by Karina Halle
“Well, let’s keep it between you and I then. I don’t want to have to fight off any women.”
He brushes the hair from my face. “There aren’t any other women, you know that. Just you. Only you.”
I hate what those words do to me. Fill me with hope. Make my heart swell. We’re not even a couple and yet we’re acting like it. How scary it would be for all of this to stop, to fall apart. It’s so soon and yet I can’t bear to lose it.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, tapping his fingers along my temple. “What thoughts could you have now, after all that and my magic cock?”
I can’t help but give him a half-smile. “You know me. Hard habit to break. Might need your magic cock in me at all times.”
“That can be arranged. You know by now I don’t tire easily.” He places his hand at my chest, the expression on his face turning grave, like he’s grappling with something heavy. “Sometimes I think I can feel your pain. I can see the softness of your heart.”
I don’t know if it’s all the emotions from the sex or with my family or what’s going on, but just those words, just the feeling of his warm palm against my chest, so tender, and I feel tears burning at my eyes and nose.
I take a deep breath.
Shit, Violet, don’t lose it now after all that.
“You know,” Vicente says quietly. “Just because I want you to escape from yourself during sex and connect with me doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear about what bothers you. What lurks inside your head. Tell me about your darkest places, Violet. Don’t hold them inside.”
I close my eyes, the tears falling. Shit. I am so fucking weak.
But he doesn’t ask me why I’m crying. Which is good, because if he’s going to be around me for a while he’s going to find out pretty soon that I cry over a lot of things. Sad commercials, music, cute animals, movies, books, happy or sad. Even an epic sunset can reduce me to tears sometimes.
He rubs his thumbs underneath my eyes, wiping away the tears. “You just need a little tenderness, Violet. I think that’s all you need.”
I swallow hard, nodding. Because he gets it. He fucking gets it.
“You know what,” I whisper to him, biting on my lip for a long moment while I find the courage to go on. “It took me a long time to see this but…back in high school, if my boyfriend broke up with me or we had a fight or if I failed a test or something bad happened at home or friends were mean, whatever it was, I would often drag it out for as long as I could. It was like I wanted to wallow in it, become a martyr or something. I couldn’t figure it out, what was wrong with me. I thought that maybe I just liked punishment or I wanted people to feel sorry for me. Like I wanted their pity.”
I take in a deep, steadying breath and meet his eyes. He’s watching me so carefully, absorbing my words as they fall from my shaking lips. I continue. “But later, I realized that wasn’t the case at all. I didn’t want people feeling bad for me. I didn’t want to forever be a victim. All I really wanted was for what they gave me when I was one. When I was hurting, people were a little bit nicer to me. They were more gentle. Tender. Soft. It’s all I wanted. Most people don’t realize it when they’re being crass and abrasive, because the world teaches you that no one deserves extra kindness or extra anything, that there is strength in being hard and tough and strong. It’s buck up, pull up your big girl panties, stop feeling sorry for yourself and get over it. Don’t be so sensitive.” Even saying the words choke me up. “And all I wanted was just a little extra compassion. I just wanted people to be nice to me. Not because I deserved it. But because everyone does. And fuck if it’s hard to find in this world. Empathy is rarer than diamonds.”
There. I’ve just poured my heart out to him in a way I haven’t done with anyone. I’ve never said those words outside my own head before. I’ve kept them locked away because there’s a world out there that just doesn’t understand, and worse than that, will turn on you for it.
And Vicente, of all people, seems to have been born from a tough stock. He’s all tobacco and leather and prickly cactus. He’s steel and fire and the harsh sun of the desert. He’s belts and ropes and ties. He’s everything I’m not.
Yet as he’s watching me, thinking, as we both lie here on the bed naked, I see that deep inside he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“You know,” he says carefully, “in other cultures, being kind isn’t a flaw. And being emotional and open isn’t either. Violet…your heart is safe with me. You know this now. Your heart is safe, as is your mind and your soul and your body. I won’t hurt you. I won’t let anyone else either.”
I could cry all over again.
Only this time I don’t.
All the softness is turning to heat.
I smile.
Grab the back of his head, my hands sinking into his soft hair, and pull him to me, ready to go again.
I want to stay at Vicente’s all night, but again, I know I should go home.
But when his Mustang pulls onto Waller Street, I’m hit with a different impulsion.
“Do you want to come inside?” I ask him. I don’t know why the question makes me feel like I’m in high school.
He grins, a flash of white teeth in the dark. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Yeah, if you can find a parking spot.”
Luckily we manage to find one less than a block away. As we walk to the door, my heart bubbles up. His arm goes around my waist, holding me tight while he has a few casual puffs of a cigarette. I briefly lean my head against his shoulder as the feelings run away with me, caught up in the scent of sweet tobacco.
This shouldn’t feel so good, so fast.
It’s so fast.
You’re just introducing him to your parents, I remind myself. This stuff happens.
But that’s not what’s fast. It’s not what’s going on, on the outside. It’s what’s happening on the inside.
Feelings. Motherfucking feelings.
Ridiculous, ludicrous, grandiose feelings.
