by Mia Sosa
Wow. Tori wasn’t kidding when she told me Anthony wasn’t available. But this? This is next-level unavailable. He ticked off his list of no’s as though they’d protect him from relationship cooties. “Wait, wait, wait. There are women who don’t want kids, you know.” And because I can’t resist poking him, I whisper my next earth-shattering observation. “There are even women receptive to open relationships. And wonder of wonders, I’ve heard of women who aren’t interested in marriage, too.”
He curls his upper lip at me, although his eyes are flickering with amusement. “Cute.”
“Admit it,” I say. “I’m blowing your mind, aren’t I?”
Ashley laughs, reminding me that we have an audience. Oh, hello, everyone else.
I turn back to him, waiting for an answer, but he doesn’t give me one, and I inwardly admonish myself for expecting it. “Shoot. I’m putting you on the spot, right? Should we move on?”
He shrugs, as cool and unfazed as any person could be. “Only if you want to. As usual, I’m getting as much out of your questions as you are. This is like free Netflix.”
Well, if he’s cool with it—entertained by it, even—who am I to deny him? I set aside my plate and place my elbows on the table. “Okay, so let’s say a woman knows your position on marriage, kids, and monogamy and still wants to date you? What then?”
“Then I’m going to assume she’s lying to herself and what she really wants is to try to change my mind. If she was cool with all that, she’d just accept that I’m not dating material and move on. Either way, I’m not interested in testing my hypothesis.” He grimaces. “Too messy.”
“Goodness, you’re full of yourself.”
Tori, who’s sitting across me, kicks my foot under the table and bugs her eyes out at me. “Who wants more wine?” She pours herself a second glass. “I can grab another bottle from the wine cellar.”
Anthony frowns, ignoring the lifeline his cousin’s thrown us. “I just said I’m the least desirable guy on the planet. How do you figure?”
“Oh, please. Guys do this so much, it’s a stereotype.” I raise my hands like a presenter at an awards show. “Everyone, meet ‘The Commitment-Phobe.’ Then I turn back to him. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I can see right through your façade. I dated a guy like you in college. You present yourself as a challenge to be accepted. Make us think we’ve won a prize when you give us your time. It’s one of the first tactics listed in the Commitment-Phobe Handbook, and I’m ashamed to say I fell for it, too. And that’s why I’m on to you.”
Anthony throws his hands in the air and simulates an explosion with his voice. “Wow. Just wow. Mind. Blown.”
“Let me ask you this, Anthony. How do you spell manipulative?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“Just spell it.”
He huffs at me. “M-A-N—”
“Stop right there. I’ve made my point.”
“Clever,” Julian says.
“Don’t encourage her,” Anthony tells him.
Tori clears her throat. “Could you pass the rice, please. It’s sooo good. What kind of rice is this, Carter?”
Carter raises a brow. “Um, white rice?”
I hand Tori the bowl and wait for Anthony to say more. Based on the way he’s drumming his fingers on the table, I’m assuming I’ve hit a nerve.
“So let me see if I’ve got this right. If I pretend to be something I’m not, I’m a jerk. And if I’m up front about exactly who I am, I’m a manipulator. That’s harsh.”
“Sucks to be you, I guess.”
“It doesn’t, but continue to tell yourself whatever you need to.”
“So, Eva,” Ashley says. “When do you start your—”
“And what’s Eva’s story?” Anthony asks. “Are you the hopeless romantic in search of her one true love?”
Tori throws her head back and laughs . . . and laughs . . . and laughs. Eventually, she realizes everyone’s staring at her. “Oh, sorry. It’s just . . .” She glances at me. “Never mind.” Then she shovels a heaping forkful of rice into her mouth.
“No, no. I’d love to hear Eva’s take on love and relationships,” Anthony prods.
“This isn’t about me,” I say.
“Well, since you made it about me, let’s make it about you now.” He takes a sip of his wine. When he’s done, he licks his top lip with his forked tongue—okay, maybe he’s not evil incarnate—and then he winks at me—okay, yeah, he is. It’s a shame, really. All that rugged sexiness is wasted on him.
