A hard object pokes my back, and my head jerks up.
Carlos’s eyes snap open. “Ma!”
I jump off him and the second prod of Tita Gloria’s parasol stabs into his chest.
No words stream from her pursed lips, and this time, they’re pressed together tighter than a bulldog on T-bone.
My mother’s the first to react. She reaches over and pinches my upper arm. “Are you done ruining my day?”
Are you done ruining my life? I step away from her. It’s always blame Choco for everything, and I’m sick of it.
Carlos stands, brushes the sand off his back, and offers his arm to his mother. “Ma, let’s go home.”
She slaps at him. “Don’t Ma me. How can you do this to poor Julia? You just asked her out after Mass, inside the church.”
“This isn’t what it looks like … I, uh, fell, and she, uh, fell on top of me.”
I throw Carlos a glare. “No one told you to get in the way. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I have some exercising to do.”
Clamping my jaw tight, I sprint as fast as I can deeper into the nature preserve. I don’t care if the sun’s going down, or the rattlesnakes are out hunting. Carlos and Julia can have each other. Hadn’t I told Julia he’d be good for her? A steady, reliable man?
So why did my stomach drop like a hot brick oven when Tita mentioned he asked her out?
Chapter 7
Sunday, I decide to call in sick. I’ve never done this before, but I can’t face the combined forces of Mama, Papa, and Carlos, not to mention onlookers, Brian, Genie, and the rest of the cook and wait staff, and God forbid the senior citizens from the Sunshine Retirement Home should be there for their Sunday morning after-church brunch.
First, I text Carlos: Not going to work today.
Next, I leave a voicemail at the restaurant office for my father. “Hi, this is Choco. I think I’m coming down with a cold or something.”
I delete the message and select re-record. “Papa, this is Choco. I’m feeling sick. Will it be okay if I stay home today?”
No, he’ll just say no. I delete it and re-record. “Choco here. I’m having cramps and I don’t think I can make it today.”
I hang up before I can change my mind. Men are so squeamish about female problems. I’m sure my father won’t challenge me, nor will he ask me casually, “So, dear daughter, are your cramps better?”
I turn over in my bed and pull the sheets over my head. An entire day off. I can laze in bed until the sun’s high, then take a luxurious bath, steam, tone, hydrate, peel, exfoliate, moisturize, wrap. I might even try the whitening cream, if only to get Genie to stop calling me a freckle face strawberry. We can’t all be born with naturally creamy pale skin.
I snuggle my face into my pillow and take a deep breath. Maybe I’ll call Julia and we can go to our neighborhood day spa and get a massage and facial. After all, she has a date coming up. Wonder where Carlos will take her? A competitor’s restaurant to research their menu, or even better, a celebrity chef book signing. Hey, wait. I want to see Enrique Mendoza. Not fair he should take her.
Sweat breaks out on my nose, and I punch the pillow. If this Julia thing hadn’t come along, Carlos and I could have gone to the book signing, purely for restaurant business, of course. He always wanted to meet Enrique, even if he’s his doppelganger, and I, well, I get sweaty just thinking about cornering Enrique in his top-of-the-line celebrity kitchen.
I’m just about to close my eyes and drift into a luscious dream filled with chocolate fountains and sushi chefs with fast choppers when the doorbell buzzes. I tuck my head under my pillow and squeeze it against my ears, but the bell or buzzer or whatever it is, is stuck on a persistent buzz saw frequency.
Oh great. They’re pounding on my door now. Bzzzzt! There’s no smell of smoke and no fire alarm. What’s the panic? I crawl out of bed and tiptoe to the peephole.
Rap. Rap. Rap. “Choco, are you okay?”
Grrr … It’s bodyguard Carlos. I thought I texted him not to come by. He’s the last person I want to see, at least until I process what the heck happened last night.
Bzzzt. Rap. Rap. “I know you’re in there. Open up.”
I yank the door and punch my hands on my hips. “Keep it down. The neighbors. Get in.”
