How to Love You When You're Gone

by Gabriela Gonzales

Genres: YA Contemporary Romance; Young Adult

Synopsis

For fans of Shut Up, This Is Serious, this humorous, relatable novel gives an honest look at what it’s like to fall in love for the first time—while simultaneously healing from loss.
 
High school senior Mayte has never been kissed, but it hardly matters. Her abuelita has cancer, her half sister with special needs has moved in, and college is off the table—family comes first. She keeps her problems to herself; why burden everyone she loves with more?
 
Meanwhile, fellow senior Auggie is set on attending an elite creative writing program. But as the self-proclaimed most boring person alive, he can’t exactly write the next great American novel when he’s struggling to write a short story for college applications.
 
After an awful blind date (“disaster” doesn’t even begin to describe it), Mayte and Auggie  are forced together by their merging social circles. The pair must at least pretend to get along…but soon they develop actual feelings. Then tragedy strikes Mayte’s family. Auggie feels compelled to write her story to help her process and heal—but are his intentions truly selfless? The best story he’s ever written could impact the best friendships he’s ever had.

Release date: May 26, 2026

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 368

Sample

Hello    ,

Thank you for your submission to Pear Tree Review’s Young Writers Contest. We appreciate the opportunity to read your work. After careful consideration, we’ve decided that this piece is not for us. We received many submissions, so this does not necessarily reflect the quality of your

I SHUT MY LAPTOP. THEN I OPEN IT AGAIN AND CLOSE THE WINDOW, A lesson I’ve learned from the number of rejection letters I’ve slammed my laptop on without closing out of the window first. I’ll mope around the house, promise this is the last story I’ll ever write, convince myself and my family that it’s allergies when my eyes are red at dinner, end up watching Paul Blart: Mall Cop with them for the five hundredth time, and forget that I hate myself until I open my laptop to watch some random compilation on YouTube, and there it is, staring me right back in the face.

We regret to inform you…

… didn’t quite win me…

We’ve decided not to…

… didn’t feel it was right for…

After careful consideration…

… not for us.

I reopen the email I just closed: Pear Tree’s rejection of “Winter’s Teeth,” my latest short story.

Hello    ,

One: Not even a Hello, Augustine. Two: Literally not a Hello anyone. But also I’ve gotten this one before. With the extra spaces after the Hello, before the comma, where a name was clearly supposed to go. Definitely, obviously, a form rejection. Heck, my mom won’t even try to act like this one isn’t a form rejection. They didn’t even add the We encourage you to submit to us again in the future.

“They wouldn’t say it if they didn’t mean it,” she always says when rejections end that way. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I do try to make myself believe it. I guess if the Pear Tree Review had received so many submissions that their rejection doesn’t necessarily “reflect the quality of my writing,” then they probably don’t want to encourage all of the Next Great American Writer hopefuls to submit again in the future.

I know there are a lot of moms who want their kids to be lawyers and dads who want their sons to be sports guys or whatever, but my parents have actually been pretty cool about what I want. There was this one time when I was writing a scene where this assassin was on top of a building and I was trying to figure out if he could kill his mark from where he was, so I went downstairs and asked my parents while they were watching TV and, no joke, my dad took me upstairs to my bedroom window with a water gun and my mom ran down the street in the dark and we tried to find the right angle to kill her.

I guess that’s more than being pretty cool about it.

But the reason I’ve stopped telling them about rejections and started faking allergies and all that, even though they’re more than pretty cool about it, is because I’m so tired of the Stephen King comment. It’s like they’re programmed to say it every time I receive a rejection.

“Did you know Stephen King threw Carrie away? In the trash, Augustine. He threw it in the trash,” my mom will say.

“We wouldn’t have Carrie if all writers believed what their minds told them about themselves. What would teenage girls be afraid of at prom then?” Dad will say.

Then Mom again. “His wife pulled it out of the trash can and she made him publish it. She made him. We’re here to be your Tabitha Kings, Augustine.”

Somehow they forget they’ve said it at least twenty times. Almost word for word too. The whole weird “we’re gonna be like your supportive wives but we’re your parents” thing—every time. And it’s weird every time. Like I’d forget that Stephen King threw Carrie away. You tell an aspiring writer that story once and they’re gonna stash it away in their sad little writer hearts. But the thing is, Stephen King is Stephen King and I am seventeen and being rejected by Pear Tree Review’s Young Writers Contest.

… we’ve decided that this piece is not for us.

