Devlin asks about the time and place. Dulce answers, all nervous excitement and energy. She really loves Dwight. They met in St. Stephens High School and fell in love senior year, just like Dev and me.
One thing is for sure—this house will be quiet again once she leaves. Abuela has grown accustomed to having her around. So have I.
“Oh, Catie, DJ Jax has my list of music for Saturday night. Do you and Dev want to add any more songs? Text Jax your additions ASAP.”
“And don’t forget to have some classics for the old folks,” Abuela pipes in. “You know, Willie Colón. Héctor Lavoe. Some Tito. Latin All-Stars. Don’t forget Celia.”
Dulce smiles. “Okay, Abuela. We'll include your Fania Classics.”
“Do we need Celia?” I argue. My heart sinks. I'd been keeping the blackness away, tired of giving into it, but hearing Celia's voice and seeing people dancing….
“Catie, we gotta play the Queen,” Dulce’s voice is stripped of all playfulness. “It's a Garcia celebration. Nobody silences Celia Cruz. Your parents would want her music played.”
“Sí, sí,” Abuela chimes in. “Let her music remind you of them. How they lived. How they loved. Mi nieta, embrace your memories.”
Their words make sense, but I don't want to hear them. Before I can run upstairs, a warm hand clasps mine on the table top. Capturing my gaze, Dev squeezes lightly in a timely show of support.
There goes my shiny knight again. Some girls wish for vampires, I get a guy in armor.
Old feelings resurface and wheedle their way up my arms, quicken their pace along my shoulders, and search to burrow somewhere in my chest.
“Kitty needs some Marc Anthony and Juanes,” Dev says softly.
They settle for my heart.
I tear my view away. It’s too much to handle. I hang my head and fight for composure.
His grip remains firm and he doesn’t let go until I look at him through a slot in my hair.
Damn him.
My family doesn’t need to say “Aw.” It’s written all over their faces. Dulce’s mouth forms a quick “O” as in “Oh, snap, didn’t I tell you about that boy?” My grandma blinks.
Besides being know-it-alls, these women are also hopeless romantics.
Dulce sighs. “Remember Marc’s concert my senior year, Dev? The whole crew of us at the Garden. Way up in the nosebleed seats. Catie brought you. Afterwards you serenaded her by a hot dog cart. We thought you guys would get hitched first—” Her cell phone pings. Grabbing it, she tosses an apologetic look my way before she hurries down the hall.
I clear my throat and dislodge my hand from his. I shove a sweet plantain into my mouth and chew to give my mouth something to do. Keep those memories away. Stay strong. Hulk strength.
Unfortunately, the only thing that materializes in my mind are scenes from the last K-drama I marathon-viewed last Sunday. The cute couple finally grew close, and the stubborn boy admitted his love for the girl.
Idiota, wrong type of show! Think of something kickass. Black Widow. Yes!
Soon, utensils scrape against empty plates. Dulce sits back down, quiet now. Talk switches to dessert. Abuela announces flan. My appetite awakens. Yum. Custard shaped like cheese cake and drizzled with caramel. I salivate.
Devlin picks up my plate and follows Abuela into the kitchen.
Dulce points a finger at me. “Cuz, I love you, but don’t be a fool. Some folks wait their entire lives for a pure love. When it happens, we know.” She rests a hand across her Powerpuff Girls t-shirt. “It already did for you two. I know he hurt you, I lived it. But the way you both are acting… it’s obvious you still got a beautiful thing. Hermosa. Talk it out, have hot make-up sex, do whatever. All I ask is, please, please, work with him these next two weeks. For me.”
How she tugs at my heartstrings. “Lo se. Don't worry. I’ll do it for you.”
Devlin returns carrying three plates with thick wedges of flan. I can't face him, so I grab some napkins and place them beside the plates he puts down at each setting. When Abuela sits back down, we eat in silence. Well, I devour mine. The chilled goodness melts in my mouth. Delicioso. Being such a foodie, I bet when I get to heaven it will be filled with papas rellenas and plates of flan. And maybe some pasteles and Cuban sandwiches too.