He swoops through the entrance, all dark fury and angst, his hair hanging halfway over his eyes at an angle. In mid-stride, he seems to remember he’s here on a call of mercy, that he’s supposed to be concerned about whether I’m sick or not. Oh wait. I didn’t tell him I was sick, did I? Or … no, no. Did my father tell him I have cramps and asked him to check on me?
Carlos narrows his eyes. “You don’t look like you have cramps or anything.”
Yep. Big mouth family I have. I should have known the restaurant’s voicemail is forwarded to Papa’s cell and who else would he call but his right hand man, attack dog, lackey brown-noser, so-called friend of mine?
My arms cross over my boobs because girls don’t wear bras to bed under their nightgowns, at least I don’t. Better narrow my eyes and add a crooked mouthed sneer. “And what did you think I’d look like? All pale and swoony? Overcome with pain and malaise?”
He stares at my legs, his eyes definitely below my waist. I jump back. Is he looking for a stain or what? I’m not even on my period. That was a lie. And what’s he going to do? Stuff super-Midol down my throat?
“Ah ha! You’re lying.” He advances toward me and traps me against the wall, one arm raised so his elbow’s at the side of my head.
“This is really none of your business.” My attempted push on his chest glances off his smooth, tight T-shirt. “I deserve a day off. I have an accounting exam Tuesday and I’m tired.”
He’s doing it again. Uh no. Way too early in the morning for dreamy man stare. Why is he looking at me like he cares what kind of day I’m having? His eyebrows are slightly creased in the middle, and those dark brown eyes are dilated, and he’s examining my face like he’s counting my freckles or something. And he’s way too close. His breath is minty, and I catch a whiff of his aftershave, piney and warm.
His eyes lower, and I tug nervously at the top of my nightgown. It’s not really see-through is it? I mean, what if he sees my nipples perking? I can’t check or I’ll draw attention to them. I resume crossing my arms over my heaving bosom. For Heaven’s sake. This is ridiculous. It’s only Carlos. The cook, remember? But if I turn my eyes sideways, he does look a heck of a lot like Enrique Mendoza, the fabulous French-trained Filipino chef whose rock star looks and amazing knife juggling has his fans, mostly female, in a constant state of ravenous hunger.
Back to Carlos the Cook, whose Adam’s apple wobbles. This is gross. I have him salivating. Time to kick him out. Only this hunk of male flesh isn’t moving. He’s looking into my eyes again. It’s like he’s no longer my buddy Carlos in there. He’s communicating telepathically. He’s burdened with a deep pain, a secret so heavy, something that hurt him so badly, he can’t let it go. Yeah, right. I’m the one with the pains and secrets. Carlos, I bet, hasn’t done anything regrettable his entire life, unless it has to do with me.
My hand moves to his chest and up the side of his neck. “What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”
He swallows again and huffs out a breath through his nose. “Nothing. I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have let you kiss me.”
Bingo! He regrets the kiss. I shove him. “Me? Oh no. You’re not going to lay that one on me. I didn’t kiss you, Carlos. You! You!”
I point at him, even though it’s impolite, daring him to retaliate.
He rubs the back of his head and shakes it, a sly grin peeking from his lips. “You were on top, Choco. You didn’t have to dip down.”
“You grabbed the back of my neck and forced me.”
“That’s after you pressed your lips on mine.”
“Oh, no. You tripped on purpose so I’d run into you.”
“You could have bounced off me and kept
going.”
“What was I supposed to do? You blocked my path. What’s wrong with you? Can’t you leave me alone?”
“I can’t help it if you can’t keep your hands off me.”
I shake my fist and advance on him. “The only hand I want to get on you is my fist up your nose.”
He backs toward the door, hands open, palms up. “I see that you’re fine. No sign of cramping. I’ll let your dad know.”
“You weasel. Spy, lowdown dirty kiss ass. Leave me alone.”
“Sure, call me whatever names you want. I’m going now. My mother and your mother agreed that I shouldn’t be the one to take you to work every morning.”
“Oh, really? Does that mean I get to drive myself? They’ll give me a parking spot?”
He opens the door. “Nope. Your mother’s allocated the guest spot to Mr. Johnny. He’s going to pick you up every morning and do the escort duty. Bye!”
