Sweet Little Lies (The Sweetest Thing Book 5)

by Sierra Hill

  And ever since.

  I know she has her doubts about me. I get it. Whether that’s something to do with me personally, or just because of her own hang-ups, I want to show her a different side of me that no one else has seen.

  And to prove to her that I’m worthy of her when and if she finally takes a chance.

  Chapter 6

  Mica

  “Eres tu, mi Hermosa hija?” my mother asks from inside the small, hot kitchen of my childhood home.

  “Buenos dias, mamá.”

  My bookbag lands in a heap on the floor as I let it fall from my aching shoulder. It’s Saturday afternoon and aside from the shift I just put in this morning cleaning houses with my auntie and sister, I’ve also spent two hours at the library studying. The schedule I’ve been keeping is going to be the death of me and I nearly backed out of coming over to visit today, but we’re celebrating my cousin’s engagement with a typical family get-together.

  While I’m dead tired, the familiar noise and smells emanating from the house and backyard are a natural pick-me-up and I can’t help but smile. The laughter of my young nieces and nephews, the sounds of Mexicana playing on the stereo and the loud, argumentative voices of my dad, uncles, cousins and brothers are the soundtrack of my life. There is nothing better to me than being surrounded by my family.

  I step into the warm, bustling kitchen where I’m greeted with the familiar, tender hugs from my mother, granny and auntie.

  My sister Therese walks in from the back door carrying Alejandra on her hip, who is babbling his baby gibberish and clapping his hands in joyful delight, her oldest son, Alvaro, trailing at her heels. I lift my eyebrows and cover the smile that grows wide on my lips when I notice how filthy Alvie’s face and hands are, which likely means my sister is covered in the same mess. Judging by the scowl on her face, she’s not too happy with her son at the moment, so I do my best to hide my amusement.

  I head Therese off at the pass and get a washcloth wet underneath the tap.

  “Sit down, Therese. I’ll get it,” I offer, nodding my head to the old kitchen table in the middle of the room. A table that has seen years of use and is practically falling apart, but carries our family stories within its scratches and grooves.

  She looks as exhausted as I am. Her husband, Ramone, is working a graveyard shift, and she spends six days a week cleaning homes and taking care of her children, when I’m not around. I should feel lucky I only have to care for myself most days.

  “Gracias, hermana,” Therese replies with a sigh, her entire body collapsing into the chair as AJ wiggles his tiny body down her legs and onto the floor. “You look about as tired as I feel.”

  I catch Alvie’s wrists as he tries to make his escape and dart past me, cleaning off his hands before wiping off the mess around his mouth in a struggled dual. Once clean, I let him go and he runs into the living room, his baby brother toddling after him in a fit of giggles.

  Returning the washcloth to the sink, I dry my hands and shrug. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. ¿Cómo estás?”

  I turn around and lean against the kitchen sink as she carefully slips the loose hairs around her face behind her ears. She’s seven years older than me and wasn’t born in the US. My parents didn’t move here until after Carlos was born. It’s only Mateo and I that are natural born US citizens. Everyone else in my family are immigrants and sometimes it makes me feel a stifling guilt. Like I’m blessed in a way they aren’t.

  “Estoy bien. I just don’t know how mama did it all those years when she had all five of us underfoot when we were kids.”

  My mother and granny chime in from their places at the counter and stove.

  “No fue fácil,” she grumbles, but then turns to smile at her daughters. “But I did it out of love.”

  “Ya me imagino que no,” Therese responds, understanding all too well that kids are never easy and can make life a whirlwind of chaos. “But we all turned out okay.”

  My Abuela huffs disgruntledly and my eyebrows raise, as I look to my sister in question.

  The response from my granny is skeptical. “Hmm, we’ll see.”

  “What’s this all about?” I ask no one in particular, even though I’m still staring at my sister.

  My mother answers for her. “Your cousin, Juan, seems to have fallen for a güera.”