And even knowing he plays mind games, I’m tempted to tell him that I’d be open to the type of no-strings arrangement he claims to prefer—or a round two. Well, technically, a round four since that one night was long, and his stamina is otherworldly. I need a way to save me from myself, obviously. Which is precisely why I’m going to tell a lie that will ensure I never hook up with Anthony Castillo ever again: “If you must know, Anthony, I think sexual intimacy clouds my ability to develop meaningful relationships with my partners, so I recently made the decision to abstain from sex until I get married.”
Forget stunt training; improv might be my true calling.
Chapter Nine
Anthony
Not what I was expecting her to say. Not even close.
It’s cool, of course. And honestly, a huge relief. It means there’s no possibility of another hookup between us, and more importantly, no threat of a monumental fuckup on my part. Her self-imposed abstinence—in anticipation of marriage, no less—firmly places us in the incompatible zone. And that’s a good development. Because it frees me to engage without worrying about sending mixed signals.
The truth is, if a guy marries her sex unseen, he’ll probably want to renew his vows even before the wedding night’s over. Shit, I toyed with the idea of getting on bended knee after the first orgasm. Which means her theory has merit: Sex clouds your judgment.
“Explain your thinking,” I tell her.
Gabe shifts in his seat. Seems like a nice guy.
“When you say you’re abstaining from sex, what do you mean exactly?” he asks.
Is this guy for real? How is that an appropriate question? Ever. “Eres un malcriado,” is what my father would say.
She whips her head in his direction, so I can’t see her expression, but her words come out in a staccato beat. “The. Particulars. Aren’t. Relevant.”
“Sorry, you’re right,” Gabe says, blushing.
To his credit, he looks sufficiently embarrassed and contrite about his dumbass outburst.
“The fact is, good sex messes with your brain,” Eva says with a haughty lift of her chin.
Does she include our one night together in that description? Does she, does she? When I realize my legs are bouncing under the table, I force myself to remain still. Jesus, I’m a puppy begging for Eva’s crumbs.
“It’s happened to me time and again,” she continues. “A guy with zero conversation skills suddenly seems like a Shakespearean scholar if he uses an SAT word. Someone who doesn’t forget to lower the toilet seat is the most thoughtful person in the world. And a guy who doesn’t call is stressed and overworked when the reality is, he’s most definitely ghosting me. So I’ve decided that if I’m going to build a quality relationship with someone, I need to remove sex from the equation.”
Tori looks so confused she might be developing a unibrow over there, but I can’t concentrate on more than one person when Eva’s near. So I turn back to the woman who makes everyone else fade into the background. “But isn’t good sex part of the equation?”
Eva shakes her head. “No, a romantic relationship doesn’t require sex.” Then she tilts her head and surveys me, a wry grin bringing her pretty lips into focus. “Just like sex doesn’t require a romantic relationship, a truth you should be all too familiar with.”
The pointed look she gives me lands like a clip on the chin. Ouch. There’s a conversation within a conversation happening here, and I’m kind of enjoying it. �
��Let me rephrase. Isn’t good sex part of your relationship equation?”
“Well, sure. But if the attraction is there, even bad sex can become good sex over time. Believe me, there are quite a few women—and a man or two, I’d venture to guess—who have me to thank for their partner’s superior skills in bed.”
I’d bet. But it’s not like I can say that out loud. “Well, now who’s the one being full of themselves?”
She shrugs. “Confidence is only arrogance if you can’t back it up.”
Carter, who’s sitting next to Tori, reaches across the table and pretends to fist bump her. “That’s what I always say.”
“You should stop saying it,” Tori suggests flatly.
“Exactly,” Anthony says. “Someone can have justifiable confidence and still be a jerk about it.”
“Just like someone can change a subject and hope no one notices,” Eva says, sliding me a knowing look.
