Laughing Through My Tears

by Mia Soto

  “Next time you tell them blue…or maybe green, but not pink.” He’s serious too. I’d say that’s a Latin thing, but Sam’s always had a thing for the color pink, and it doesn’t sit all that well with my gringo ex either. So it seems to be a universally guy thing.

  I just laugh, “I’ll do that. Camilo says blue or nothing.”

  He swats my bottom as he walks by me, “that’s right.” He has one of those indoor grills, and he turns it on to get it hot. Just like everything else in his place, his kitchen is totally tricked out. The thin chicken strips sizzle when he throws them on it.

  “That smells really good,” I sigh. “I’m starving.”

  “Me too,” he’s smiling as he bends down to kiss my neck. It is easy access right now since my hair is up in a clip.

  “What now?” My peeling is finished.

  “Put them in the processor,” he comments over his shoulder. He’s watching the game again and throwing together the salads.

  I look into the processor at the other ingredients and ask, “Salsa verde with a twist?” He turns a little surprised to which I say sarcastically, “I am a cook you know.”

  He closes in on me fast as I back up against the counter with my hands ready to defend against his attack. “I know. It’s one of my favorite things about you.” His lips are hovering over mine and for the first time I’m mentally noting that he and Mark are about the same height even if he’s slightly lankier, sleeker than Mark’s frame.

  “Really?”

  He nods and then kisses my nose before turning away. “Let’s eat first and play later.”

  He’s like a sleek cat padding around barefooted in his worn jeans and navy t-shirt, both of which he’s filling out very nicely. He moves gracefully and a little dangerously and I have to admit I like it. I could watch him move all day, and I’m surprised by how well he knows his way around the kitchen. We take our salads into his media room and eat our lunches lounged out on his lush couch in front of his wall sized TV. I think I can see the pores on the players faces it’s so big.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a TV this big before.” He smiles with a nod from where he’s lounging back eating and watching. “I think my TV could fit in the bottom corner of yours, easily.”

  He laughs again, “it could be your TV too, gorgeous.”

  I look over at him smiling at me and say, “I have no interest in being your mistress Camilo.”

  “You Americans are all such prudes,” he complains and then says, “then be my wife.”

  I almost choke on the salad I am trying to swallow. When I’m finally able to clear my throat I say, “that’s not even funny.”

  “I guess it isn’t.” He’s smiling, but there’s a touch of dejection in his voice. I go back to watching the game and eating, but I can feel him studying me so I glance over with a smile. His eyes are on me in a serious way.

  “What?” My heart is beating a little faster than normal. I like his attention. I can’t lie.

  “Sometimes I can’t believe how beautiful you are.” His eyes are firing off sparks of green and brown.

  I give a nervous laugh and look back at the TV. “There are better out there, Camilo.”

  “Not really. And you know it. When you wear those little shorts of yours that you run in and they make that cute ass of yours even cuter than when it’s wearing nothing.” I look over with a wide eyed smile. “And you let your hair down after you run and every man in the area stops what they are doing to watch. I swear a man almost roller bladed right into the bay the other day when you did that.”

  “Please, you’re being dramatic. You could find better than me, trust me.”

  “I’ve done the research you’re talking about, and you’re as good as it gets. And I’m not ready to throw in the towel on this fight just yet.” He’s looking at me with a knowing gaze even though I’ve never even whispered the idea of Mark in his ear before.

  I sigh and put my fork down and look over at him again. Then I notice a family portrait behind him and I say, “is that your mom?” Time to change the subject.

  He breaks his gaze finally and glances over his shoulder and then says, “yes.” Then he returns his attention to the TV.

  “And…” I say. “You’re not going to tell me who else is in the picture?”

  He blinks my way for a second before returning to the game. “No.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I’m not giving you any more power over me. You have too much now as it is.” He’s not looking at me, but I can see a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  So I put my almost empty bowl down, and slink over to him and take his empty bowl away from him. Just like a snake I slither up his body letting my mouth graze the parts of his naked skin that are open to me. I hear his breaths get a little ragged. When I get to his ear I whisper soft and little wet, “you don’t think I can get what I want out of you?”