  I whip my head in Therese’s direction and she covers her mouth with her hand and snickers. This is news to me. The last I’d seen Juan, he was as single as single could be – going through girl after girl within the Mexican community. So, I’m a bit stunned to find out he’s supposedly in love with a white girl. And based on the reaction of my grandmother and female relatives in the room, it’s a fate worse than death.

  “Oh, well that’s news. What’s her name?”

  All four of the older women pipe in at the same time, rolling their R’s in disgust.

  “Erin.”

  And then Therese adds with a conspiratorial whisper, “She’s a red headed Irish girl.”

  I can’t help but play into this a bit and let out a mocking gasp, shaking my head as if I’m affronted. “¡Dios mio! The horror!”

  The two of us laugh together, but everyone else in the kitchen remains in quiet contemplation over this potential slight to the family. While there have been distant cousins who have dated and eventually married gringos – white folk – it is a highly unusual situation. There’s a certain expectation that you stay within the Mexican and Hispanic culture when you settle down to find your spouse.

  A foreign sadness washes over me as I think about Lance and the friendship I have with him. No other boy has ever made my heart flutter like he does. Although I don’t have a ton of experience in the dating world, the ones I did go out with in high school were all Mexican. In fact, I lost my virginity to a kid named Bruno Mendez who was a year older than me in school. He took me to my Junior Prom and was a nice enough guy. My father loved him and was eager for me to continue that relationship.

  But Bruno dumped me for an older girl named Serena a few weeks later and I figured it was just as well. I wasn’t interested in spending my time pining after boys because I was focused on studies and getting good grades to earn the much needed scholarships for college. This would be my only chance to break away – even a little bit – from the predestined life my family envisioned for me.

  And then Alberto came into the picture and it was all my dad fixated on. He practically gave me away to Alberto when I turned eighteen two years ago – promising him my hand in marriage. My dad and I got into a huge argument after that night and things haven’t been the same between us since. I love my papi, and know he only wants what’s best for me and my future. But we don’t see eye-to-eye on what that future contains.

  If I began dating Lance and brought him home to meet the family, it would cause more than a stir or hushed voices discussing it in the kitchen amongst relatives. They’d probably disown me. At least my dad would.

  It’s one of the reasons I’ve kept my distance from Lance and have avoided starting anything up with him. While every cell in my body would love to be with him, I know if I give into his advances, I’ll be swept away. And my heart won’t stand a chance because there’s no future between us. Even if by some crazy chance he could love me and we start something together, we could never get married or be happy. Not if I wanted to remain connected with my family.

  The whisper-soft tittering of the females in the room catches my attention and my ears perk back up, bringing my head back into the conversation.

  “I think he met her in a bar. She’s probably a floozy.”

  “He better be keep it in his pants and his hands to himself. If she got pregnant, it would absolutely kill his mother.”

  “I just don’t see how they can work out. They are too different.”

  Each of their thinly disguised negative remarks have my blood boiling and my anger seething beneath my skin. I want to scream…love is love, dammit! It doesn’t matter what skin c
olor they have or who their parents are or where they met or what their ethnicity and culture is. It shouldn’t matter because if they are happy, that’s the only thing that should be considered.

  But I don’t speak up. I keep it to myself because it won’t make a difference and won’t change their opinions on the subject. I just hope I never have to live through it personally.

  “You’re very quiet today, quireda. Is everything okay?”

  I stuff my mouth with one of the chiles curtidos that’s sitting in a bowl on the table and smile at my granny who has asked me the question.

  “Mmm. Estoy bien. No worries here.” I lie with my mouth full because I’m not really fine, but I pretend to be for her sake.

  Until there is cause for worry when my auntie Maria’s next comment to me has me stiffening in my chair. “Alberto is outside, Micaela. You should go see him. He’s been waiting for you to arrive.”

