by A. L. Woods
I didn’t know his reasoning for bringing me here, and I wasn’t buying his charity argument, but for whatever profoundly idiotic I’ll-probably-regret-this-later reason, I trusted him. Maybe my ma had hit me harder than I realized, or maybe I had to trust him on this because what other alternative did I have? I didn’t know where the fuck I was walking to, never mind where the hell I was.
It was time to feel the wrath of that flame.
I rued the day Penelope introduced me to him as he swung open the inner garage door. Fragrant spicy aromas hit me as I stepped inside, my eyes sweeping over a tidy mudroom, save for a pile of coats settled on the washer. The dense and heady aromas of garlic, sauteed onions, and tomato had unknotted the binds in my stomach, coupled with the faint waft of cleaning products cutting through that fed the calm. The floors in the mudroom sparkled, the walls a neutral off-white color that seemed freshly painted. Everything was so sterile and foreign; unlike anything I’d ever known.
Sean kicked off his shoes, and then turned to face me, his jaw tightening as he swept his stare over me again, as if he was trying to register that I was really here.
Believe it, asshole. I’m here and it’s because of you.
“We’ll get you some ice for that bruise and something to eat,” he said, his shoulders squaring.
“I’m not hungry,” I replied, my stomach choosing that opportunity to let out a small gurgle that I was grateful he didn’t acknowledge. I hadn’t eaten since last night. The beef and broccoli leftovers awaited me in my fridge.
“I’m not sure that’s going to be an option,” warbled a high-pitched voice that sounded familiar. Trina’s pink-haired head poked inside the mudroom, and I could tell from the grimace she greeted me with that I must have looked worse than I felt. I was too dazed to give a shit about the visible evidence of my mother’s right hook.
“Jeez, what the hell happened to her?” Trina winced, glancing at her brother, who shot her a derisive look.
“Go get the first aid kit from the bathroom.” He waved her off the same way he had the first time I met her, then sighed, holding my stare with his own as Trina left. “I should warn you; Trina is the least of your problems.”
My stomach roiled at that, my innards spasming as apprehension set back in. “Great.” I rolled my eyes. “Tell me why you brought me here again?”
Before he could speak, a thick female voice called from somewhere deep in the house.
“João, where did you go?” I had never heard Portuguese this close before and didn’t have a clue about what was said. The language sounded rich and romantic to my ears, like a song that I never wanted to stop hearing.
He scratched the back of his neck, his features pulling together as he conjured a response in Portuguese. “I had to pick up a friend.” God, he was fucking beautiful. I staggered back a moment, his eyes on mine as the velvety language left him. “Fair warning, that’s my ma, and she will try to fool you into thinking she doesn’t understand you, but she does.”
Great. I was the outlier, the only one who didn’t understand what was being said. “What’s she saying?” I demanded.
The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile, finally recognizing his advantage. “She just wanted to know where I went.”
“What friend?” his mother called again, her pitch sounding incessant.
“And now?”
“Is this what you want? A play-by-play translation?” he flatly asked.
“João, are you listening to me?”
My eyes widened as his mother’s voice grew louder. “Translate.”
Sean stroked the back of his neck, his eyes tapered. “This is impractical.”
“Tough shit,” I replied with a sneer. “You brought me here, you translate every damn word.”
The hand that was on his neck moved to scratch the dark stubble on his chin. “She wants to know if I’m listening.”
The snort I released was derisive. “Except you don’t listen to anyone.”
His expression darkened just as his ma’s voice cut through on a trill, “João!”
“And that?” I sweetly asked, earning me a dirty look.
He huffed out an exasperate sigh. “That is my actual given name.”
My head inclined in his direction. “Your actual given name?”
“I changed it when I started school here. Too hard to pronounce.” He slid his hands into his pockets, his mouth a tight line. “Can we move on from the line-by-line translations now? I’ll tell you what’s important.”
