Sensation Chapter 1

I’ve been in love with Ramiro Jimenez since my junior year of college, and now his fiancée is dead. 

I’m watching him, in love with him, and he’s watching her, getting lowered into the ground in her beautiful white dress in her pretty mahogany casket, her engagement ring secure around her finger. 

The tornado sirens that on any other day would send my heart rate through the roof stopped just in time for the service to conclude and allow the funeral procession to begin.  

I’ve been terrified of that awful sound since I was a little girl, when I endured tornado warnings pretty much alone. Only, today, my heart is occupied with a grief so immense, the sirens are an afterthought.

I always thought the minute I graduated from college, I’d move as far away from the tornado valley as I could. Then I found my adoptive family when I was in college, and I couldn’t imagine being away from them—every single person at this burial today—so I stayed. 

Despite the love of all these people, spring is still the worst season of all in this place. It’s rainy, gray, and those damned sirens go off at the worst times. Springtime in Kansas City always makes me think of Forrest Gump describing all the different types of rain. Today it was the sideways type for several hours. Now the raindrops are heavy, and the wind has died down a bit. They aren’t pelting us sideways anymore, but the downpour is still heavy. 

So heavy. 

And despite all that, today, even the rain is an afterthought. I’m not cold, or scared, or annoyed at being wet. It’s like none of us here care or can even feel the rain. We’re all still numb, in shock.

This particular dreary spring day is the worst of them because today, I get to watch the love of my life bury his fiancée.

It’s unrequited love. I’ll make that clear now. 

I met Ramiro when Carolina, my then-roommate and now best friend-slash-big sister, took pity on me and invited me to her home to spend the holiday break with her and her dad, Don Gustavo. Back then, Ramiro was the one deep in unrequited love for Carolina, whom he’d grown up with. So, in a way, he’s already been through exactly what I’m experiencing with him. 

But Carolina knew how he felt about her. And he has no idea about my feelings. 

Nearly eight years is a long time to be in love with someone who will never love you back. I was only twenty when I met him, and I thought I’d outgrow it one day, but watching him today, with those big brown eyes, glassy as he holds back his sobs, hurts me more than anything ever has, and that’s when I know—I’ll never stop loving him. Even if he’ll never see me as anything other than Carolina’s annoying little sister—a gnat in his periphery. 

After Carolina finally made it clear she’d never be in love with him, Ramiro had a whirlwind romance with a woman four years his senior, and they got engaged two months ago. He finally thought he’d found happiness. 

They never made it to their wedding day. 

Francisca Garcia died at thirty-four years old. 

She hadn’t been sick, and her sudden death at the peak of their love story crushed Ramiro way more than his heartbreak over Carolina ever had. It was an accident. A nighttime walk and an all-black workout outfit a driver couldn’t see in the dark. She never saw her crossing the street, distracted as she was by texting on her phone, driving much faster than she should have been in a residential area. Francisca died on impact. 

And I feel guilty.

Guilty, because more than anything, I wish I could allow myself to admire how handsome he looks today in his suit. I’m used to seeing Ramiro in what I swear is a uniform of jeans and a ribbed tank, all greasy from his work as a mechanic.

The only suit he had for today was the one he’d already bought for his wedding. 

So here we are, Ramiro, dashing in his three-piece wedding suit, getting drenched in the rain as he buries his fiancée. I’d trade places with Francisca to save him this pain if I could. 

Without thinking, I interlace my fingers with his, and on the other side of him, Carolina is also holding his hand. He doesn’t flinch, or push me away, to my surprise. Today, we’re the twin pillars propping him up, though Carolina and I are sobbing messes ourselves. We all do our best to keep it together. 

We’ve known Francisca for years since she lived just down the street from Carolina’s family home—and Ramiro’s, who was Carolina’s neighbor growing up. Though Carolina and I were never particularly close to her, this death still hits very close to home. Losing someone from our tight-knit community hurts more than I imagined, and not just because I feel this pain for Ramiro. 