Tou-the-fucking-ché. She’s a delectable mess of woman who knows just what to say when I need to hear it. If I’m being honest, I kinda want to replace Tori as her best friend. And if she were still living in Philly, I might even be begging her to take me home tonight. Which reminds me that I’m in absolutely no place to argue with her reasoning. So I don’t. “Let’s plan another dinner in a few months. Would love an update on your search for a meaningful relationship.”
She grins. “Let’s.”
Ashley falls back against her chair and fans herself with a cloth napkin. “Wow, that was something to watch. You two should take this routine on the road.” Then she stretches her arms out wide and yawns, the exaggerated move about as convincing as John Travolta’s hairpiece. “We hate to eat and run, but I’m teaching guitar in the morning, and Julian has a meeting.”
Tori pouts at them and turns to Julian. “You schedule meetings on Saturdays?”
He nods as he rises. “I agree to meetings when people make themselves available.” He sighs. “An agent never rests.”
“Aww, sweetie,” Ashley says, massaging his shoulders, her mouth hovering over his ear, “are you being worked too hard?”
He pulls her into his arms. “I’m being worked perfectly.”
Whoa. They’re at the we’re not going to make it to the bedroom stage of the evening. Get a wall, mi gente.
With that public display of sexual tension behind us, everyone else stands, too, and the small talk that goes along with people saying their good-byes begins. Eva excuses herself to use the restroom. Gabe, for his part, fidgets as he pretends not to be waiting for her to return, until Carter takes pity on him and offers to walk him out.
I give Tori a quick kiss on the cheek, hoping I can orchestrate a fast exit, too, but she stops me with a firm hand at my shoulder.
“Esperaté,” she says. “I have something for you from my mother.” Then she wiggles her eyebrows. “Pasteles.”
I spin around and follow her to the kitchen, rubbing my hands in anticipation. Tía Lourdes is one of the best cooks I know, second only to my own father, who taught her what she knows, and pasteles are my absolute favorite food. Succulent pork in an adobo sauce of garlic, oregano, pepper, and vinegar, and too many more ingredients to name that sits inside this soft shell made from plantains and yautia. And all of that is wrapped in a banana leaf. Damn, I’m licking my lips just thinking about them. They’re difficult to make, too, so Papi only makes them for the holidays and stores the leftovers in the freezer for months. This feels like Christmas in September.
I eye the prize as Tori removes the pasteles from the fridge and places them in a shopping bag.
“She said to tell you not to overcook them. Defrost and boil for no more than thirty minutes. Tú sabes.”
Eva waltzes in and her eyes double in size. “Oh my gosh, are those pasteles? Do you have more? If not, I’ll fight you for them, Anthony.”
Tori and I laugh at her enthusiasm.
“No need for violence,” Tori says. “Mami sent some for you, too.”
Well, damn. And here I thought I was special. Apparently, Eva’s wormed her way into Tía Lourdes’s heart and snagged a spot on her list of people to receive her food care packages. I shouldn’t be surprised. People gravitate to Eva’s unbounded energy. She’s like a human power source; spend some time with her and you’ll be recharged in no time.
As Eva grabs her stash and places it in her handbag, she says, “This reminds me, I’ve been scoping out restaurants to try. Where do I get good Puerto Rican food in LA?”
Tori and I look at each other.
Eva catches the exchange. “What?”
“Well, the thing is,” Tori begins, hesitation in her voice. “There really isn’t a Puerto Rican community per se, so you’re not going to find a bunch of places like you would in North Philly.”
“I did find a place in North Hollywood a few years back,” I tell them. “I pick up lunch from there every once and a while.”
Eva raises a fist in the air. “This is an outrage. I’m so used to buying—”
“Eating for free,” Tori says.
“Eating for free at Mi Casita,” Eva continues, not arguing with Tori’s amendment. “What will I do to get my fix of Puerto Rican food now?”
The genuine worry in her eyes makes me grin. “The place I mentioned, Mofongos, is pretty good. And there’s always the Puerto Rico Loves Cali Festival in Long Beach. It’s this weekend, in fact.”
Eva places her hands on Tori’s shoulders and shakes her playfully. “Take me, Tori. Please.”