I involuntarily stepped away from him at the revelation. I could understand changing your name to assimilate, but I couldn’t help but consider the complexes that would give a person. Especially if it was clear that there was a part of your life that didn’t have room for the new identity you’d taken on.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I mulled over the suggestion. “I guess.”
Sean licked his bottom lip, his gaze dipping to where my hands were settled tightly against my belly button. “I’d hold your hand, but—”
I clucked my tongue, tempering the snark that wanted to tell him not to touch me. “That’s unnecessary. Engagement ring,” I reminded.
“Right.” The laugh that shot through his nose sounded painful. “Ready?”
It took everything in me to manage a nod. He led us through the door, a foyer spilling out to us. Trina came barreling down the stairwell like a bowling ball flying down a lane, a first aid kit in tow.
“I think Maezinha has an ice pack in the freezer,” she said.
“Where’s everyone else?” Sean asked, sounding like he was testing the question out on his tongue.
“Maria’s on a call, Livy is primping.” It was impossible to know which part of her answer had him rolling his eyes, the call or the primping.
“C’mon, let’s go to the kitchen.”
That trilled voice said something else, but I didn’t insist on a translation this time. Neither Sean nor Trina made any effort to respond, their steps timed as though they were attempting to prolong the inevitable.
“What is your story, anyway?” Trina whispered as we rounded a corner.
“What do you mean, what’s my story?” My brows furrowed as I stole a quick glance at her.
“I mean,” she bounced her stare between Sean and I, her lips rolling together like she was trying to figure something out. “You guys made up, right?”
My stomach sank. My presence here had nothing to do with ‘making up’. Not even close.
When neither of us spoke, the creases of worry deepened in Trina’s face. “Then you’re working on your relationship? That’s why he left to go and get you, isn’t it?”
Oh, Jesus Christ. This wasn’t some damsel in distress routine, trust me. I was here against my will, not because we were working on our relationship. There was nothing to be romanticized here. I opened my mouth to object, but Sean, who looked equally irritated by her assumption, cut in.
“Your lane, Trina,” he edged in a warning tone. “Stay in it.”
“I’m just saying,” Trina cautioned, her eyes wide with altruism, “You’ve never brought a girl home before, and if you’re not dating, then Ma’s going to draw some serious conclusions. The message is loud and clear to me.”
He had never brought a girl home before? That sent my brows to my hairline and additional stokes to the fire that swirled inside me. Still, my legs kept working, but not as hard as my mind did at all the conclusions I was drawing.
Being here was a bad idea, kind of like the style of wearing all leather in the 90’s. You thought you looked cool, but then you started sweating in places where you really shouldn’t. At that, I tugged at the collar of my shirt, trying to buy myself an inch of breathing room just as the kitchen opened up to us.
It was a long, sprawling space with aged wraparound cabinetry, a wide island full of foiled trays that housed Thanksgiving leftovers, and a massive kitchen table. I caught sight of the pint-sized woman at the sink dressed entirely
in black with her back to turned to us, the fading dim daylight peering through the slats of the blinds over the kitchen window.
At the sound of our presence, she glanced over her shoulder. I watched as her stare bounced between her children before settling on me. Immediate surprise filled those dark irises as her face grew pallid, the smile she had initially held slipping. Sean’s ma lost hold of the dish she gripped between her hands, the glass hitting the enameled steel with a thud that was loud enough to be heard next door.
She said something in a way that I discerned might have been a question as her cold stare bounced between Sean and Trina. It was impossible to know what the older woman was thinking as she adjusted the clip that held her curly hair back. She killed the stream of water running from the faucet and wiped her soapy hands on a tired dish rag that was thrown over her shoulder. Turning to face me, I noted that she was round in the middle, but her face was familiar, like I’d already seen it before.
“This is—” Sean began in English.