“Wait.” I grab his wrist and drag him back in, then close the door. “Why can’t I drive myself?”
“You want to pay for parking? Daily rate at the garage adds up. Or maybe you should just move back home. It’s not like there’s any reason you should have this apartment.”
“My business classes? The ones I seem to have no problem going to by myself?”
He rubs his chin. “Hmmm … you have a point. Why would your parents insist on someone driving you to and from the restaurant when you go gallivanting out at night anyway?”
And then it dawns on me. How stupid can I be? Mama and Tita Gloria want to keep Carlos away from me because they want him with Julia.
“You know what? I’m taking the bus from now on.” I open the door. “And it’s my day off, so take a hike.”
“You going to softball tomorrow? We’re playing Gomez Hardware.”
“No, I think I’ll sit out. Or watch. Oh wait. Maybe I have a date. Whatever. Bye.”
He turns out into the hallway and winks. “Stretch before running, and your legs won’t cramp up the next day.”
Chapter 8
I should’ve known my family wouldn’t leave me alone. Not ten minutes after Carlos leaves, my mom calls. “Honey baby, tell Mama what’s wrong.”
Honey baby? She must be up to something.
“I’m fine, just tired from all the running I did last night. You always said I needed more exercise, and I could lose five pounds or ten. Chubby cheeks, that’s me.”
“Oh, punchy sweets. You stay right there. Mama’s coming over. I know you’re devastated by last night, caught kissing someone else’s boyfriend. I explained to Gloria that you’re not like that. You must have lacked oxygen to your brain because of the running you’re not accustomed to, but Tita’s not happy. She wants you to start going to church again. She is your godmother, you know.”
“I didn’t know Carlos is Julia’s boyfriend. How come no one told me? And I wasn’t kissing him. We just sort of fell and it looked like that from the angle. Can you tell her it was nothing?”
“I did already, but she’s not buying it. She thinks I raised you too leniently into a shameless pussy.”
“Mom! It’s hussy, not … You let her talk about me like that?”
“Pssst. You know how Tita gets. All huffy. Anyway, get dressed. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“But … I—”
“Shush. Your father knew you weren’t really sick, but he let you have the time off. Let’s spend some mother daughter time together. Bye!”
“But—”
She hangs up too quickly, and I don’t get to tell her how she’s the last person I want to see. Well, next to last, since Carlos came by already and didn’t tell me anything. Like he’s Julia’s boyfriend?
Well, duh, maybe that’s why he came by this morning. To read me the riot act. That does it. I’m going to have to avoid him from now on.
My heart sinks into my hollow stomach. This means quitting my job at the restaurant, moving out of this apartment, and no more summer softball. No more jeering the batter, egging on the pitcher, being carried on Carlos’s shoulders for the victory lap, tossing our mitts, and thumping batting helmets. No more after game parties at the Hangout. No more singing Filipino folksongs with the Sunshine Retirement crowd at the restaurant. No more karaoke, no more jiggling under the laser lights and disco ball. I might as well move across the country like my sister Evie did. Maybe apply to a graduate degree program or find a job that includes lots of travel away from my family. Be a nomad where no one knows me, get a fresh start. Do that Eat, Pray, Love thing, except for me it’d be Eat, Cry, Die.
My mind in a cloudy haze, I shower, put on makeup, and pull on some decent clothes: a flowery skirt, not too short, a white linen blouse, and espadrilles on my feet. Can’t let Mama think I’m a total mess on a Sunday morning. Besides, gasp. Horrors. What if she stops by Carlos’s apartment and brings Tita Gloria along for an abject apology? I dig through my night table. Where’s my rosary? If they show up, it might look better if I had it hanging around my wrist, like I’m doing penance or something, reciting, hail whatevers, full of grace and mercy, yikes. Better look it up on the internet.
I pour myself a cup of guava juice and boot up my laptop. Somehow my web search ends on job pages. My sister’s living in Boston and has an apartment. I could start there. I have an anthropology degree with an emphasis on sociocultural food traditions.
