by Tatiana Vila
He dropped his car keys in a futuristic-looking, S-shaped metal table and said, “Let's go to the kitchen and—”
“My man,” said a sudden voice, cutting Ian off.
A tall, muscled guy with blond hair was walking our way. He looked like the self-important type who thought any girl would be lucky to be with him. A powerful air of confidence and arrogance floated around him. Without even knowing him, I already disliked the guy.
“Brady?” Ian said surprised. “What are you doing here?”
The guy tapped him on the shoulder in a manly gesture. “Guitar lessons, remember? You were going to help me to get into Kirsten's pants with mushy, slushy music?”
Ian cleared his throat and gave me a swift glance. “Not the right time.”
“I know. I know,” the guy raised his hands as if in surrender. “Lola told me all about it.” Then, he looked at me with a wicked smile. “She didn't tell me about her, though. Who's the bonbon?”
Bonbon? Who in the world uses that word?
“She's Dafne, Buffy's twin,” Ian said reluctantly.
The guy whistled. “Lucky bastard. You have Megan Fox's double and you never told me?”
“He doesn't have me,” I snapped.
“Is that an invitation?” The guy stepped closer to me. “Because I'm more than willing to answer your call and get lost into those mind-blowing eyes.”
“Excuse me?” What about that girl, Kirsten? I wanted to ask.
“Your eyes are like two violets, so beautiful they could bring an army to its knees.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Are you for real?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing because you surely look like a fantasy.” He scanned my body in an X-ray once-over.
I was about to snap something back when Ian beat me. “Brady, get out.”
“Come on. Aren't you going to share a morsel of that sweet ass with your buddy?”
“I said,” Ian barked, his eyes glowing a wild green, “Get. Out.”
The moron paused, studying Ian's anger-ridden face and said with a knowing smile, “You want to enter her Ice Palace, don't you?”
That was all it took for Ian to lose what was left of his patience. He punched Brady in the face with a resonating smack. The guy staggered back, holding his hand over his right cheekbone, which would certainly be covered with a bright, deep bruise tomorrow, spoiling his Abercrombie & Fitch ad face.
I looked at Ian, dumbfounded. He was breathing hard and glaring at the shocked guy who was still staring back at him, his face a mask of incredulity. “You're a piece of work, you know that?” the Brady guy told him.
“Don't make this any worse and leave,” Ian said more calmly.
A silent conversation seemed to pass between the two, a talk that only a person with high testosterone levels could've grasped. Brady looked at me for several heartbeats and then, as if he'd suddenly understood something, nodded at Ian. He strode through the foyer a few seconds later and left, leaving us in an awkward hushed moment.
“Let's go to the kitchen,” Ian sighed after a while, overstepping the big fat elephant that'd settled between us. “Lola must be waiting for us.” And without a second glance at me, he started for the hallway.
I followed, noticing, even amid the astonishment and bafflement in my head, the main color palette dressing the house—white, gray, silver, red and black. My eyes found a white, curved sofa in the living room on the way. It was definitely one of my favorite pieces. A flame-like, red sculpture in one of the corners was definitely eye-catching, as well. Everything about the house was striking. I couldn't help comparing it with Gran's house, the Lady. They were total opposites on the spectrum of style and design.
The hallway soon opened onto a vast kitchen where a small, round woman stood in front of a kidney-shaped island. She was dressed in a black uniform with a white, ruffled apron. Her wavy salt-and-pepper hair was tied up in a low bun. She stopped pouring water into one of the glasses when she looked at us.
“Ian mijo, the quesadillas are cold,” she told him with a lovely frown that said she was anything but angry at him. It was obvious she loved him.
“Sorry, Lola. We had a small…mishap before coming here,” Hhe said, not elaborating on what the mishap had been.
“No excuses, just a kiss,” she said pointing at her chubby cheek.
Ian smiled and walked up to her. “You're the best,” he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gave her a kiss.
“You only say that because I make your stomach happy,” she said, with what I believed was a charming Mexican accent, and tapped him on the belly.