“Devlin, how are your grandma and your mama?” Abuela is the queen of small talk.
Dulce seems lost in thought. I finish first and stir sugar into my Café Bustelo. Abuela makes the best Spanish coffee. Sipping, I sit back and glance to my right.
“My mother violated parole and was sent back in,” he answers solemnly. “It doesn’t matter. My Gran’s dementia is getting worse. She doesn’t recognize me when I visit. She mistakes me for an orderly.” His shoulders sag as he sips his coffee.
Abuela shakes her head, tsk-tsking over his situation. “Your aunt? Still living with her?”
His fork slips across the plate and makes a high-pitched sound like nails against a chalkboard. “My aunt moved in with her boyfriend over the summer. I rent a room in a private house off Kingsbridge Avenue.”
“You okay there?” Abuela chews. “My basement is empty. Catie’s brother, Manuel, moved out last summer. There’s furniture and bedding. If you want, you’re welcome.”
Good thing I demolished my flan. What’s her reason for doing this? Abuela, like my mother, didn’t care for him when we were dating. He was a jock. Popular. White. Why the one-eighty?
Dulce stands up. “I’m going to the movies with Marisol. She’s parked outside.” She hurries over to kiss our grandmother goodbye.
“Later.” I pick up the dirty plates and cups as the front door closes. “Abuela, it's time for your ‘game hour.' Go rest on the sofa. Devlin and I will clean up,” I say. My cousin conveniently got out of helping, again.
“Gracias.” She hobbles off towards the living room to watch TV, relying on her cane more and more. But I don’t dare let my mind go there. I cannot lose any more of mi familia.
Dev follows me into the kitchen and waits while I fill the double sink. He points to the dishwasher. I shrug, placing the dinnerware in the suds. “She only uses it for holidays and special occasions. My grandma's old school.”
He laughs. “Just like mine. What’s she watching now?”
It’s nice to hear him laugh. I add the silverware and turn off the water. “She’ll sit through Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, and then an hour or two of her Spanish soap operas.”
“¿Noticias?” He pronounces it slowly, but I'm impressed he knows. “When I picked you up some nights, your mother would be glued to them.”
“You remembered.” I study the grease stains on a plate until the overwhelming urge to cry subsides. The pain of missing my folks still raw. “Bring the platters in, please?”
“Sure.”
In the kitchen window above the sink, I study Devlin’s reflection. He let his hair grow out. The dark brown almost black strands are past his shoulders. Wearing it loose, it glides in whichever direction he moves like a wall of water. The strands used to tickle my neck, my back, wherever they touched while he explored me.
Get a grip. Otherwise, I’ll be changing underwear again.
Around seven-forty, the kitchen is spotless. Leftovers were refrigerated, the dish drainer emptied, and the stainless-steel sink shines. Dev replaces the mop back inside the broom closet beside the pantry and turns to see me watching him from the doorway.
He seems about to smile but stops, unsure. Maybe it's my crossed arms or the way I lean against the wood frame. Stepping inches away from me, he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I need to talk to you. Explain my letter and—”
His cell phone wails a car sound. I think it’s a running engine. Car enthusiast. “Sorry, it’s my landlady.”
I go into the dining room to give him privacy and stack the placemats next to the napkin holder on the buffet. With its two leaves in, the table comfortably seats a dozen. This room has held numerous family celebrations, from birthdays to
engagements, graduations to christenings. As well as the occasional reception after a funeral. I run a finger across the old wood, its surface covered with nicks and water stains, but always lustrous from Abuela's rubbing with lemon oil.
There’s movement out the corner of my eye. Dev sits at the end, staring at his phone.
“Ready? I’ll take you home.” I join him, keeping a healthy distance, but I don't think he heard me. There's a strange look on his face like he's a million miles away. Kneeling before him, I shake his hand. “What's wrong?”
He blinks. “My landlady… she just told me there was a fire. Her house burned down.” A tear slips down his cheek. Without hesitation, I wipe it away the same way he used to whenever I became emotional.
“Oh, Devlin.”
Hanging his head, his phone drops onto my lap. I catch it as he wrings his hands together. “I’m homeless, Kitty. Where do I do? Everything’s gone. My possessions. Where do I go?”