“Doesn’t seem like it’s for anyone,” I say to the screen.

Yeah, it’s dramatic. No, I don’t care.

“What’d that computer do to you?”

I turn my head to see Janko leaning in the doorframe. “I didn’t hear you come up,” I say, whirling my chair around to face him.

“You know, I’ve always known there’s a chance I might have to beat the shit out of someone being an asshole to you, but I didn’t expect the first someone to be a laptop.” Janko flops onto my bed, shoes and all. Mom always asks people to take their shoes off at the door, but never Janko. “Don’t worry, bro. I’ll knock his motherboard into next century.”

Janko’s been my best friend since before either of us had consciousness. There’s this awful joke our parents make when we’re having dinner together, which is that Janko and I have been best friends since our literal conception on the night of one of their New Year’s Eve parties. But also it may not really be much of a joke since I was born on September 23 and Janko was born just four days later.

Janko is a lot cooler than I am, if it wasn’t obvious by the fact that he thinks one day he’ll have to beat someone up for harassing me. I don’t think I’m particularly uncool but more like invisibly neutral, if that makes sense, while Janko’s on the Jefferson High baseball team. So, you know, he carries a bat and I carry a pen and I feel like that says something. I really did expect him to ditch me, like, way back in middle school, but for some reason he stuck around.

“Pear Tree Review’s Young Writers Contest decided my piece is not for them.” I spin my chair around fast. “But it’s obviously because they received so many submissions and not because I’m a trash wordsmith.”

“Pear Tree Review’s Young Writers Contest can suck my dick.”

“I really had a good feeling about this one,” I say.

“Was it that one about the dude with the dog in that apartment?”

“Nah. It was the ‘Winter’s Teeth’ one.”

Janko sits up. “No shit, man. I really liked that one. Their loss.”

“Thanks,” I say, then stop my chair to look at him, my head spinning, a few blurry Jankos whirling around the bed. “Wait. Does that mean you don’t like the one with the dog?”

“Nah, that one was cool. I just like ‘Winter’s Teeth’ better.”

I sigh. “So, you gonna knock the motherboard into next century or…” I start the chair spinning again. “Knock all my stories out of it. I’m over this. Done. Writing isn’t for me. I’m not cut out for it.”

“Don’t say that shit, Augs.” He points at me. “You gonna let a contest named after a fucking fruit determine your destiny?”

I’m silent.

“You gonna?”

“No,” I say.

“Auggie, you know that lady who wrote Harry Potter wrote the whole book or something on—”

“On a napkin,” I say. “And it wasn’t the whole book. How would you even write an entire book on a napkin?”

The Harry Potter comment. Almost as bad as the Stephen King comment. But I usually cut Janko more slack for that one since he’s my best friend and not my parents.

“Anyway, it’s Friday night. You know what that means?” Janko asks, tossing a bottle of vitamins from my nightstand in the air and then catching it. The pills rattle around.

“You brought a backpack full of popcorn and are staying for family movie night?” I ask, hopefully.

“No. It means Marcus Sanchez is having a thing at his house.” Janko tilts his head. “His dad goes out of town every second Friday of the month.”

“And you’re telling me this why?”

Janko sits up and looks at me, vitamin bottle still in hand. “A backpack full of popcorn?”

I shrug.

“Because we’re going,” Janko says.

I shake my head and stand up. “I just told you, it’s family movie night.”

“Yeah, and I already talked to your parents.”

“I’ll have to ask.” Janko follows me down the stairs and into the kitchen. My dad is stirring a pot on the stove while my mom reads a book at the table. My mom looks up as we walk in, and I hold her eyes, give a light shake of my head. Get me out of this, I try to communicate. Please play the role of normal parents who don’t want their kid going to a party. Please.

She looks back at her book.

Traitor.

“I can literally see you shaking your head, Auggie,” Janko says.

“You’re going to the party with Janko,” Dad says, without turning around.

“There is nothing that sounds less appealing than going to a party on a Friday night. Can I really not just stay home for movie night with you guys?”

“What is wrong with you?” Mom asks, eyes still roving over the paperback in her hands.

“Yeah, what’s wrong with you?” my sister, Kate, says, walking in and sitting at the table with Mom. She tents her fingers and rests her chin on them, glaring at me. “I literally have to beg to go out with just Hannah and Parvi on Friday nights. That’s not even a party.” She blows her bangs out of her face only for them to flop back down on her forehead. “I want to go to a party.”