  The spicy jalepeño nearly chokes me on the way down when she speaks his name. I expected that he’d be here today with the rest of the family. He’s a very, very distant cousin via marriage, so we’re not related at all, but he’s been coming to our family events for years. Before his own mother passed away. And he and my oldest brother, Carlos, are good friends and work together at his autobody shop, along with my father and brother, Mateo, so it’s not unusual for him to be here.

  But that doesn’t mean I want to see him. He’s every reminder of how disconnected I am from my family and their wishes. It’s the reminder that as the youngest daughter, it’s my duty to carry on the family heritage and lineage. The reminder that my life really isn’t mine to choose no matter how much I want something – or someone – different.

  Resigning myself to this fate, I slip back on the flip-flops that I’d removed under the table, grab another jalepeño and head toward the back door.

  Just as I open it to step outside, my phone pings in my back pocket with a text notification.

  Stopping halfway through the door, I pull it out and glance down to see who it’s from.

  Lance: I know ur busy…but would you want to go to the lake w/me tomorrow afternoon before we study?

  His question throws me off balance and I grab the doorframe to hold myself up. This sounds auspiciously like a date.

  Me: Sorry. Can’t. Watching the kids after church.

  Which isn’t a complete lie, just a slightly skewed version of the truth, since I don’t go to church often with my family anymore. But I do watch the kids while my mother and Therese work on Sunday afternoons cleaning.

  But his next response leaves me without any formal excuses or way out.

  Dammit. He’s sneaky.

  Lance: Bring them with. It’ll be fun! Adios, amiga.

  Chapter 7

  Lance

  Holy shit. What was I thinking to put myself into this uncomfortable position?

  It’s like those paintings that were inspired by Dante’s Inferno. Where the man is in the second ring of hell representing lust and he’s in brutal anguish over not being able to get what he wants. At least, that’s how I interpreted the artists rendering in my second year English and Poetry course. I was pretty proud of that paper and got a solid B in the class.

  And right now, it’s my reality – that burning lust and desire - as I watch from the sandy beach as Mica bends over – her backside to me – and takes her small nephew’s hands to help me wade into the water. It’s pure hell watching the material of her black bikini bottom ride up her perfect ass.

  Round handfuls of flesh that are driving me out of my fucking mind.

  The material of my swim trunks is not solid enough to hide the raging hard on I have going on. I feel like a perv with all these kids running around in the sand. Someone is bound to see me and get the wrong fucking impression as to why I’m sporting wood.

  To prevent anyone calling the authorities, I take off my ball cap and place it over my groin area, sitting back up to finish the castle I’m helping Amelia build. Unlike her auntie, I’ve made quick inroads with the little dark-haired girl and have made friends with her today. She thinks I’m funny and called me “lindo”, which according to Mica means “cute boy” in Spanish.

  With her hair in two pigtail braids, and her impossibly long lashes still wet from the lake water, I can imagine Mica looked a lot like when she was a little girl. Sweet, quiet and observant. Those large, dark discs for eyes take in everything around her – as if she’s not of this world, but instead an ethereal celestial being that has graced us with her presence and beauty here on earth.

  Poetic, aren’t I? I think that’s just what Mica does to me. Turns me inside out and I become a regular Don Juan.

  The boys giggle in the water with Mica and I haphazardly pack sand in the three mini buckets I bought at Target on the way here today, handing them to Amelia, who carefully dumps them over and smooths over the loose particles with her tiny hand. Evidently, we’re making a castle for the princesses waiting for their empire to be built.

  “Are you my Tia’s novio?” she asks, her voice soft like a feather, sprinkled with a lush accent in the making.

  My brows pinch together in a frown. “Uh – I don’t know what that means?”

  She pats the sand and gives me haughty look. “My mamá says Alberto is going to marry my tia someday. So, you can’t be her boyfriend. You can only love one boy. That’s what my mamá said.”

  My throat feels like I’ve just swallowed a gallon of the sand or a sharp razor blade that cuts down the center of my chest. My gaze moves from the little face of Amelia to Mica, who’s in the middle of a splashing water fight with Alvie. She catches my lingering stare and waves at me happily, her eyes dancing in the sparkling light of the water as I stare at her with a look of confusion.