This is an emergency. There was a time I thought I'd become Mrs. Garcia-Fitzgerald. Letting my guard down, I clasp his hands in mine. “Listen, you heard my grandma. She offered the basement. You do have a place to go. What about your things? Did you leave stuff with Annie?”
He nods. “Yeah. Some clothes. My video game stuff.”
“Is she home?”
“I think so.” He takes his phone from me.
“Okay. Call her in the car. Let’s go.” Out of habit, I grab his hand. He flinches and then checks my reaction before relaxing.
“Thanks.”
“No biggie,” I repeat his earlier words. “That's what friends do. Help each other out.” But is that how I regard him now after everything that transpired between us?
3
Devlin
The sun breaks through the cloud of tree branches just outside the kitchen window. From where I stand, shafts of light wash over my face and their warmth soaks into my skin. Sparrows perch at a bird feeder, their chatter faint through the glass. The rich fragrance of Spanish coffee wafts up my nose, waking me up.
After everything that's happened between Kitty and me, I'm living in her grandmother's house. I'm grateful to them. I thought I'd have to call a few of the guys, hoping they’d remember me, and ask if I could crash on a couch. If that didn’t work, there was the possibility of sneaking into Paco's Garage to catch some winks in the employee lounge after closing. That was my last course of action. I’ve only been there for three months and don’t want to jeopardize my job.
Kitty turns off the stove and pours heated milk into two cups of that dark coffee. She's unaware of how I sneak looks at her. She adds sugar and I marvel at how quickly she falls into old habits—adding a third spoonful into what I'm guessing is my cup. A whimsical look paints her features into something utterly beautiful and heartbreaking.
It's obvious she hasn't forgiven me. My not showing up after everything transpired didn't help. How do I tell her of my profound embarrassment at getting caught—doing something so incredibly fucking stupid—and then making the decision to go away to make amends? My phone had been stolen. My aunt was with her boyfriend on vacation somewhere in Europe. Gran was in no shape to help either.
“Here you are. When do you want to leave?” She slides the cup across the speckled countertop towards me, those mesmerizing gray eyes are glued to mine in the glass.
“Thanks.” I wrap my hands around the cup, savoring its warmth as I sip. The welcome heat spreads through my body. The taste? Perfect. I've grown accustomed to drinking that no-name watered-down stuff they have the nerve to call coffee inside the shop. When the real thing passes over my tongue, my taste buds take notice. So good.
Kitty laughs. “Used to that weak-ass stuff they call café, huh?”
I laugh too. Her hair is a mass of waves. Before I turned left, I'd play with those soft strands. Draw them to my face to inhale the scent of her shampoo. She appears casual in jeans and a pale green knit sweater. Then I remember the words. Her question hangs in the air. “I can go catch the bus. The stop’s around the corner, right?”
She sips. “Yes, but there’s construction. I’m used to being up early for school. I promised Abuela I’d do the food shopping and run errands. It’s cool. I can drop you.”
I blink. Maybe I should listen more instead of staring at her and getting lost in my lust-filled thoughts. “We can leave in ten minutes. My shift starts at eight.”
“Do you like it there?” Her question cautious. She must have many more to ask me but she doesn’t want to bring up my past. Kitty conveniently keeps her focus outside. Drink and gaze out, repeat the motions. By now there’s a wide array of sunlight bathing the backyard trees. Runaway pieces highlight her hair. Then a memory of my lips on top of hers pops surfaces.
I down my coffee. The heat slightly burns my tongue. Good. That should help me focus on something besides my hormones and needs.
“I can pack a lunch for you. Do you want a sandwich or leftovers from last night?”
The drained cup stills in my grip. No one has asked me that since fourth grade. Gran believed in making a child independent which included my learning to make my own sandwiches. I still make a fantastic PB&J. I grin at her sweet offer. “I don’t want to be a nuisance. That would be great. I’ll take anything. Helps me save some cash by not having to grab anything from the food truck.”