“Which is why you have to beg and he doesn’t,” Dad says.

I press my head against the wall next to where Dad is cooking and groan. He walks around me, reaching over my head to open the spice cabinet and pull something out, acting like I’m not even there. “Just let me stay home and destroy my computer. I’ll clean up all the pieces in the morning.”

Mom, Dad, and Kate all turn and look at Janko.

“Rejection from the Pear Tree Magazine’s Young Writers Contest,” he says.

They all “Mmm” and nod in understanding.

“Pear Tree Review,” I mutter as I sink to the kitchen floor. Dad steps over me to put the cayenne pepper back in the spice cabinet.

“Maybe if you go to the party and take some time away from your computer, you’ll want to beat it up less than you do now,” Kate says. “That’s what Mom and Dad say to do when I want to beat you up.”

“Katherine,” Dad says. “Don’t kick your brother when he’s already down.” He points at me. “Look. He’s down. He’s sitting on the kitchen floor.”

“Can you also tell him he can’t wear that to the party?” Janko asks.

“You can’t wear that to the party,” says each of my traitorous family members in unison.

I look down at my yellow polo. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Except I don’t know what you’re expecting to find in his closet that’ll be any better. You’ve been his friend since you were born. You should know that,” Kate says. She shakes her head. “Every time we go to the mall, I tell him to let me screen what he gets and he never does.”

“He has to have something that’s not a golf polo. He doesn’t even play golf,” Janko says.

I wave my hands from my place on the floor. “Guys, I’m right here.”

Kate gets up and makes her way to where I sit, standing over me. “Did you know Parvi said you could maybe be hot if you dressed better?”

“I don’t want your friends to think I’m hot,” I say.

“Whatever,” Kate says, taking Janko’s arm and leading him to the stairs. “I’ll help you.”

I get up to follow them, but my mom stops me. “I’m sorry about the rejection, my love.” She kisses my head as she holds me close to her. “They don’t know what they’re missing.” I let myself relax in her embrace. “But remember, Stephen King threw Carrie away. In the trash, Augustine.”

“FOR MY FUNERAL, I WANT YOU ALL TO DO THIS SHOW IN REAL LIFE—ALL los nietos get the same ingredients and have to make the best dessert with what they’re given. And then Padre Stefano will decide whose is best.”

My head swings around. “What the hell, Abuelita?”

Abuelita shrugs and points to the TV. A man is chopping chocolate like his life depends on it. “It is a very cool show. I want to have a very cool funeral.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t have to plan it now,” I say. I put the knitting needles and pile of yellow yarn on my lap, pass her one of the Cokes on the table, and take the other for myself. She puts her own needles and yarn down. We drink at the same time.

“You never know,” she replies.

“I don’t care,” I mutter, hoping she hears me.

“Do you remember that one? A very cool show? A very cool funeral? En español?”

“I don’t know ‘funeral’ and I don’t want to know,” I say. Before she can try to tell me, I say, “And show is película?”

“That’s movie. Programa,” she says.

“Programa,” I repeat, tripping over the r’s a little more than I wish I did.

“What about ‘very cool’?”

I screw up my face like I’ve tasted something gross, and that gross thing is my own personal latinidad. “Frío?” I say.

Abuelita smiles but she doesn’t tease me. That’s probably the reason why I’ll only practice my Spanish with her and my prima/best friend, Leo. I love my tías, but they always laugh when I mess things up or when my “carros” and “perros” come out a little too “caro” and “pero.” It makes me want to put on red lipstick, make arepas, dance the cumbia, and superglue my mouth shut.

“Chévere,” she says.

“Chévere,” I repeat.

“Pero es una palabra colombiana.” I translate it in my head as she talks slower than she usually does for me. But that’s a Colombian word. “Así que no la uses con El Otro Lado.”

I laugh. So don’t use it with The Other Side. My dad’s side. The Mexican side. There’s no bad blood between the two or anything like that, no weird, internalized racism. They’re just two very different parts of me. I think sometimes people think all Spanish-speaking cultures are the same, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Just look at all the different types of tamales.

“Why is this all tangled?” Abuelita says, passing me her Coke and holding up her purple hat. Or what’s supposed to eventually be a hat. Right now it looks like a pile of yarn.

“You’re the abuela. Aren’t you supposed to know?” I grin and she swings a needle at me. “¡Ay, Abuelita!” I’m never sure where the ay comes from. It’s like it lies dormant until I’m around my family. I dodge the needle and set both Cokes back on the coffee table.

