“Hi.” Her smile is mysterious. The edges curl up first, followed by the rest of her mouth, and her eyes blink slowly.
I start to say hi—to hand her the bottle of wine I picked out just for her. But all of my doubt and anxiety is swirling like a tornado and funneling into an intense desire. I’m frozen with wanting her.
So I toss the bottle on the couch and lift her into my arms until her dress bunches up and she puts her legs around my waist.
“Ayy! You’re going to drop me,” she says, as I carry her down the hall toward her bedroom. “I’m too heavy.”
“You’re an Amazon, but that’s the b-benefit of dating a younger man.”
“Shut up,” she says, her laugh more carefree than any I’ve heard from her. That pushes her breasts toward my face, so I bend down to find out whether or not she’s wearing a bra. I nuzzle her with my chin but almost trip, so I have to focus on business.
Which in this case means pushing her door open with my elbow and placing her on her neatly made bed. I wonder whether she cleaned her room knowing I’d be in here tonight. Whether she knew that all of her good intentions were a lie, because when we’re together we can’t not touch each other.
My hunch must be right, because as I bend down to kiss her she makes no protests about a dinner simmering on the stove, or any talking that needs to be done. She’s too busy snaking my belt out of the loops of my jeans.
Her dress is pooled around her thighs, a hint of purple panty peeking out from underneath, which almost undoes me. I get on my knees and run my hands up her endless legs, easing her dress to her waist.
God, those panties. No bows, no frills, just sheer lace barely concealing her.
“Do something,” she whispers as I stare at her some more.
I admire her assertiveness, but no way am I going to let her rush me. “I’m g-going to take all the time I need.”
Her mouth drops open and she licks her lips. So she likes me taking charge, then.
I put her arms to her sides and hold them there. “Tell me that you w-want this.”
“Yes. I want it.” Those last words are said on a fleeting breath.
“Stay still,” I order her, reaching up to those wispy straps and sliding them off her arms inch by inch, making sure they glide over her skin.
She has to wiggle to help me, but I’m rewarded by the sight of her bare breasts, which are almost more than I can hold, and I have large hands.
“I knew you weren’t wearing a b-bra. Was that for me?”
“No. For the mailman.” She’s trying to be a smartass, but her heavy breathing gives her away.
She’s lying there, naked except for a strip of white gauze around her waist—and those panties, which I plan to leave on until the last possible second. Her chest is rising and falling faster, her nipples tightening under my gaze.
“You’re making me crazy,” she says, arching her back.
I lower my head, putting my tongue to one breast. She exhales in relief and the tension goes out of her body. Until I suck on her more deeply and her back bows again.
She threads her hands through my hair and pulls, so I grab her arms and pin them to her sides again. I go back to work on her nipple, only harder this time.
“Ohh,” she moans, so I increase my pressure and my speed, seeing if I can make her come just like this.
She doesn’t give me time to find out. Eva’s all about maintaining control, so she wraps her legs around my waist and tries to maneuver me.
“You t-trying to get the upper hand?” I can’t contain my smile.
“Maybe.”
I pull off my sweater and shuck my jeans so I can get closer.
“Not a chance.”
Her eyes widen. They’re the color of burnt sugar.
I run a knuckle gently over her cheek. “You like this?”
She nods.
“And this?” My fingers trace her collarbone.
“Yes.”
I touch her lips with mine—just a feather kiss, really. “This?”
“Uh huh.”
My fingers stroke lower. “I know you’re happy when I t-touch you. I feel it. And then it m-makes me happy.”
Her eyes are filled with emotion about to spill over into tears. But she doesn’t cry. Instead, she lifts her chin, like she’s daring me to judge her. One brave flick of her chin and I’m sunk. Totally busted. I don’t care what it takes; I’m going to show this woman how good we can be together.
She throws her arms around me, and while she’s distracted, I roll her on top of me.