After she puts her cup in the sink, she shrugs. “I always make lunch. Between school, work, student teaching and volunteering, I’m busy. Now I’m on winter break. It’s nice to have some ‘me’ time, even with the wedding.”
I go to pour another cup, and she stops me, handing over a stainless-steel travel mug. “Manny left some things behind. Hope you don't mind secondhand.”
Grateful, I take it. “Nah, I don’t mind. Mine burned. This is great.”
Kitty goes about putting food into plastic container compartments. “We were supposed to donate those bags in the basement. Abuela didn't want to. Feel free to go through them.” She stops and scrutinizes me, then returns to her task. “Manny’s a few inches shorter and has about twenty pounds on you. See whatever fits. You know, until you get on your feet.”
“Thank you. I’m indebted to you and Abuela.” After I fill the mug, I pop the top on and quickly wash the cups and the dirty spoon.
Kitty hands me a blue tote bag. “Don't worry; it will keep the food cool. I have a bunch on hand. Just bring it back to reuse.”
With this morning ritual, we could be mistaken for a married couple. I wouldn’t mind. “Sure. I’m ready.”
After Kitty drops me off, the guys give me shit every time I walk by them to input my project details into the computer. Whenever one of them commented about getting a new ‘piece’ or how they must’ve had a really ‘good’ night, I’d usually chuckle. One of the guys.
Not today. Finally, two hours later, after hearing the latest joke, I stop in the middle of the garage and glare at them. “Enough! She’s not some one-night stand. She’s—”
All machinery sounds pause while their attention is riveted on me. I wipe my hands on the oily rag hanging from my navy uniform pant pocket.
Kendare whistles as I walk back to my bay. “Is she the one from St. Stephens? You ain’t never defended any chick before.”
I scratch the back of my head. “She's a friend.”
He nods with a smirk before he disappears under the hood of the SUV he's servicing.
At lunch, I microwave the food. The aroma fills the small kitchen in back. A handful of guys pack their food too. They make a deal out of sniffing the air when I take a seat. The few who buy soon return with their bags and automatically notice my meal. They check out what’s inside each section and smile, but wisely keep quiet.
Great. I check my phone and find Sal's messages about the shower and wedding plans, along with a receipt for his tux and other details.
A couple of the guys ask how I’m doing after the fire. As Gran used to say, polite conversation. I respond with “I found a place to re
nt” and leave it at that. The less they know, the better. Plus, I’ve never been the type who craves attention or everyone knowing my business. Enough people know about my parents’ past. That’s already too much.
When I get off work at four, I take a bus from the Grand Concourse and get off by Mosholu Parkway to visit Gran. I make a stop at a local florist to buy a bunch of daisies. Inside the nursing home, I sign in and take the elevator to the third floor. When I find her room empty, I search the usual places until I locate her inside the common room. All alone.
Her wheelchair faces the bay of windows overlooking the small courtyard. There’s that faraway look in her eyes that so many of the elderly here have. Is she reliving parts of her life with my grandfather? He’s been gone for ten years.
I grab a chair from a nearby table and place it beside her. In a loud, cheerful voice, I say, “Hi, Gran. How're you today?”
Still, she doesn't notice me. It’s not her fault, it’s the disease. I know that. Her lack of recognition bothers me. I lean closer, take her hand in mine and rub the delicate skin with its raised veins and arthritic twisted bones. “Gran, what’s up? You didn’t want to play bingo with the other residents today? I passed the dining hall and saw some of your friends there.”
She reeks of hand cream and that pungent ointment they apply for sore muscles. I extend her hand out as if admiring it. “I see someone's pampered you. I love that seasonal red nail polish. A very nice manicure. Cheerful.”
Her blue eyes blink a couple of times. Those are the same eyes that could tell when I was stretching the truth and she’d call me on it. Gran kept a strict watch on me. She was determined that I not follow in my father’s footsteps.
I wonder if I broke her heart that day.
“I put daisies in the vase in your room.” I bring them every week. I don’t think she notices them anymore, but it’s become habit. A sign that someone still cares. Annie fills out her meal form and schedules when Gran goes to the beauty parlor downstairs for a hair trim.
Covet the Curves: a Romance Collections Anthology Page 31