A whole tree of them, growing at a rapid rate, a canopy above my head.
I can only hope they don’t all rain down on me at once. I can only handle one at a time: desire. Lust. Sexual obsession.
And then what happens next?
We pause in front of my house. The light in the living room is on and I can see flashes from the TV on the walls. It’s only nine o’clock. They’re probably both up and watching television.
Fuck. What am I thinking?
“You think they won’t approve?” he asks me, an edge to his voice.
I squeeze his hand and give him my most reassuring smile.
“Why wouldn’t they?”
They have no reason not to.
Just because my mother warned me about men who know all the right things to say.
She’ll meet Vicente and forget all about that.
He’ll win her over like he won me over.
“Just don’t…mention what we talked about earlier,” I tell him.
“Are you kidding me? I told you that you can trust me.” He pauses, peering at me. “And I’m not going to let what you told me cloud my judgment of them. They’re your parents and I’m sure they’re very lovely people.”
Damn. He really can read my mind.
With that in mind, we go up the steps and I stick my key in the lock, opening the door.
It’s warm inside. The hallway is dark, with only a faint light coming out of the kitchen. The low murmur of the television sounds from around the corner.
“Violet?” I hear my mom say from the living room.
“Yeah, it’s me,” I tell her, hanging up my jacket on the coat hook and gesturing Vicente to do the same with his. “Dad with you?”
“He’s out with Paul,” she says. His friend he often plays music with. It’s probably easier that he’s not here.
I look at Vicente. I can barely see his face in the dark. I grab his hand and then bring him around the corner to the room.
My mom
is sitting down on the couch, her hand in a bowl of popcorn. I’m vainly glad she’s not dressed like a dork, not that she normally does but since she wasn’t expecting anyone she could have been in a green face mask and mom jeans.
Instead, she’s in heather grey cotton shorts, her legs curled under her, showcasing the gorgeous cherry blossom tattoo she has snaking up her leg. She’s wearing a thin black t-shirt and probably no bra but she doesn’t really need it. Her hair is down over her shoulders, so dark it disappears into her shirt.
It’s funny how looking at your parents through another person’s eyes makes you realize who they really are. My mom’s a fucking MILF, and at this moment, with her dark eyes focused on the TV, she looks like the spitting image of me, albeit a skinnier, older model.
“Hey,” I say to her, Vicente standing beside me.
She turns to look at us and to her credit she only flinches slightly when she realizes I’m not alone.
“I’m sorry,” she says, slowly placing the bowl of popcorn next to her. “I didn’t realize you had someone with you.” She’s squinting at us—with the glare of the TV and us in the shadows, she probably can’t see that well.
I take a step toward her. “Vicente was dropping me off so I thought I’d bring him in to meet you.”
So you can stop being so goddamn paranoid.
My mother slowly gets to her feet, rubbing her palms on her thighs before offering her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Vicente,” she says.
Vicente steps out of the shadows and grasps her hand in his. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mrs. McQueen.”
A faint gasp comes out of my mother’s mouth as she stares at Vicente in absolute horror.
“Something wrong?” Vicente asks lightly.
“Mom,” I chide her. “You’re being rude.”
What the hell is wrong with her?
She just blinks, managing to clamp her mouth shut while her eyes stay wide open. Vicente shakes her hand and shoots me a sly smile. “She must be shocked by my handsome good looks.” He turns back to her and raises her hand to his mouth, not dropping eye contact as he kisses it. “I’ve been told I have that effect.”
I have to admit, it’s a really weird moment. I wasn’t expecting for Vicente to be so intense with her, and I wasn’t expecting her to have a fucking aneurysm.
He drops her hand and looks around the room. “A really nice place you have here.”
“Thanks…” she says, swallowing hard. She glances at me and I can still see traces of fear in her eyes. I don’t know what her deal is.
“Mom, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” I tell her. “Chill out. He’s not staying. I just thought he’d come in and say hi and you wouldn’t act like an absolute loon.”
“I get that a lot,” Vicente says, coming back to me and taking my hand, squeezing it. I squeeze it back, grateful for his support. “I must have one of those faces.”
“You certainly do,” my mother says carefully. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Vicente.”
“Vicente what?”
“Mom…”
He gives her a charming smile. “Vicente Cortez. Do you want to see my driver’s license?”
“ID doesn’t mean anything,” she mutters under her breath. Then she perks up. “I’m going to go get us some wine for the occasion.” She looks at Vicente. “Do you like wine, Vicente Cortez?”
“I prefer tequila, if you have it. Patrón.”
“I don’t. Wine it is.” She walks over to me and grabs my arm. “Violet, I need your help with the glasses.”
And then she hauls me out of the living room. I look back at Vicente, trying to shrug, but he just raises his palm and nods, somehow understanding all of this.
“Mom,” I hiss at her when we get to the kitchen and I wrestle out of her grasp. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“Don’t you fucking swear at me,” she says, hugging her arms close to her chest.
“What? Since when?”
“Since you bring some fucking strange Mexican into the house.”
Whoa. “Mexican? Mom, please don’t tell me you’re drinking the racist Kool-Aid now.”