My hands tingle as I glide them up her bare, smooth back. I love her strong body. I know I won’t break her. No one can break Eva.
She sits up, cotton and lace the only barriers between us.
“Better?” I ask her.
She swivels her hips, forcing me to groan. “Yes.” She eases my hands to her breasts. “Give me more.”
So I give her everything—soft, hard, fast, slow. Whatever she wants, however she wants it. Soon, she’ll trust me enough to know she’s safe, no matter what she needs. And in the meantime, she makes me feel so good that I lose my breath and my wits.
“Harder,” I beg her as she races to a finish, and that pushes her right over with a scream. And when I follow, the pleasure spirals up my spine, through my heart, out my brain, and into the atmosphere.
I lie there and hold her afterward, tracing the ridges of her ear with my finger. “You were g-getting emotional earlier.”
“Yeah.”
I tilt her face up gently and press a kiss to her mouth. “Wanna t-tell me why?”
“I guess I forgot I could be that happy, you know what I mean?”
Yes, I do.
Chapter 14: Eva
Ryan’s chest doesn’t have much hair. Still, it’s fun to swirl my finger in the small patch of golden brown strands. He’s the complete opposite of Marco—lean versus stocky, happy not moody, and calm instead of flustered. Ryan’s still figuring out who he is, but he doesn’t trudge over other people while he does it. He’s thoughtful and gentle. And a complete wrench in my plan.
Then again, my plan sucked.
All this hope is making me nervous—like I need to cross my fingers and knock on wood. I know happiness doesn’t last forever, but fleeting joy is better than no joy.
I trail kisses down Ryan’s chest and he mumbles in his sleep. By the time I’m licking his stomach, he’s awake. And when I take him in my mouth, he’s aroused.
We sway together, like waves in an ocean, like wheat in a field, until he’s coming so hard he screams my name.
“Good morning,” he whispers in a rusty, deep voice, which works me up all over again.
I force him to kiss me and he goes with it. Such a good sport. His hand is making me so blissful that I don’t hear Marco calling my name until he’s in the living room.
Ryan hears him at the same time and we shoot up in bed like prairie dogs.
“Wait here,” I say, throwing on shorts and a T-shirt just in time to stop Marco and Diego from coming down the hall.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask, short of breath.
Diego runs up and gives me a hug. “We knocked, but you didn’t come, so I told Daddy to use the spare key.”
Marco is looking me over from top to bottom. “Why didn’t you answer?”
I put my hands on my hips, trying to be nonchalant. “I was in my room. Why are you guys back so early?”
“I was going to take him to the pool. I wanted to get his swim stuff,” Marco says, but his eyes are roaming around the room.
“By the way, I faxed that tax form for you,” I say.
“Yeah, thanks,” he says absentmindedly, until his gaze finally settles on something.
I look in that direction and the roof of my mouth goes bone dry. Over on the coffee table are two beer bottles from when Ryan and I finally got out of bed to eat. Ryan’s bright green sweater is slung over the table because I put it on to keep warm, but Ryan
promptly removed it after we’d eaten.
The same Ryan who’s hiding in my bedroom, probably regretting his decision to get involved with me.
“Can I talk to your mom for a second, buddy?” Marco says, cracking his knuckles—a nervous habit that makes him look like a mob enforcer from a bad action movie.
“Who’s here?” he whispers when Diego goes to the kitchen for a snack.
I spent years placating Marco—sometimes even lying—so he wouldn’t get upset. Those days are over. After last night, they have to be.
“That’s not your business.”
“So there is someone?”
I nod. No sense denying it.
“Who?”
“I’m not going into that right now.”
Marco looks down and bites his top lip. His hands ball into fists. Not once did Marco hit me, but those fists still fill me with dread. A husband’s hands are supposed to be associated with kindness. Home. Strokes and hugs and opening peanut butter jars and using a hammer to fix the fence. Once I saw those hands beat someone bloody, I didn’t want them on me anymore, and it was like a piece of our family was lost.