“You know it's more than that,” Ian said, with a warm smile playing on his lips.
I guessed Lola had that effect on people, because I couldn't help the warmth blossoming inside of me either.
As if sensing I'd been thinking about her, she turned to look at me. “You must be hungry, mija,” she said, her slanted eyes crinkling in a smile. “Ian told me you're a veggietalian so—”
“Vegetarian,” Ian corrected, amused.
“Nonsense,” she waved her hand and carried on. “So I made three-cheese quesadillas for you and healthy guacamole—with organic avocados because you never know what might be inside of the normal ones nowadays. It is simply outrageous. Humans shouldn't play at being Gods in nature. Dios mío y la virgen, ayúdennos con esta locura.” She gave a soft shake of her head.
I looked at Ian. He shrugged and said, “She mumbles a lot in Spanish when she's pissed.”
Lola pointed her finger at Ian in a warning gesture. “Mind the language or else I'll wash your mouth with soap in front of this pretty señorita.”
I had to swallow back a laugh. She reminded me so much of Gran, but in a smaller and fiercer version. Lola was a force to be reckoned with.
“My dirty mouth is zipped,” he said, sliding his fingers across his mouth as if pulling a zipper closed.
She smiled in approval and looked back at me. “She really is beautiful mijo, don't you think?”
He threw me a quick glance and turned to grab the dishes with the quesadillas and guacamole piled on top. “I guess. We should eat these or they're going to get all cold,” he said immediately, as if he wanted to get rid of the subject in matter as soon as possible. “And there's nothing I hate more than stiff corn tortillas.”
“Yes,” Lola agreed. “The tortillas are made from scratch, so you should both eat them while they're warm.” She placed the dish on the kidney-shaped island and motioned me to sit down on a stool. She plucked Ian's plate from his hand and settled it next to mine. “You know you shouldn't be eating while standing. It's bad for you,” she chastised him and looked pointedly to the stool resting beside me.
As if knowing he didn't have a chance against her, he followed the direction she'd ordered him and sat down.
I focused on my quesadillas and rumbling stomach. The dish looked beautiful, like something you'd be served in a restaurant—a small mound of guacamole with pico de gallo on top was surrounded by nicely-cut triangular corn quesadillas. Their color a healthy buttery-yellow, and the melted cheese skirting their edges a scrumptious sight. With the midnight black, marble countertop underneath the plate, it truly was as if we were in some fancy restaurant. The only thing missing the music.
I took my first bite and couldn't stop the moan that escaped my lips. “Wow, this tastes amazing.” I didn't know if it was the fresh corn tortilla, or the blend of three cheeses, or the fact that I was starving and everything felt like Fourth of July fireworks in my mouth, but this was certainly the best quesadilla I'd tried in my life. And the guacamole…
“I told you she rocked the kitchen like no one,” Ian said between munches.
“Mmhm,” I agreed, savoring the cheesy explosion on my tongue. Lola rocked the kitchen like Santana rocked his guitar. She was definitely something special.
She slid two glasses of water over to us. “That's very kind, but you should know my skills are rather l
imited on the veggietalian area.”
“Vegetarian,” Ian corrected her again.
“Nonsense,” she said for a second time, with a wave of her hand. I smiled. “You should give me some recipes so I can be prepared next time you come, mija,” she told me.
I didn't tell her there wouldn't be a next time. I felt bad even thinking about it in front of her. She was way too nice. That's why I said, “Definitely. I have some really good recipes with Tofu, and eggplant—though you know making eggplant dip is kind of tricky, right? You need to grill the eggplants until the skins are charred all over and the flesh soft.”
Ian looked at me. “You cook?” he said, surprise coloring his voice.
Lola responded before I could think of an answer. “Of course she cooks. I can see it in her. She must be pretty skillful to not cook with meat. I bet she's good with flavors.”
I smiled at her and felt Ian still watching me. He must've thought I was a useless veggie psycho who only ate the special food her granny made for her. I could feel the waves of his thoughts brushing the edges of mine. He was impressed.
