events I'd never attend again.

The house felt smaller by the minute. Papa had the restaurant TV on downstairs, some cooking show arguing about the right way to make paella. Normal sounds for a normal morning. Except nothing was normal anymore.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I almost didn't answer, but what if it was about a job?

"Bella? It's Marcus."

My whole body went cold. "How did you..."

"I got a new phone for work. Listen, we need to talk."

"No, we really don't."

"You're being irrational. Three years, Bella. You don't just throw away three years."

"You threw it away when you told me my career was a hobby."

"I never said that."

"Quote: 'Your little art thing is cute, but when are you going to get a real job?' End quote."

Silence. Then: "I'm transferring to San Francisco."

"What?"

"The bank offered me a position here. Senior analyst. I already accepted."

My hands shook. "Marcus, no. We're done. We're beyond done."

"You don't mean that. You're just emotional about the dissertation thing."

"The dissertation thing? The dissertation thing?" My voice climbed higher. "It's my life's work!"

"Which is why I'm coming to support you. We can start fresh. I've already looked at apartments for us."

"Marcus, listen to me very carefully. Do not move here for me. Do not call me again. Do not..."

He hung up. Just like that. Like I was having a tantrum he didn't need to hear.

I blocked the new number. Then threw my phone at the pillow because throwing it at the wall would break it and I couldn't afford a new one.

The house walls pressed closer. I needed air. Space. Somewhere that didn't smell like disappointment and old dreams.

Bean There Café hadn't changed since high school. Same wobbly table in the corner. Same weird art from local artists. Same barista who'd been "working on her screenplay" for a decade.

"Isabella Martinez?" She squinted at me. "Girl, weren't you off being a fancy professor somewhere?"

"Just visiting." I forced a smile and ordered the cheapest coffee they had.

My laptop battery was dying, but I kept scrolling through job sites. Museum positions wanted five years' experience. Universities wanted published papers I didn't have. Galleries wanted connections I'd never made because I was too busy being Marcus's appropriate girlfriend.

"Is anyone sitting here?"

Lunch rush. Of course. Every table was full and mine was the biggest.

"Go ahead." I didn't look up. Couldn't handle small talk with strangers.

He set his coffee down. The sleeve of his suit caught my eye first. Expensive. Really expensive. The kind of expensive that whispered instead of shouted.

"Thank you. I have a conference call in ten minutes and nowhere else to..."

That voice. Deep but not trying to be. Familiar but different.

I looked up.

The man in the suit smiled politely, then his face changed. Recognition dawned like sunrise.

"Bella?"

But this wasn't Uncle Alex. Couldn't be. Uncle Alex had a dad bod and told bad jokes at Christmas. Uncle Alex wore polo shirts from Target and had hair that was mostly brown.

This man... this man belonged in magazines. Silver threads through dark hair that somehow made him look distinguished instead of old. Jawline that could cut glass. Eyes that were still blue but deeper now, like the ocean when you swim out too far.

"My God," he said, and his voice wrapped around me strange and warm. "When did you grow up?"