I’d gotten to know Francisca and her family over the years. We often invited them to our home—that is, Don Gustavo and Carolina’s home. They also welcomed us as guests to their home when they had cookouts and birthday parties, and let’s not forget invitations to watch the all-important soccer games. 

Even when Ramiro fell in love with her, I didn’t have it in me to hate her. Francisca was the embodiment of what Don Gustavo called de sangre livianita. During one of our Spanish lessons, he explained that when someone has light blood, it means they’re easy to like, while someone with heavy blood, or sangre pesada, is a person who is hard to like. In reality, I saw how happy she made Ramiro—how he lit up when she walked into a room—and that made me happy, regardless of the weight of her blood. 

Francisca must have had feather-light blood, though, because to know her was to like her. I understand why he fell in love with her so quickly once they started dating. 

As they begin to lower the casket into the grave, Ramiro’s grip on my hand tightens, and he croaks out, “Sara.” I look up at him, blinking, surprised he called out my name. Not Francisca’s. Not Carolina’s. Mine. He said, “Sara.”

I know what it’s like to lose family and loved ones. Not to death but might as well be. That’s probably why he said my name, knowing I understand what he’s feeling with this loss. I squeeze his hand tighter and lean my head on his shoulder, hugging his bicep with my free arm. 

“I know,” I whisper. “I know.”

A strangled sound leaves his throat, but he won’t cry. I know he won’t. Definitely not in public. Not even under cover of rain. In private? I’m not even sure he’ll cry then, either. 

Though only thirty years old, Ramiro Jimenez is a very proud, young Mexican-American man. Taught not to cry from his earliest memories by his father, who learned it from his father, and so on. At least that’s my understanding of his upbringing. 

I wish he would cry. He needs to. He can’t bottle up all this pain. 

This pain that is all around us. Pain reflected in Don Gustavo’s eyes—who knows exactly what it’s like to bury a loved one so young—and in Doña Pancha’s tears at having to endure the pain of burying her child. 

But the biggest pain in this tiny, wet patch of land today comes from the two little boys hugging their grandma, unable to stop crying because they’ll never see their mom again. 

On the day they bury their mother, René Garcia is ten years old, and Oscar Garcia only eight. Their father is still living, but he isn’t here today and hasn’t been for a single day of Oscar’s life. 

I don’t think any of us can hear the priest’s words any longer over Doña Pancha’s wailing. 

When the casket meets earth and the sound stops, Oscar finally looks up, and there’s a wild look of panic in his eyes. He screams, “¡Mamá!” and lunges toward the opening in the grave as if intending to dive into it. 

Ramiro’s hands pull from Carolina and me, and he rushes forward to intercept Oscar. He barely grabs onto the back of Oscar’s shirt in time and pulls him back before he reaches his goal. 

“No!” Oscar screams. “Let me go!”

Ramiro’s hand stays fisted firmly on Oscar’s now drenched shirt, no longer under the cover of Doña Pancha’s umbrella. Then Ramiro falls to his knees and spins Oscar around by his shoulders. He takes the little boy in his arms, and for a moment, Oscar fights it. Those tiny fists punch at Ramiro’s sides, but Ramiro stays put in his embrace of the little guy.

All of us around them are stunned into silence because no one fucking deserves this kind of pain. Not Ramiro, and definitely not Oscar and René. 

Eventually, Oscar stops fighting, and his cheek falls to Ramiro’s shoulder, his sobs down to hiccups. 

“I know, buddy,” Ramiro says, rubbing his back. “I’m here,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear over the rain. “I’ll always be here.” Ramiro lets his cheek fall to the top of Oscar's head. Fat raindrops roll down Ramiro’s close-shaved head and onto Oscar’s black, unruly waves. 

If there’s one thing I know to be true about Ramiro Jimenez, it’s that he’s a man of his word.

That promise he just made? 

It transformed him into a single father of two little boys before my very eyes.