I swallowed back a smug grin.
The truth was I learned to cook since my mind and body decided meat was a big No No in my daily diet. I knew Mom had to take care of a lot of things in the house, so adding an extra burden to her tasks wasn't something I could've allowed to happen. That's when I started learning the basics in the kitchen, exploring and challenging myself with flavors and textures. Over time, my cooking improved. Even Gran and Buffy, full-fledged carnivores, liked my vegetarian chicken Marsala. Thus I did more than okay with food, but I didn't consider myself one of the best.
“I know how to deal with flavors,” I admitted to her.
She smiled proudly. “A worthy woman always knows how to move around the kitchen.” She bent and whispered to me, “Para llegar al corazón de un hombre, hay que llegar a través del estomago.”
I looked at her wearing a big question mark across my face, and secretly wished I could speak Spanish so I wouldn't feel that lost, as in stranded-in-the-middle-of-a-desert-island lost.
“Men,” she began to explain, “Love food. If someday you wish to touch a man's heart, you should do it through his stomach, with your cooking.”
“Aye,” Ian nodded, as if he was assenting in name of the whole male population. “We pretty much live to eat—among other things.”
Imagining what other things meant already, I pushed the question away and said, “Then Buffy is toast, she can't even boil an egg.” As soon as those words left my mouth, a sliver of pain and regret slashed my heart. “I didn't mean it like that. I mean…no, she's not toast…she'll never be toast. She'll come back and show us she's toast, but just in the kitchen, not in life. She's not toast in life…” I dropped my head.
Lola moved towards me and cupped my face with her warm, motherly hands. I looked up to see her bright chocolate-brown eyes. “Buffy is strong and smart enough to come back on her own. She knows a lot of happiness and love is waiting for her on this side.”
I gave her a small smile, not entirely sure why her words made a hole in my chest and filled it with a terrible bad feeling. There was something nagging at me deep down, something that surrounded this whole people-falling-into-a-sudden-coma issue with darkness. I knew to the core of my soul that all of this wasn't as simple as it looked.
I glanced at Ian. He was looking down, his sagged shoulders weighed down with the invisible heaviness of pain. A sudden urge to get him out of whatever dim place he'd plunged himself into shot through me. I didn't need any more comatose people hovering in my life.
“I feel drained. I think I should go to sleep,” I told him, expecting some reaction from his part.
He blinked and looked at me. “Yeah, sure.” He pulled himself out of the stool and hugged Lola for the second time in the night. “Thank you for everything. You truly are the best.”
She hugged him back in a content sigh. “Anything for my bebé.”
He walked out of the kitchen, and before I would do the same, I surprised myself by wrapping my arms around her in a quick embrace. “Thank you, Lola,” I whispered and followed Ian in a flash.
I didn't know what surprised me more: Ian's room filling half of the second floor, this humongous house not having a guest room, or the fact that I had to sleep in the same room as Ian. Even though there was enough space to run back and forth and dance and do whatnot—the place was like a penthouse, the only thing missing the kitchen—the idea didn't sit well in my stomach.
I looked at the massive bed stretching beside me and wondered who in the world needed so much space to sleep. Unless you were Bigfoot or weighed more than four hundred pounds—or planned to sleep with three people—the size of the bed was completely over the top. The same as with the room.
I frowned. It almost seemed as if everything in this house had been built to lead a secluded life—his parents on one side of the house and Ian on the other, each one in their own big, fancy furnished world, with no need to come out.
I spotted a black polished table next to one of the glass walls displaying a clear, open view of the trees located behind the house. A beautiful sight, but suffused with so much loneliness that it gave my heart a little squeeze. I imagined Ian having meals by himself at that table, contemplating a landscape that must've lost its appeal over the years. Then I imagined Lola bringing him a tray full of brownies and a glass of milk and the image suddenly transformed, bathed in glow and warm colors.
“Here,” Ian's voice brought me back from the vision. “I found this for you.” He placed a folded blue shirt and gray pants on the bed. “They'll be big on you but…you'll sleep comfortable.”