To his credit, Marco fights whatever emotions he’s dealing with by taking a few deep breaths.
“Okay. Can I grab the swim stuff?”
“It’s in the top drawer.”
He disappears down the hallway as Diego runs in carrying a juice.
“Going to the pool?” I paste on my best smile.
“Yeah. Daddy bought me a blow up boat.”
“Cool. Be careful, okay? Stay close to your dad.” I pull him to me, and kiss the top of his head. He smells like raspberries.
Marco comes out with small swim trunks and blue goggles. Without a word, he takes Diego’s hand and leads him out of the house.
“Bye, Mommy,” Diego says, forgetting about me by the time he’s to the entryway.
My bedroom door opens, and Ryan creeps down the hall like a thief. “Did he know I was h-here?”
I point to his sweater laying on the table.
“Sorry,” he says, grabbing it and putting it on.
“It had to happen sometime.”
After I say the words, I discover they’re true. Why am I trying to put off the inevitable, when I sure as hell am not willing to live the rest of my life alone just to appease Marco? I was going to have to deal with the fallout of a relationship sometime. No better time than now, when I have this amazing man standing in front of me.
“I’ve been doing this balancing act a long time,” I tell him. “I was worried throwing someone else into the mix would make everything fall down around me.”
“And now?” He grabs my arms and wraps them behind his back.
“I can’t keep trying to control how he feels anymore. Whatever happens with Marco happens. But are you sure? If you were with someone else, they could . . .”
He shakes his head. “Stop trying to s-scare me away. I haven’t f-felt this happy in a long while. I t-told you, I’m in this.”
For a guy who claims to have trouble talking, Ryan sure says all the right things.
“Okay, then.” I run one hand over his back. “You asked for it.”
* * *
What was once the nice, but slightly run-down, house I grew up in South San Jose is now worth an arm and a leg. Lucky for Mom and Dad.
“It’s always five degrees hotter here,” I complain, fanning myself. Sometimes there are surprise heat waves, even at the end of September. Plus, this part of town is hotter than where I live.
“Don’t be a baby. It’s only in the eighties.” Mom hands me a watermelon agua fresca.
She stretches out next to me on the recliner, and we sit and watch Diego play with the dog. The lawn may be as dry as always—“brown is the new green,” as they say in California—but this backyard was the scene of endless sword fights when I was a kid and is still the gathering spot for family barbecues and birthday parties.
“Heard anything from Alejandro?” Little brother has been missing in action lately.
Mom lights up at the mention of her baby. “He’s coming over next weekend. You should come, too.”
“He must have broken up with his latest.”
“Be nice, Evita.”
Only Mom gets away with that nickname.
“Just saying. I never see the guy when he’s got a girlfriend.” I take a big sip of my drink. She made it sweet, how I like it.
“Mijo, don’t tug his ear,” Mom yells to Diego, who’s wrestling with Gordi like he’s trying to ride him.
Gordito—Gordi for short—got his name because he was the fattest puppy in the litter. Gordi may be a German shepherd, but he acts like a poodle. Still, even he has his limits.
“Can I bring someone to the barbecue? A date, I mean.” I trace the condensation on the side of my glass.
“Oh?”
Mom’s face doesn’t change—not one hair moves on her head. But I know she’s shocked down to her core. She sets her drink on the glass table between us, but it doesn’t make a sound, her facade intact. There’s a reason Paulina Romero rules the roost in our family.
“I’m not sure he’ll want to come. It’s too soon, probably. I don’t know why I asked. Just in case, I guess.”
Mom’s right eyebrow raises. We have the same long face and prominent cheekbones, but for some reason she looks more elegant. “You’re in that deep?”
I close my eyes and nod. “It’s new. Just a couple weeks, really.”
“But you like him?”
“He makes me feel like the person I was. Before.”
