by Mia Sosa
“Yeah, Atwater’s mostly single-family homes. We rent the one we’re in. Kurt’s older sister, Linda, owns the house and gave us the hookup. Pop and I can’t afford to buy a home here, not with the skyrocketing prices.”
“Do you mind my asking what he does?”
“Trucking. But he’s semi-retired, and he only drives across the state. Spends a lot of time at home these days.”
He maneuvers the car onto a small driveway and turns off the engine. It’s an older home with three large windows facing the street and pale blue siding. Someone’s been taking meticulous care of the shrubbery that dots the perimeter. “Who mows the lawn?”
“I do. And he takes care of the cooking. That’s our deal.”
It’s hard to picture Anthony bringing a woman here. It doesn’t scream bachelor pad at all. Plus, he lives with his father. But I suppose you don’t need to bring anyone home if you’re aiming for no-strings sex. Why am I even thinking about this?
He checks the mailbox, finds it empty, and jogs up the front steps. Whistling, he fits the key into the lock and opens the door with a flourish, motioning for me to come inside. “Welcome to our humble abode.”
We walk down a short hall with dark wood floors and a small console table decorated with figurines but no pictures. There’s nothing on the walls; it’s just a neat passageway to get to the rest of the home. “The floors are gorgeous.”
“That’s the one update my father and I did when we moved in. With Linda’s permission, of course.”
“You did a fantastic job. I’m impressed you’re so handy. Or is it handsy? I always get those two confused.”
“Eva, stop,” he says on a laugh. “Not now.”
“What?” I ask, feigning ignorance that I’ve said anything inappropriate.
Our inner twelve-year-olds are giggling in the hall when Anthony’s father calls out, “Is that you, Antonio?”
“No, Pop,” Anthony replies. “It’s the boogeyman.”
I love that he jokes around with his father. Puts me at ease immediately. Because if Anthony’s father is anything like him, I’m in for a real treat.
“Tú eres un malcriado,” his father yells back.
I tug on Anthony’s shirt sleeve. “What does that mean? I bet that’ll be useful one day.”
“It’s kind of like saying I’m a spoiled brat,” he whispers.
“Oooh, that’s good. He’s right, too.”
Anthony pinches me on my arm, and I yelp at the unexpected attack. In fact, I’m so surprised by it that I can’t stop laughing, and when we enter the living room, I’m wiping away my tears.
Standing behind the kitchen counter, Anthony’s dad finishes drying his hands on a dish towel and looks up. He tips his head to the side when he sees me.
Meanwhile, I freeze, realizing he’s shocked by my arrival, his eyes now wide open. Anthony favors his father, mirroring even the smallest details, like the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he’s thinking hard—like he’s doing now. Well, this is awkward.
Anthony’s voice cuts through the silence. “Dad, this is Eva, a friend of mine. She’s actually Tori’s best friend.”
“But . . . but you’re a woman.”
I snort and glance at Anthony, whose cheeks are turning a lovely shade of parental embarrassment. I put out my hand. “Good to meet you . . .”
He shakes himself clear of the fog. “Luis. Sorry, Eva. It’s just . . . he’s never—”
Anthony claps his hands together and rubs them. “Now that everyone’s been introduced, where are the piononos?”
I glance at Luis, who’s wearing an amused expression as he watches his son inspect the stove top. At this point, I can already predict this evening’s going to be fun.
Anthony washes his hands, throws on a pair of mitts, and pulls a baking dish from the oven. Angling the dish so I can see what’s inside, he starts dancing from side to side. “Now this? This is going to put you out for the night. Guaranteed food coma.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s plantains wrapped around picadillo and topped with cheese,” Luis says. He looks at Anthony. “How do you explain picadillo?”
“It’s just ground beef in a tomato-based sauce. Loads of seasonings, too.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but can we eat?” I ask. “It sounds delicious.”
Smiling, Luis points his finger at me. “I like her, Antonio. She’s got spunk.”
“She’s got something, all right,” Anthony says under his breath.
“I heard that, malcriado,” I say.
They both laugh at what I hope was a totally appropriate use of the word. Then Anthony rounds the counter and places the dish on the dining table while Luis brings a bowl of yellow rice over. The small table is already set for three people, and a glass pitcher is sitting in the center.
“May I wash my hands somewhere?” I ask.
Luis points down the hall. “Bathroom is on the left.”
“Thanks.”
When I return, both men are whispering as they wash their hands in the kitchen sink.
“Are you talking about me over there?”
They respond at the same time and give contradictory answers. Luis says yes; Anthony says no. I’m inclined to believe Luis, but I decide not to give Anthony a hard time about it. I’d like the mood of the evening to remain exactly as is—light and easy. “Thanks so much for letting me crash your dinner. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
Luis waves my thanks away. “No problem. I always make extra.”
We sit at the table, with Anthony to my right and Luis across from me. Anthony immediately puts two piononos on my plate and passes the bowl of rice to me, effortlessly making me a part of their dinner rituals, including a short blessing of the food.
“How do I eat this?” I ask. “With a fork? Pick it up?”
“Whatever’s comfortable,” Anthony says. “I like to pick them up.”