“I don’t know how to make a hat. I don’t know how to knit. It will be a very ugly hat,” Abuelita says.

“Don’t say that,” I tell her. “But also, you pulled the needle out to threaten me. I don’t think you’re supposed to pull it out like that.”

“For threatening?” she asks.

“No, like, for correct hat-making,” I say. “I think the needle needs to stay in the hat.”

“I blame the cancer,” she says. She looks down at her chest. “I blame you, cancer.”

“For what? Making you knit an ugly hat?” I grin. “I think you’re just bad at knitting.”

“If I didn’t have cancer, I could just go to the Target and buy a hat.”

“You’re so dramatic,” I say. “You’re not trapped here. We can literally leave right now to go buy you a hat. The car’s outside. Target is, like, five minutes away.”

“No,” she says. “I am old and I have cancer and I must make a hat to pass away the time.” She points at the TV again. “That is the ugliest cake I have ever seen.”

I look at the screen. A woman is setting a crumbling cake on the judging table, pink and blue frosting slipping off to reveal a dark chocolate inside. “It wasn’t ugly the whole time. It’s just falling apart now.”

“An ugly cake,” she repeats and looks down at her purple mess. “Just like my ugly hat.”

“What if it tastes good?”

“It’s still ugly.”

“But what if I gave it to you while your eyes were closed and it tasted good?”

She ponders this for a moment. “Then it would be okay.”

“See,” I say. “If we knit the hats and then put them on with our eyes closed, we can keep our ears warm even if our hats are ugly.”

“I will not wear this outside this house,” Abuelita says. “And you will not wear this outside this house, do you hear me?”

“You’re so vain,” I say in a singsong voice. She pulls the knitting needle out again and I dodge, laughing. “Stop! It’s going to get uglier!”

“¿Cuándo terminas de cuidar a la abuelita?”

“Huh?”

“When do you finish the Abuelita Duty?”

I reach in my pocket for my phone, but it’s at the front door in my purse. Mom said that when I’m on Abuelita Duty, I’m not allowed to be on my phone. Once I had it out and Abuelita told on me like a snitch.

“What time is it?” I ask.

Abuelita reaches for her phone because apparently she’s allowed to have hers during Mayte Time. “Five fifty.”

“Tía Dely will be here at six.”

“You spend your Friday night knitting con tu abuelita.” She points her knitting needle at her Coke, and I pass it to her again. I watch the wrinkles in her neck ebb like an ocean in her skin as she glugs more soda than I expect. Then she points the needle at me. “I thought you were a teenager.”

“I am a teenager,” I say.

“When I was your age, I would go to parties.”

“Good for you.”

“And I’d kiss so many beautiful boys.” She sighs and then glares at me. “You kiss no one.”

“I don’t really care to talk about how many boys my abuelita has kissed.” I roll my eyes. “Besides, you don’t know anything about my love life. I could’ve kissed hundreds of boys.”

“Leo me dijo.”

Dammit, Leo.

“Why were you not invited to a party tonight?”

I shrug and sigh dramatically. “I don’t know, Abuelita.”

“Then you should call someone and find a party. And kiss a boy.”

I put my hat pile down and throw my arms out. “Okay, who do you want me to call to find a party? Do you know high schoolers throwing a party tonight, Abuelita? No, I thought not.”

“La Rubia,” she says.

“Claire?”

She nods. “Claire. O tu prima.”

“I don’t have my phone on me. I’ll call them after I leave here,” I say. Which I actually might do. I don’t have any plans tonight and don’t think I’ve had a chance to hang out with Claire or even see Leo since, like, Tuesday of last week, which feels like forever considering how often I see my primos. Homework. Helping move in Aida’s stuff. Abuelita Duty.

“Then go get your phone and call them now.”

“That’s a trap.” I grab my Coke and finish it off. “Last time I used my phone you told Mami.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You know that’s a lie.”

She holds her phone out to me. “Usa el mío.”

I take it from her. “So what? You just want me to call them and ask if they’re throwing a party tonight?”

She nods.

“Sure, whatever.” I scroll through Abuelita’s contacts until I get to my prima’s number. I press the phone to my ear.

“Put it on the speakerphone,” Abuelita says.

I groan but do so.

Leo answers, “¿Aló? ¿Abuelita?”

“¿Aló? Eleanora?” I say in my best imitation of Abuelita’s accent.

“You on Abuelita Duty?” she. . .