  His hands are buried in my hair fishing my clip out. His search is successful and my hair tumbles around us as my mouth moves along his neck and barely brushes his lips before he answers in a pained tone, “no, I don’t.”

  I shrug and sit back quickly before his hands can keep me by him. I laugh at his disappointed look. “I guess you’re right.”

  He just shakes his head disgusted, “you women are all the same.” I laugh and he says, “Come here.” His arms are outstretched, but I don’t move. He sits up and pulls me onto him, “would you come here? I’ve never had a girl play harder to get than you. I just want to hold you for a little bit.”

  I’m lying in his arms and it feels good and if not for Mark it would feel great, perfect even. Never have I been in a situation that is so innocent and so completely wrong all at the same time. His fingers are idly tracing the curves of my body when the TV finally flashes a picture of God’s gift to all womankind, Cristiano Ronaldo.

  I sigh loudly, “Finally.”

  Camilo stops his caress momentarily, “finally what?”

  “They show Cristiano. They should just train one camera on him and leave the image running up in the left corner or something.”

  Camilo huffs a little, “he’s not that good looking.”

  “Uhh, yes, he is.”

  “I’ve seen better.”

  “I haven’t. They should let him play without his jersey. It would be an act of international good will.”

  “I don’t like you talking about other men like this.” His arm tightens around me for a second.

  “A little possessive are you?”

  “When it comes to you, gorgeous, I’m a lot possessive.”

  “Don’t feel bad. There aren’t many men who could keep me away from Cristiano.”

  “You’re hurting my feelings. You’d leave me for him?”

  “Sweetheart, if I was with Cristiano and his clone came along to sweep me away I’d leave him for him.”

  Camilo laughs and then says, “I like it when you call me sweetheart.” I lift my head to look in his now stormy eyes. “Come here, gorgeous. I want to kiss you.”

  And then we are kissing deeply and slowly and long. My hair cascades around us as he pulls me up and buries his fingers into it and then holds me firmly by the neck. The game is murmuring in the background and it suddenly roars. Portugal scores but Camilo is deep into other interests now. He’s shifting us so that his weight is on me and his hands are roaming my body as our kisses get hotter and deeper. My mind is reeling with want and shame. He finally breaks the kiss to forge a path down my body.

  When his eyes are boring into mine again he says, “I have never wanted a woman as much as I want you.” He has talented hands when it comes to undressing a woman and my shirt and bra are conveniently pushed aside for the electric connection between his mouth and my breast.

  My back arches instinctually, my fingers weave through his thick blond hair and I can’t help but sigh, “Camilo.”

  He wraps my legs around his waist and slides up me to hover over my mouth, �
��say my name again. I love it when you say my name.”

  My eyes are closed but I’m smiling as I say softly, “Camil-.” His mouth is back on mine before I can utter the last syllable.

  “My sweet Margo,” he’s kissing my face all over. I don’t know if it’s the gentle touch of his lips or the fact that he never calls me Margo but something snaps me back to reality and I push away.

  “Stop, we have to stop, Camilo, please.” Our lips are still clinging and wet, and I don’t know how he did it without my protesting, but my pants are open, and his hand is working a very dangerous black magic right now.

  He groans, “what if I say I can’t?”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  His lips are caressing my neck softly as he complains, “You know way too much about me now. This is why I don’t keep you women around for long. You get to powerful in your knowledge.” His eyes are serious as he studies mine. “You really don’t want this?” His hand is gently caressing my side. I don’t know how to answer him so I look away trying to maintain some control. I shouldn’t want this, but I do a little bit, obviously.

  He turns me back to his gaze, “don’t get upset. I can’t bear that. I don’t ever want to see you upset.” I laugh a little at that bit of absurdity. “Better,” he says. “I’ll wait my time and make do with cold showers.”

  This time I laugh out loud, “I can go if you want.”