I pick up the pionono and bite into it. “Oh, my gosh. This is sooo good. It’s salty and sweet and the meat is seasoned to perfection.”
Luis preens like a peacock as I shower him with compliments.
“So, Luis, how do I make this yummy dish for myself?”
“I can give you the recipe. The most important thing is to make your own sofrito. We have a cousin who insists on using that store-bought porqueria. She’s not allowed to cook for any of our parties.”
“Yeah, that’s like my family and sides dishes for a cookout. Mess up the potato salad and you will never recover from the bad-mouthing. And you’ll never get a second chance if it’s not yellow. My cousin brought white potato salad to a family picnic once. She’s been responsible for bringing the beverages ever since.”
I bite into the pionono again, rolling my eyes in pleasure. “These should be called pio-yes-yes.”
Luis barks out a laugh. “You can come eat my food any time. Even when Anthony isn’t around.”
“Pop, are you making a move on my girl . . .” He flushes and coughs into his closed hand.
I slap him on the back. “You okay there, friend?”
He shifts away from me, declining my help. “I’m fine, girl who happens to be my friend. Girl. Friend.”
We both know it was a slip of the tongue—there’s no point in reading anything more into it—so of course I’m going to needle him about it. “How ya’ doin’ over there? Allergies kicking in again?”
“Cute,” he says, winking at me.
He gets my meaning, and he isn’t upset about it. Because we’re just hanging out and having fun; it doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that. In fact, since neither of us is interested in a relationship, I’m thinking the universe wanted us to find each other.
“You two are funny together, you know that?” Luis says.
In unison, we say, “We know.”
What’s not as funny? As much as I’d like to pretend otherwise, the moment Anthony almost called me his girlfriend, a tiny, silly part o
f me liked the sound of that. But it’s so miniscule it doesn’t even matter.
Anthony
Eva and I are working side by side cleaning up the kitchen when my father reappears.
With suds dripping from her forearms, Eva turns her head in his direction and whistles. “Luis, you’re going out tonight?”
“I am, Eva. A friend invited me to see a movie.”
He plants himself in front of the mirror and inspects his reflection, smoothing the hair at the nape of his neck. He’s wearing what he calls his “church shirt” and a pair of gray slacks with—hmm, that’s not good—a hint of sheen. Rico. Suave.
“A lady friend?” Eva asks.
I expect him to say no, but he doesn’t say anything at all. His cheeks grow rosy, though, and he chews on his lip as though he’s trying to figure out how much to reveal. “Yes, her name’s Berta. Real nice woman. We talk sometimes.”
Berta? That’s the same woman he mentioned the other day. Interesting that he didn’t even want to admit she was a lady friend when I asked him myself.
“Is she your girlfriend?” Eva asks, a teasing inflection in her voice.
Shit. She doesn’t know this, but certain subjects aren’t laughing matters to my father. Not surprisingly, he stills, his face falling as he stares at himself in the mirror. “No, I don’t have girlfriends.” He points at me. “His mother was my wife. The only one I’ll ever have.”
Eva’s stricken face is hard to watch. She’s smart enough to know she walked into something none of us was prepared to discuss. When she begins to speak again, my heart thrums as I wait to hear how she’ll handle my father’s pronouncement.
“Well, I must say, if that’s the case, it’s great that you have someone like Berta to spend time with. I’m sure she’s a wonderful woman.”
My father visibly relaxes, his features softening. “She is.” After a last look in the mirror, he grabs his keys off the table and shuffles to the door. “Have fun, you two.” And then he’s gone, leaving Eva and me alone. Together. In my house.
I can’t help thinking my father’s giving us space. He probably assumes Eva and I want it. Nothing could be further from the truth, though. I was comfortable bringing her here because I knew my father would be the perfect buffer. Now that he’s gone, I’m tense again, worried that I’ll do or say something to ruin the good rapport we’re developing.
Eva shuts off the faucet, gives me the last plate, and dries her hands on the kitchen towel. “Your dad’s sweet.”
“He can be a pain in the ass, too, but he’s also my best friend.” I look around. “You want something else to drink?”
“More of the iced tea your father made would be great.”
Grateful for the distraction, I stride to the refrigerator and remove the pitcher from the top shelf. Eva saunters into the living room as she studies the framed photographs on the walls. She points at one. “That’s Tori as a little girl. I’d recognize her anywhere.”
I nod, handing her a glass of tea. “You mean you’d recognize her hair anywhere.”
She smiles and takes a sip, while I do everything in my power not to stare at the long column of her neck and the way her lips are pressed against the glass. But a wicked force encourages me to do just that. Damn, maldito’s back. I mentally brush him off my shoulder and follow her gaze, which is focused on a picture of Papi and me.
“Any pictures of your mother?” she asks.
“No.”
She walks over to the couch and takes a seat, sipping her tea while patting the cushion with her free hand to indicate that I should join her. When I sit, she angles her body to face me and tucks her right leg under her left. “Your parents’ breakup . . . was it bad?”