I picked up the shirt and read the bold letters that sat above the image of a cute-looking cupcake. “Stud?”
He shrugged. “A birthday gift,” he offered as an explanation. “I would've given you one of Cheryl's shirts but she kills anyone who touches her garments.” He said mockingly, as if he'd been quoting the unknown woman.
“Who's Cheryl?” I asked.
“Dad's girlfriend.”
By the tone of his voice, I could see the relation between them was on shaky grounds. Not wanting to get into personal stuff, I grabbed the pants and said, “Where's the bathroom?”
“Through the closet,” he indicated, pointing to a black sliding door made of the same sleek, polished material as the table.
I closed the distance with the cool door, watching my hesitant hand reflected on its glossy surface as it pushed the sliding barrier to the side. My breath caught in my throat. Spreading before me was the most amazing walk-in closet my eyes had seen. The floor was covered with the softest ivory carpet, calling to one's mind images of snow-coated fields and white furs. Thick glass shelves filled the walls, reminding me of solid slabs of ice in the harshest wintery night, and the hanging rods were translucent, not metallic or woody as one would've expected.
A black and white bathroom sat at the end, a blend of fine marble wrapping its entire architecture. The only thing separating that mineral sanctuary from the carpeted clothing-haven was a couple of thin, floor to ceiling glass doors. An entirely see-through pair of doors.
I paused and turned to look at Ian.
“Yeah, yeah, don't worry. It's not like I want to see you or anything.” He slid the closet door closed behind me.
I let out a breath, took my shoes off and kept on walking. I was about an arm's length of reaching one of the glass doors, when the bathroom lights turned on. Cool, automatic lighting. The marble floor was cool through my toe socks, making me feel grateful for not having peeled them off of my feet before. I stepped onto a fluffy bathmat, next to a glass-enclosed shower, and shed all of my clothes, trading them for the blue “STUD” shirt and pants.
Since Ian was taller than me, his clothes turned me into a drooping moving thing. I had to roll up the waistband of the pants three times until there wasn't any more fabric swiping the floor underneath my feet. Long as the shirt
was, I really didn't need the pants. But Ian was my sister's boyfriend and putting my thighs on display—even if a little—while being alone in his room screamed wrong all over.
I did a side knot on the shirt to shorten the length, picked up my clothes from the floor and walked outside. Ian was dropping a folded quilt and sheet over the armrest of the couch when he heard me coming out and looked at me. As if a switch had been flipped, his eyes changed. For a fleeting, tiny moment, a possessive look flashed across his face, deep and raw, like an animal when facing its mate. A wave of something I couldn't quite put my finger on, or maybe just didn't want to, swept through me. Then, as if he'd recognized something in my eyes, warmth softened his chiseled features.
I let out a small breath I hadn't known I'd been holding and asked, “Where should I put these?” I waved my head to the clothes in my arms.
He gave a slight shake of his head, as if shaking himself out of a thought, which wouldn't have been obvious if I hadn't been looking at him so intently, and said, “You'll sleep in the bed, so you can leave them on the nightstand.”
“Where are you going to sleep?” I knew the answer already but asked the question anyway. I was feeling out of my orbit, therefore my actions and thoughts were kind of...off-base.
“I'll take the couch,” he shrugged. “I'm used to it anyway.”
“You don't sleep in your bed?” I asked before I could stop the words.
See? Completely out of my orbit. I usually didn't care if he slept in his bed or not. I didn't care about Ian. Period.
As if he'd been thinking the same thing, he paused for several heartbeats. After the surprise dimmed down a bit and he realized the circumstances surrounding us weren't entirely normal—hence, why we were acting so bizarrely—he stepped out of silence and carried on with the odd interaction we'd embarked on. “The bed is way too big to sleep in it. The couch is…warmer in some way.”
I placed my clothes on the nightstand and sat down on the bed. So. He didn't like the humongous cradle that was his bed. I wondered what else he didn't like about this house. “Everything in here is pretty big,” I said in an attempt to agree with him.