  Is Mica seeing someone that I don’t know about? If so, why hasn’t she ever told me about it? And who the fuck is Alberto?

  For a moment, I hope it’s just Amelia’s imagination and that maybe she’s making up stories, just like she’s been doing over the last twenty minutes with her dolls in the sand. Maybe it’s just made-up gibberish of a three-year-old girl who has stars in her eyes and just recently learned about boys and girls and marriage and babies.

  I hand her another bucket filled to the brim, which she accepts in her tiny hands, and I dig my fingers in the sand, carving the mote deeper to hide my bitter jealousy.

  It’s one thing for Mica to refuse to date me because she’s busy. And it doesn’t matter that I’ve made a fool of myself every time I’ve asked her out – which seems to be climbing to around a hundred times. I’ve conceded and accepted her objections at face value because why would she lie to me? She’s always seemed both apologetic and even reluctant when she’s turned me down. As if secretly she really wants to accept.

  But now maybe the real reason has been exposed and it’s because there’s someone else in the picture. A different guy she hasn’t mentioned and has kept a secret from me. Being the creeper that I am, I decide to use my inside source named Amelia to get the details of this love triangle I’m dealing with.

  As I run the sand through my fingers, I nonchalantly as possible ask, “Who’s Alberto?”

  Amelia huffs, her tiny chest covered in a pink Disney princess swimsuit rising and falling in a single movement, pinning me with a stare that says I’m the dumbest dude on the planet. I want to laugh out loud at her temerity. For such a shy girl, she will tell you how it is if she feels you’re a dumbass.

  “Mica’s boyfriend, cabrón! I saw Alberto kiss mi tiá. Just like mamá and papi.”

  I’d almost laugh out loud for her calling me stupid if it weren’t for the strange wave of sea-sickness that surges and swells in my belly – even though I’m not even on the water right now. The air around me stiffens and swelters, and my breath becomes choppy.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Mica’s voice calls out, as I drag my head up to see her beautiful face looking down at me in concern.

  And before I can stop myself, I vocaliz
e my displeasure and vulnerabilities in a harsh statement, completely forgetting we’re in the presence of minors.

  “You have a fucking boyfriend?”

  Mica’s wet braid slaps at her shoulder as she whips her head back in shock. And then realizing my error, my eyes dart to Amelia, who’s sweet cupid-bow lips are opened in awareness of what a bastard I am.

  She clucks, pointing a sandy finger at me. “Tiá, he said a bad word. Is he mad at you?”

  I mumble my apology. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That was wrong of me. I’m not mad, little angel.”

  My reassuring pat on her chubby hand seems to do the trick and she resumes her play. But then I hazard a look back at Mica, and I don’t get the same offer of forgiveness.

  She drops the baby on his butt and he scoots over like a tiny Godzilla to demolish part of the sand castle Amelia has been working on, which Amelia tries to thwart with a high-pitched, “no, no little brother” and a wave of her hand.

  When Mica finally sits down next to me, I feel the distance; like an ocean between us that I’ve created with my anger and hostile question. Even though she’s mere inches away from me.

  “Why would you ask that, Lance? You know I don’t have a boyfriend. Because if I did, I wouldn’t be…” she shakes her head, her hand reaching up to wipe some sand off her face.

  She’s misses a few grains, and I assist her with a brush of my fingertips to her cheek.

  “You wouldn’t be what?”

  Instead of moving my hand away, I keep it there, and she instinctively leans into my palm. Her face is warm and flushed from the water activity and the heat of the summer sun.

  “Here with you,” she says, closing her eyes, her lashes fanning out across her sun-kissed cheeks.

  It’s time to grovel. “I’m sorry, Georgie. Amelia mentioned someone named Alberto. Said she’s seen you kiss him and that you’re going to marry him.”