My mom is the most liberal person I know.
“You don’t know him, Violet,” she says, pacing between me and the fridge, her fists opening and closing. “The other day, two men, Hispanics, not from around here, were shot dead in the park.”
“That happens all the time,” I tell her.
“No. Not like this. It was a clean killing. Nothing sloppy or rushed about it. Not the kind of killing you would do over a drug deal. It was murder and it was planned.”
My mind is totally boggled. What the hell is she talking about? “Murder? What? Mom…I think you’ve been watching too many crime shows…” I trail off, my mind going where I don’t want it to.
To the newspaper clipping.
“Why does it matter if he’s from Mexico?” I ask carefully. “Do you have bad blood with them? Did something happen once?”
She stops pacing. Looks at me with a pale face. She blinks, trying to take in my words. Finally she says, “No. No.” She presses the heel of her palm to her forehead and takes a deep breath. “Sorry, baby. My medication is messing with me these days. I think I need to switch. I just…you’re right. I’ve been watching too many shows.”
I exhale loudly, feeling bad. I don’t know why, but that’s par for the course.
“Let me get the white,” I tell her, opening the fridge and taking out an almost full bottle of chardonnay.
“I’ll get the glasses,” she says absently, grabbing three of them from the cupboard. When she puts them on the counter and I begin to fill them up, I can feel her watching me very carefully.
“What?” I whisper tensely.
“I just want you to be careful,” she says in a low voice. “That’s all. You said this was the guy who always has the right thing to say. And I can see that. I don’t trust him.”
I give her a sharp look. “I don’t care if you don’t trust him. I do.”
She shakes her head slightly but doesn’t say anything.
“You going to behave?” I ask her. “Be a normal mom?”
She flinches at that, almost spilling the glasses. “I am a normal mom.”
I let out a dry laugh and walk back to the living room. Fucking hell she’s normal.
Back in the living room, Vicente is hunched over, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the family photos on the mantelpiece. I have to admit that with his dark grey jeans and black long-sleeve shirt, he does look a little like the bad boy every mother has to warn her daughter about.
“Here you go,” I say to Vicente, holding out the glass. “Sorry about my mom. She needs new meds.”
“Violet,” she admonishes, and I can tell from the tone that I’ve actually zinged her with that one. But she needs to understand that the honesty is important to Vicente.
Vicente takes the glass from me and raises it at my mother. “Regardless, thank you so much for letting me into your home, Mrs. McQueen. No, that sounds too formal now that we are all friends. What else can I call you?”
“Mrs. McQueen is just fine,” she says sternly.
“All right. Here’s to you, Mrs. McQueen.”
We all raise our glasses in unison, though my mom looks like hers is made of lead.
After Vicente takes a sip and makes a small noise of approval, he gestures to the photos on the mantel. “Lovely family you have here. How long have you lived in San Francisco? Some of the pictures look further up the coast.”
She arches a dark brow at him. “We used to live in Gualala. Up Highway One.”
He nods. “Would love to head up there one day. Maybe Violet and I can go, take some photos.”
“We could visit Grandpa Gus and Mimi,” I say excitedly.
My mother doesn’t say anything but she doesn’t look happy. “Since we’re asking questions,” she says. “How long are you in San Francisco
for? Violet didn’t seem to know.”
“I’m here for as long as I want. I’m dedicated to photography now and I think the city is a special place to stay.”
“You’re not heading back to Mexico anytime soon?”
He takes her question in stride. “I have no reason to go back.”
“Things tough down there?” She almost sounds like she’s mocking him.
He shrugs and takes another sip of wine. “Not particularly.”
“Violet says you come from a family of farmers.”
“We export avocados,” he says. “But we don’t farm them.”
“Can’t be much money in that,” she muses, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“Mom, have you ever bought an avocado? They’re like ten bucks a pop,” I remind her. “Avocado toast is like currency in this city.”
She ignores me. “So, if you don’t mind my asking, Vicente, what is it that you do? Since you’re not a student at the school and you’re taking lessons from my daughter.”
Jesus. She’s really grilling him. Now I wish Dad was home. Surely he’d go easier on him.
Maybe.
“If you’re wondering how it is that I can afford to live in San Francisco, I’ll just say I have a lot of investments that are slowly paying off. And no, you can’t have the name of my financial advisor. He lives in Mexico City.”
“And where did you live in Mexico?”
“Oh, around. Places you’ve never heard of.”
“Try me.”
“Have you been to Mexico, Mrs. McQueen?” he asks, slowly walking over to her.
I’m about to answer for her and tell him no, but she says, “I have.”
I balk. This is news to me.
He stops a few feet away, wine glass at his lips. “Where did you go?”
She doesn’t take her eyes off of him. I feel like they’re in some sort of sparring war. The overprotective mother and the boyfriend who won’t be intimidated.
Boyfriend.
I have to remind myself that we’re not official yet.
Even though he’s acting one hundred percent like he has a lot of stake in this.
As is my mom.
“The east coast,” she says. “Spent a lot of time in Veracruz.”