I scan the ads, but all I see are host/hostess and food server jobs. I can see myself as an expeditor, running the entire show between the front of the house and back, coordinating the customer’s meal selections with the wait staff and line cooks. I mean, I do this all in addition to hostess and waitress at Barrio XO, and no one appreciates me. Well, Papa does pat me on the head and tell everyone I’m his manager, but in reality, he’s the one running the payroll, balancing the books and working with the suppliers, not to mention all of the decisions on menus, personnel, and advertising.
Mama calls from the intercom in the parking garage, and I buzz her in. She hates coming to my apartment, so she must be really worried about me to make this trip.
I smooth my blouse and straighten my skirt before opening the door. The thought of moving across country has me blinking back tears.
“Mama, I’m so sorry.” I rush to hug her. “I don’t want to move away and never see you again.”
“Why would you do that?” my father says in back of her.
My teenaged brother and sister are on both sides of him. Brian has his trademarked snarky grin. Genie twirls her hair, and her eyes are so far back she’s gotta be reading the inside of her brain or something.
“I’m not,” I hastily say. “I meant I’m sorry I ruined Tita Gloria’s dinner.”
“Pshaw.” Mama pats me on the back. “She’s always complaining anyway. What’s a burnt dish or two between old friends?”
Without being invited, my family steps through the doorway. Brian heads straight to the refrigerator, and Genie’s eyes are busy inspecting my apartment, as if she were looking for clues that I had a guy over, because well, as far as my family thinks, the only reason I moved out was to have guys over.
“Sure, come in, welcome, love to have you for breakfast.” Ha, ha, I don’t really mean I want to eat them for breakfast. “Coffee, tea, guava juice?”
“Yum, buko pie.” Brian removes a covered pie plate. “I knew Carlos would leave some here.”
The other three members of my family freeze, their stares boring through me.
“Carlos was here?” Mama says this like he’s some kind of serial killer or something.
“Well, yeah, he lives down the hall, per your specifications,” I say to Papa, who’s suddenly decided he has a huge mosquito bite on the back of his neck.
“What’s she talking about?” Mama turns on Papa. “I thought Carlos was only supposed to drive her to work, not visit.”
Genie’s greedy eyes are still digesting every nook and cranny of my apartment. Thankfully I don’t have empty condom wrappers lying arou
nd. I bet she heads for the bathroom soon.
“What are you worried about?” Papa retorts. “Carlos has his mama living with him.”
Sure enough, Genie claims she has to pee.
“Then, what’s with the buko pie?” Mama crosses her arms. “Choco, you promised us when you moved out that you won’t be entertaining men, that the only reason was to be close to your evening classes.”
What century are these two living in? Even though I, loyal Choco, lived at home all through college, might I remind them that my wild sister, Evie, went all to the way to Harvard and was living with a man? Why am I always under their thumb?
“What kind of example are you for your younger brother and sister?” Mama persists.
Oh, as if they’re that innocent. I have to really rein in my eyes from rolling all the way to China.
My brother has the buko pie on a plate already and an open can of coconut water. “She’s got Carlos’s favorite beer in the back of the fridge.”
“Good Heavens!” Mama opens the refrigerator door.
Just at that moment, Genie emerges from the bathroom with a wicked grin. “You shouldn’t leave your birth control out in the open.”
“What?” I gape at her before realizing how stupid I am for letting her venture in there before my mother inspects. “Where did you plant it?”
My parents immediately head to the bathroom. Genie puts on an innocent pout and plugs her ears. “Mom, Dad, I shouldn’t even hear what comes next.”
Faker. I’m the one who drove her to the clinic to get her pills. Why is she picking on me all of a sudden? Trying to divert attention from her misdeeds, huh. I bet.
Both parents emerge with empty hands and raised eyebrows.
“What’s she talking about?” Papa says. “I didn’t see anything.”
“I flushed it down the toilet.” Genie laughs.
“Liar. There was nothing to flush.” I turn to my parents. “Why are you all here?
“Family intervention, Sánchez style.” Brian burps from the table, his mouth full of pie.
Claiming Carlos Page 5