“Lo siento, chica, but Carter and I have plans.”
I sense the suggestion even before Tori voices it. She looks between us, and her eyes and jaw settle into a pensive gaze before she widens her eyes and taps my chest with the back of her hand. “Anthony, you should take Eva. If you’re free, that is. It would be a great way for her to see her new stomping grounds. Not a date or anything, of course.”
“Of course,” I emphasize.
“Of course,” Eva echoes.
We both glance at each other and return our gazes to Tori. Eva’s probably thinking what I’m thinking: Tori doesn’t know we slept together, and eventually one of us will need to tell her. My cousin’s working with incomplete information, and it feels . . . wrong.
“You guys don’t live far from each other, too.” Tori continues, unaware of the implications of what she’s suggested. “He’s in Atwater Village,” she says to Eva. To me, she says, “And she’s in Silver Lake.”
We live less than five miles apart. God’s a jokester, isn’t he?
“So, sounds good to you two?” Tori asks.
Eva takes a deep breath and smiles. “I think that’s a great idea. It would be nice to see another part of the area with a friend. I’m sure it would be fun. No stress. Casual. Right, Anthony?”
If I’m counting correctly, this would be our second truce in a three-month period. Last time we had one, we ended the night in her bed. That won’t be happening this time, though, and getting to know each other as friends strikes me as the only logical next step. “Yeah, I agree. And since you’re new here, you’ll need all the friends you can get.”
“Fantastic,” Tori says.
“Excellent,” Eva says.
Trying to forget what she looks like when she’s overcome with pleasure, though?
Useless.
“Pick you up at nine?” I ask her, hoping a constant stream of conversation will give me no space for wicked thoughts.
“That early?” she asks, frowning. “For a festival?”
“Sometimes fun comes at a cost.”
She drops her head back and lets out a frustrated sigh. “Ugh. I was hoping to sleep in, but sure, that works.” Then she meets my gaze. “Well, let me get out of here, so I can get a decent night’s rest. And you might as well forgive me in advance. I’ll be groggy and irritable when you pick me up. I don’t really hit my stride until ten.”
Her self-awareness is another trait I like about her. She never describes her feelings or
habits as flaws; they’re just quirks, the little things that make her the interesting woman everyone wants to be around. I tap Tori on the side with my elbow, smirking at them both. “Yeah, we both know Eva’s not a morning person.”
Tori’s smile vanishes as she surveys our faces, her piercing gaze swinging between Eva and me. “We both do?”
Oh shit. Did I just say that? Out loud? Eva freezes, while I pray for a genie who’ll give me three wishes, one of which would be to get me the fuck out of here, no questions asked.
Tori’s face opens like a sunflower, her eyes widening and her mouth curving into a gaping grin. Then she slams her hands against my chest and shoves me. Hard. “Shut. Up. You two? When?”
What is up with these women and their super strength? “In Connecticut,” I mumble, massaging my chest.
Tori shoves me again. “At our wedding?”
Eva drops her chin and scratches the area above her brow, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Then her phone buzzes and she places it in front of her face like she’s the most farsighted person on earth. “Oh, my Lyft is here. Gotta go. We’ll chat tomorrow, Tori. See you bright and early, Anthony.”
She escapes the kitchen like lightning speed is her super power, leaving me to defend the universe on my own.
Traitor.
Chapter Ten
Yes, scientists have confirmed that oysters are aphrodisiacs, but have you ever experienced the power of reggaeton?
Eva
Saturday morning, my cell phone rings once.
Ten seconds later, it rings twice.
Ten seconds after that, it rings three times.
God, Tori and I haven’t used this code since college. Loosely translated, the escalating number of rings means, Bitch, I know you’re with someone, but pick up the phone anyway. It’s important.
I open one eye, roll to the right side of my bed, and pat the nightstand until my hand lands on the offending object. Jesus, it’s 7:00 a.m. I answer on the fourth ring, my words tumbling out on the heels of a loud yawn. “I’ve been in LA less than a week. Why would you think it’s even remotely possible that I’d have a guy over?”