“A namorada dele,” Trina interceded in Portuguese, which I felt was an intentional measure to keep me from objecting. Whatever she said couldn’t have been good. Sean glowered and shoved her forward. Trina let out a conspiratorial giggle in response, batting her eyelashes at her brother and mouthing an apology to me that felt wasted.
I really wanted a translation now, but it felt awkward to ask. Sean did warn me she would act like she didn’t understand me.
The matriarch of the Tavares household looked at me like I was a lit match in a gas station that was about to erupt into flames. The longer I looked at their mother—who was clearly teetering on the precipice of wringing my neck—the more I realize how similar she and Trina were physically. If not for the pink hair, the septum piercing that Trina sported, the thirty-year difference in their ages, and Trina’s petite figure, they could be spitting images of each other.
But what had Trina said that would warrant this kind of visceral reaction from her?
Whatever it was, the severity in Sean’s mother’s face seemed to slacken for a moment, the frigid reception melting just a little.
“A namorada dele?” she repeated, as if she was stewing on the statement while she closed the distance between us. I felt like I was under a microscope the longer this woman looked me over, her eyes tracing over my every feature, right down to every strand of hair on my head.
“She’s not,” Sean stressed though gritted teeth, his jaw as hard as granite.
Mrs. Tavares tutted and then murmured something to her children, neither of them replying, though their respective expressions strained a little tighter.
“So,” she said, looking at me. “You like Portuguese food?” Her accent was as curt and ungracious as the way she appraised me.
She had bypassed the pleasant exchange of greetings. No hi-how-are-you’s with this broad. I could respect that.
“Never had it.”
She hmphed at me, her displeasure evident. Giving me the once over, she frowned. “You too skinny.” She kissed her teeth in disappointment.
Lucky for both of us, that wasn’t the first time I’d experienced failing the Mom test. Failure may as well have been my middle name at this point.
“Ma,” Sean sighed, dragging his wide palm across his face, cupping his chin. I saw the faintest trace of amusement glowing in his eyes, his lips rolling together like he was trying to snuff out a laugh.
“You hungry. Sit down, I make you a plate.” It wasn’t a request; it was a demand. Her hand was firm on my shoulder, steering me toward the kitchen table. My legs went willingly, and I dropped my weight in the chair. Sean sat in the chair directly beside me, and Trina sat across from him.
Sean busied himself with the first aid kit Trina had laid out in front of us, pulling out antiseptic and cotton pads. He didn’t wait for my permission, leaning into me as he held a saturated bud to the wound above my brow. I winced, my teeth clenching as the sting of pain set in above my eye. The discomfort had me jerking my head away from the cotton pad, but Sean’s arm chased after me.
“Hold still,” he all but grunted at me.
The wound throbbed under the antiseptic. “It hurts.”
“Tough shit, sweetheart.”
I bared my teeth at him, preparing to throw another barb at him, but Trina’s tinny unbridled laughter drew our attention to her.
“You two are something,” she remarked, leaning back in her seat. My teeth ground together as I mused her observation. If by “something” she meant renewed sworn enemies, then it didn’t require a PhD to make that observation. Still, my eyes trailed over to where Sean was smearing antibiotic ointment onto a cotton swab.
“C’mere,” he edged, summoning me closer with a hooked finger. I acquiesced on a sigh, wanting nothing more than for this to be over with and to douse whatever burning theory that Trina had postulated.
Behind us, the sound of aluminum foil being shuffled had me twisting in my seat. To my horror, their mother was ladling generous helpings of food onto a clay plate. “I’m really not—” I swallowed the yelp of surprise as the Tavares siblings both kicked at my legs to silence me. “That looks delicious,” I altered, a pulse forming in my calves where their blows had landed.
“You need to eat fifty percent of your plate,” Sean exhorted, his chair sliding back as his long lean limbs undulated and he collected the wound dressings.
“A hundred percent if you want her to like you,” Trina amended, glancing furtively at their mother.