  He sighs and rolls back over pulling me into his arms, “no, at the very least, let me hold you and pretend we just made the kind of love we both know we make together.”

  I curl into him with a smile and within moments fall asleep and it’s only his soft kisses that rouse me some time later. I open my eyes with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, if I sit still for more than two minutes, I fall asleep.” I guess we’ve shifted again because he’s looking down at me with what can only be described as a loving smile as he gently sweeps my hair away from my face.

  “I like having you asleep in my arms. I could watch you all day.”

  “Unless soccer is on,” I correct with a laugh and a small stretch, but he shakes his head.

  “No, I haven’t looked at that TV in over a half hour.”

  “I’m not that interesting.”

  “I beg to differ,” he says before his mouth consumes mine in a wonderful kiss.

  I know before we break that I have to go. Something unexpected is happening here and I can’t let it continue. So I say, “I have to go.” He nods.

  “You know,” he says very close to my face. “The game isn’t over until you call time.” I smile and nod. “So long as you understand the rules, gorgeous.” He kisses me again with his soft lips, and I know I should stop this. “You’re lips fit mine perfectly.” His words are a light sigh on my lips. They do fit together nicely that’s for sure.

  My eyes are closed as he presses his mouth to mine over and over and over. “I’m going to go now,” I say knowing this is wrong, wrong, wrong.

  “Halftime,” he laughs against my lips.

  “Let’s call it rain delay,” I smile as I get up. He’s holding my hand keeping me from walking away.

  “So long as it’s not a rain out,” he kisses my hand and then brings me by my hips to him. He reveals a small patch of skin on my stomach and kisses it gently before he says, “hasta luego, cariñosa.”

  ***

  I no more than turn the key in my car and Mark calls. He calls me every day, almost always sometime during the afternoon, usually just to tell me he misses me or to discuss what he plans to do to me at night in bed. I almost don’t answer because deep inside I know this afternoon I’ve done very wrong by two decent men, and I need to make some hard decisions, soon, if not now.

  “Where are you?”

  “I-I, uh, running some errands.” This lie tastes bitter in my mouth.

  “I came home to help you pack up.” He does that when he can. Packing up my car for dinners is a pain since I have to haul everything down the stairs. Unpacking is even worse. He’s such a good guy.

  “Oh, thank you. Sorry, I’m going to be a bit. I can take care of it today.” I can’t face him right now.

  “Well, I was sort of hoping to use your body as my personal playground for awhile too.”

  I give a soft laugh, “maybe later?”

  “I guess,” he sounds dejected. “But I’m going to be late tonight.”

  “So wake me.”

  “No, I like to watch you sleep.” A pang of hurt crosses my heart knowing that two men have said this to me in less than a few hours of each other. It hurts even more coming from Mark because I know he knows I don’t sleep very well anymore. He’s somehow convinced he can fix all of my breaks even that one.

  “Well, tomorrow morning then.” There’s a melancholy to my voice that I can’t shake away.

  “Are you ok baby?” Of course, he can hear it.

  “Yes, why?”

  “I don’t know, just something.”

  “I’m fine. I miss you. Wake me up when you come in. I’ll be dreaming about you until then.”

  He groans, “you’re killing me.”

  “I’m not trying to.” I’m smiling again. “Really wake me. I’ll probably wake up on my own anyway.”

  “I know, but I keep hoping.” He doesn’t like that I maybe sleep four or five hours a night and then my brain switches back on and won’t leave me alone to sleep. “Maybe I’ll go to my house tonight, so I don’t wake you. I need to check on it anyway.”

  “No,” I say almost anxiously. I really want to see him tonight especially after this afternoon. “Come home to me, please.”

  He’s silent for many long moments before he demands in all seriousness, “You have to come here right now.” I can hear the strain in his voice. “Or tell me where you are and I’ll come get you, but I want you right now.”

  “Later, baby, really.” I can’t face him just yet. “Be safe tonight, bye.”

  He sighs, “bye baby.”

