Free A Blind Spot for Boys by Justina Chen

allowed. Even if I had been able to shoot, I don’t think I could have lifted my arms. They felt weighed down and strapped to my sides in the oppressive space, which made it easy to imagine bloodthirsty priests and ruthless conquistadores.
    “This entire cathedral is a subversive rebellion fought with art,” Stesha told us, pointing to a painting and telling us that the rumored model for Judas’s face was none other than Francisco Pizarro, the Spanish conquistador who pillaged the city.
    “I should do that with our competitors in the next game,” Hank murmured to Helen.
    To put more distance between me and the Gamers, I trailed behind everyone, even Grace, down an aisle. Elaborate art was crammed into every square inch, making me feel claustrophobic. Before Stesha stopped in front of a statue in an alcove, my heart began pounding in double time. But why? Why would this supplicating saint make me feel anxious, as if I were latefor a final? My family wasn’t Catholic, just part-time Presbyterians who made it to services only on Christmas Eve and Easter morning.
    “Meet Saint Anthony,” Stesha said, her eyes on Grace, not me, thankfully. “Women of all ages come here first thing in the morning.”
    “Why?” Grace asked.
    I knew why.
    Once Ginny, whose mom is a devout Catholic, found out that I was going to Cusco, she told me about Saint Anthony, the patron saint of missing people and possessions. In this particular cathedral, the faithful believed that he paid special attention to the lovelorn. So Ginny had begged me to leave a note for her. I knew she meant business when she sent me that note, signed, sealed, and delivered in a FedEx envelope. Obviously, Chef Boy needed a massive prod of the divine intervention kind.
    Stesha explained, “To leave prayers for a
novio
.”
    Novio.
Boyfriend, soul mate. I knew that word from years of Spanish classes. Still, I wasn’t prepared for Stesha to gaze at me—me!—with so much empathy, I could have been one of the lovelorn making a special pilgrimage to petition Saint Anthony. I took a hasty step back to distance myself from that mistaken identity. Nope, just an innocent messenger. I was of the no-boys-allowed order of girlhood, thank you.
    “It’s been ten years, Grace,” Stesha said quietly.
    “Some men are irreplaceable,” Grace murmured. Her fingers flew to the man’s wedding ring that rested on a chain above her chest, rubbing it as if it were a rosary.
    Stesha may have placed her hand between Grace’s shoulder blades, calming her, but a stern directness replaced the warm glow in her eyes. She told Grace flatly, “You have a second chance at love. You told me that you really cared for Henry. You can’t be afraid to love again.”
    That statement tore into me, threatened to reopen the scar tissue from my breakup with Dom. As much as I wanted to join my parents, who were examining another alcove, I was frozen in place.
    “I miss Morris
so
much.” Grace’s husky confession welled up from a grief so deep, plumb lines couldn’t scrape the bottom.
    The sound of this heartbreak scared me. It was bad enough missing Dom, bad enough having every little conversation and every little black-jacket sighting remind me of him—and this was after dating him for only six weeks. So how do you even move on after an entire lifetime together? Grace’s face crumpled. Who’d ever want to risk being buried alive under that kind of grief? Not me.
    “He was my life,” Grace continued softly. “I’m almost seventy. And Henry’s even older than Morris was. So why bother? If I want companionship, I could get a dog.”
    “Grace Hiyashi!” cried Stesha, placing her hands on Grace’s shoulders. “I refound the love of my life and I’m almost exactly your age. There’s no age limit to loving. And have you even considered that maybe there was a reason why you met Henry where you did? You’ve always wanted to go to Bhutan.”
    Unable to breathe, I needed out of this gloomy