Mom takes in a deep breath, understanding the significance of what I said. Then, she reaches over and pulls me into a hug. “Bring him here, then. I want to meet him.”
I didn’t tell Mom everything that happened with Marco, but like all mothers, she filled in the gaps using that spooky insight she has. She sees what I don’t reveal. That I felt ashamed for being headstrong and getting married too young, and for letting the man I loved turn me into a woman scared of her own shadow.
Mom didn’t want any part of my self-loathing, though.
Two years ago, the day my divorce went through, she sat me down with a bottle of wine. Once we were all the way through it, she looked me right in the eye and told me her secrets. About a boy she fell for at sixteen and the child they conceived together in 1975. A child that she aborted because they were both too scared of what would happen if they kept it.
“I was a real trailblazer,” she said that day, and I remember marveling at how she kept her tears at bay through sheer will. “So now you know you are a woman who makes mistakes born from a woman who makes mistakes and so on and so on. Best to forgive yourself and go forward.”
And right now, she’s telling me through her embrace that she’s still got my back. Mom’s a hard act to follow.
Dad comes out the sliding glass door and catches us mid-hug. “What are you two doing out here?”
“Watching your grandson torment your dog,” Mom says. She likes to pretend that she hates Gordi, even though she bought him yet another personalized dog bed last Christmas.
“Come give grandpa a hug,” Dad shouts.
Diego drops the dog’s ball and runs over, knowing there’s probably candy in grandpa’s pocket waiting for him. Sure enough, Dad pulls out a lollipop.
“Found this on my way home from work,” he says, ruffling Diego’s hair.
“Umm. Cream soda flavor.” Diego’s already licking the candy, the wrapper tossed on the table.
Dad beams down at Diego, his face filled with love. He is a small, compact guy, and since he’s two inches shorter than I am, he jokes that the stork must have brought the wrong kid. But my smile is an exact replica of his. Nothing makes Dad happier than being with his grandchildren, and with Carmen’s kids so far away, Diego gets the lion’s share of attention.
“You coming next weekend, mija?” he asks me.
“Yes.”
“And she’s bringing
a friend.” Mom arches her brow, telling him silently that he shouldn’t say anything about it.
“Uh, okay.” Dad’s eyes widen. “Marco?”
“Ryan, right, Mom?” Diego asks.
“Yes, honey.”
So far, I’ve gotten as far as telling Diego that Ryan is a special friend that I plan to have over more often. Diego was on board with that because he already liked Ryan, but we’ll see how it plays out. Baby steps, I remind myself.
My parents are still exchanging looks, because they have an entire secret language based on facial expressions.
“Alright, enough already,” I say, waving my hands. “Diego, we should get going.”
We go through five minutes of begging and pleading to stay longer before we’re finally out the door.
Dad gives me an extra-long hug. “Does your Ryan eat meat?”
He would die if I lied and said Ryan was a vegetarian. “That’s what you’re worried about? Your barbecue?”
“It’s the only thing I can control, mija.”
Wise man.
Chapter 15: Ryan
Diego got four stickers today. Those vowels are still bothering him, but I admire how hard he’s going after it.
“High five,” I tell him, making sure not to stutter. It’s almost impossible, which means I don’t often get stickers.
He stares at my hand for a second and then gives it a puny slap. His fingers are so tiny compared to mine—so vulnerable—and I marvel at the awesome responsibility Eva has of keeping him in one piece.
“Aren’t you going to tell me a j-joke before you go?” I ask him.
His lips purse in thought. “I told you all of them.”
“Okay. How about this one: How many t-tickles does it take to get an octopus to laugh?”
“How many?”
“Ten-tickles. Get it?”
Diego shakes his head. “That’s a dumb one.” But then he giggles.
I’ve earned a few of those over the past weeks, each one special because of its rarity.
Eva hands Diego graham crackers and a glass of milk and he runs into the living room for his half hour of TV time. Soon, Curious George’s monkey sounds filter into the kitchen.
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