When Sean’s mother presented an overflowing plate on the placemat before me, I gulped. The source of the delicious aroma when we entered made itself known. A turkey leg the size of my forearm took up most of the plate, along with enough potatoes to feed a small family, some kind of stuffing, rice, and half of what I thought might be some kind of smoked sausage.
Where the hell was I supposed to put all this?
She folded her arms across her chest, and then parked herself in the seat opposite me next to Trina, watching me with the eyes of a drill sergeant.
“Eat,” she demanded with a kick of her chin.
So, I did.
CHAPTER TEN
Against all odds, Raquel had cleared her plate. I didn’t miss Ma’s puffed-out chest of pride as she rose to her feet, snagging the cleared plate from in front of Raquel and carrying it to the sink. Naturally, she’d be boasting about this to Dougie’s mom, Eileen, tomorrow morning when she gave her a call. I could almost hear the call now:
“Joao’s girlfriend cleared her plate.”
Namorada.
Girlfriend.
I had shoved Trina when she’d planted that seed of an idea at my mother’s feet while simultaneously isolating Raquel out of the conversation by referring her as such in Portuguese. I had to hand it to my kid sister, she was wily and calculated when it came to orchestrating trouble, or as she would put it, “help move things along.”
I had shoved her for insolence and watering that stupid seed she had given my mother, which had germinated immediately. I had all but seen it in Ma’s eyes. Girlfriend could only mean one thing to her: a wedding.
As pissed off as Raquel was, I liked the idea of her being my hypothetical girlfriend. Even if she had looked at me like she was one sidelong glance away from stabbing me with the dull knife she clutched in her small fist while she had worked at consuming her meal.
I liked thinking about her being my wife someday. Probably a little too much for someone who, as she caustically reminded me, had broken up with her. Ending it with her may as well have been tantamount to ensuring I never so much as got another chance to kiss her again—never mind the wedding part.
Still, Ma knew none of that. I knew it was inevitable that once my Ma got off the phone with Eileen tomorrow, Eileen would call Dougie to ask who Raquel was, and Dougie would call me and ask me what in the flying fuck I had done. His instructions on what to do with Raquel after I got her hadn’t been clear.
All right, so bringing Raqu
el here hadn’t exactly been the most rational thing I’d done in a while, but I wasn’t about to deposit her at O’Malley’s and wish her luck.
I cared about her too much for that.
I swept an open palm across my face, settling against my chin, where my fingers worked across the coarse scruff that peppered the skin there while I watched her interact with my sister from the corner of my eye.
“I didn’t think you were going to make it,” Trina lamented, patting Raquel’s right hand with sympathy.
“I still may not,” Raquel groaned, slacking against the back of the chair, both of her hands falling to the waistband of her jeans that didn’t even so much as strain against the flat expanse of skin of her stomach. “Does she always fill a plate like that?”
“Only when she likes you,” I offered with a humorless laugh, finding my entry point into their conversation. The small smile of victory tugging at the corners of her mouth sent my heart kicking to life. I didn’t want to misinterpret it, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was trying to win my ma’s favor. I had thought that at best she’d pick at her meal, chase a couple of potatoes around the plate, push things around to make it look like she had eaten more than she had…but she hadn’t just cleaned the plate, she had looked happy as hell while doing it. I had watched with rapt fascination as she chewed, her lids fluttering shut every time she was tasting something for the first time. It was a religious fucking experience to feast my eyes on, one that needed its own apostle and chapter in the Bible.
Not that her clear desire to make an impression on my ma had meant anything in the grand scheme of things. She was here because I hadn’t given her another choice, not because she wanted to be. She was smart to try to make the most of it. I hadn’t been entirely certain on what would have happened had she been rude or disrespectful.
“Katrina, have you seen my phone charger?”
My spine stiffened at Maria’s voice, and then her slim figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. At the sight of Raquel, her brows rose just enough that no one but our immediate family would have noticed the clear objection to her presence.