  Chapter 9

  Eggs for Lovers

  2 eggs

  1t of your favorite fresh herbs

  2T of heavy cream

  1T of butter’

  Salt and pepper

  Heat your oven to 425. Butter a large ramekin with ½T of the butter. Fill a 9x13 tray with a shallow layer of boiling water. Place the ramekin in the tray and the tray in the oven for 8 minutes. Remove the tray from the oven. Carefully break both eggs into the ramekin and dot the top with the remaining pat of butter. Sprinkle the herbs and salt and pepper to taste. Cover with the cream and bake for about 5 minutes for medium rare. Enjoy!

  “Oye, mulata!” It’s Iris. I’m on my way to another dinner. This time a man called and asked that I cook for his girlfriend and him. I’m a little relieved it’s not another woman. Maybe this one will just be a la ba and no big deal. That’s a big fat maybe given the current flow of traffic lately.

  “Di me,” I say.

  “So dey have de fathers living in de homes.” The church owns multiple homes in the surrounding neighborhood. Usually they are rented out to staff. “Ju going to cook at Father McCleary’s and de others will come to eat dere. I going to go to each house and clean for now.”

  “Really?” I’m surprised.

  “Jes, really, and dey rebuilding de rectory. Dey making a beautiful house. I see it in Sharon’s office. Dey all excited.”

  “Wow,” I don’t know what else to say.

  “So you see, you no bad luck. Dey get dere nuevo rectory.”

  “Well that’s one way to look at it,” I laugh.

  “Es verdad, ju are la mujer marviosa!”

  I laugh, “I like it. I want to be called that from now on, super woman!”

  “Well ju are,” she’s laughing. “Dey say come en lunes to cook. So ju have de week off.”

  “Hasta luego,” I’m smiling ear to ear.

  “Si mi hija, besos a mi bonito gordo.” She’s in love with my man in uniform. It’s hard not to be when it comes to Mark. That
I’m actively pushing him away is grounds for a serious mental evaluation.

  “Un grande solomente por tia!” Ha, every now and then I can fake that I’m Spanish. I hear her cry out loudly, happily. I think we’re both relieved with this outcome.

  “Aye, mi hija, si,” she sighs loudly. I laugh. I’ll plant a wet one on him just for her.

  “Hasta lunes,” I say before disconnecting. Maybe things are taking a turn for the better after all.

  ***

  Jacob Turner lives in a little south Tampa home that couldn’t be sweeter. He hasn’t done much yard work and the nicest thing in the place is his entertainment center. But I can see he wants tonight to be special. He’s vacuuming when I arrive, and the place could use a good vacuum and maybe a dusting effort as well.

  “You’re here!” He’s beaming at me through thick, rimmed glasses.

  “Yes,” I can’t help but return that kind of smile.

  “I’m so excited for tonight,” he says taking my crate away from me and carrying it into his galley styled kitchen. It’s the first kitchen I’ve cooked in for a long time that isn’t obscenely huge and granite filled. “Gwendolyn loves French food. She’s going to be so excited.”

  We’ve decided on a decidedly French Bistro kind of meal of herbed baked eggs with toast rounds, chicken fricassee with onions and mushrooms and sautéed potato balls, salade nicoise, and for dessert and apple tatin. He’s gushing about everything.

  “She doesn’t know. I’ve been dying to tell her.” He takes another bag away from me and helps me with my huge purse. I can’t smother my smile. His joy is infectious, and I guess I’m feeling a little happier than normal.

  I’m in the kitchen setting up, and he’s just finished vacuuming. That vacuum must be from the seventies because it’s in bad shape and given the way it’s bulging I’m not sure he’s changed the bag this decade.

  “Do you need any help?” He’s standing by his small bar with a hopeful look.

  “I think I have it. Why don’t you relax or go get ready?”

  “Oh I can’t relax.” He helps me get the milk out of the fridge gently pushing me in his excitement. “I’m sorry. I’m just so nervous. Everything needs to be perfect.”