My pulse quickens. I hate talking about this shit, but I don’t want to be rude and tell her so. It’s not her fault that the Castillo men obviously have unresolved issues. And maybe it won’t be terrible to say it out loud. “It wasn’t messy or anything like that. She decided to leave him, announced her intentions, and bounced. He tried to convince her that it was just a phase, that they could rekindle the feelings that led them to marry, but the more he wanted to hold on to her, the less she wanted to be held on to. She just didn’t love him anymore, and he couldn’t do anything to change her mind.”
She scoots a little closer, her voice soothing. “How’d your father handle it?”
“Not well,” I say, shaking my head. “For months, he didn’t do much of anything other than work and sleep. I was eighteen, going to school, stressed about him. Eventually, he started engaging again, with me, with his friends in the neighborhood, but if you want to get a sense of how far he’s come, I can tell you that they’re still legally married.”
Eva reaches for my hand, threading her fingers through mine. “And how’d you take it?”
I draw back. “Me? I was fine. Angry at her for hurting him, but fine otherwise.”
She squeezes my hand, sympathy in her eyes. “That’s the reason you’re no longer close?”
“That’s part of it.”
“And when she left for PR, she chose to leave you, too. That’s the other part?”
“Yeah, I guess. I was the one who had to clean up her mess.”
The connection is comforting, her buttery-soft hand contrasting with my callused skin, but I don’t need to be consoled about anything, and I don’t know what else to say. We sit there in silence, until I slip my hand from hers and stand, signaling the conversation’s end. “So, you must be tired. Let me get you home.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just watches me under the veil of her thick lashes as she finishes her drink. Then she rises to her feet and says, “Thanks for inviting me. It’s been eye-opening.”
Eye-opening? God, that wasn’t the goal at all. I just wanted to show her some hospitality. I can’t imagine what she thinks she’s learned tonight. A lot about Papi, I hope.
After I set her glass in the sink, we leave the house and get on the road for the short drive to her apartment.
“Please thank your father again for me and tell him I’ll be hounding him for his piononos recipe soon.”
I easily picture Papi giving Eva cooking tips as she looks on, asking questions and taste-testing. “He’d love that.” I’d love it, too, actually. Even if I was just in the background, watching them make a meal together. Papi wouldn’t turn down a chance to share his joy of cooking with someone. “Eva, are you and your father close?”
She sighs. “We were close when I was young. As I got older, we clashed more, mostly about the decisions I was making. What to do for a career, where to live, even small stuff like whether I should buy a car in the city. It can be suffocating at times.”
“Is that why you moved to LA?”
Pressing her finger against the passenger window, she traces circles against it. “I think I moved to LA for him as much as I did for me. His life shouldn’t revolve around worrying about me anymore, but as long as I’m close, that’s his MO. It’s habit, I think.”
“And your mother?”
“My mother’s a blast. Wanda is fun and fun-loving. Works hard and plays even harder. Unlike my father, she lets me be. Doesn’t feel the need to orchestrate anything in my life. Just wants me to be a good person, happy and fulfilled. And she’s perpetually annoyed with my dad for meddling.” She groans in frustration. “You know, if I could just stop the men in my life from trying to make me their puppet, life would be so much easier.”
Oh, now we’re getting somewhere. She almost ripped me a new one when I told her I don’t date, and I’d love some insight into why she reacted so strongly. “The men in your life. They’ve been puppeteers?”
She looks up, rolling her eyes. “My high school boyfriend tried to pressure me to only apply to the same colleges he was applying to. My first serious boyfriend after college tried to hide my birth control pills. And most recently, my boss, who, admittedly, I shouldn’t have been sleeping with, wouldn’t let me out of my employment contract
early so I could move here.” A pointed finger enters my peripheral vision. “And don’t say I chose poorly. Their asshattery was all on them.”
Damn. It’s impressive that she even speaks to men given the shit they’ve pulled with her in the past. And it does help me understand her better: If you try to tell her what to do, she’ll come out swinging. “C’mon, I’d never blame you like that. But what now? No more relationships for you, either?”
“Well, if I met my perfect match, I wouldn’t shut him out. In the meantime, though, I’d say I’m on a relationship sabbatical. I need to step away a bit, recharge before I can jump back into the fray. I’ve got too much on my mind anyway. The move. My new classes at Every Body. And now stunt training. It’s exciting, and I just want to focus on getting my shit right.”
“I understand that sentiment completely.”
It’s a comfortable conversation, and when I turn the car onto her street, I’m inclined to keep driving right past her building. But I don’t. Because that would be kidnapping.
Before she exits the truck, she places a hand on my thigh. “You’re a cool guy, Anthony. Although there are times when I want to strangle you, I’m glad we’re friends.”
“Good, because I feel exactly the same way.”
When she’s gone, though, I sit there staring at the spot on my thigh where she casually rested her hand. That simple act yanked me out of our buddy-buddy moment like I’d been doused with cold water. And I know what that means: There’s trouble ahead.
Chapter Seventeen
If it’s the little things in life that matter, why are they ever considered little things?
Eva
Tori strolls into the staff room Wednesday afternoon and stops short when she finds me sitting near the door. “Hey, woman. You’re here early.” Yawning, she glides to the water dispenser and fiddles with it.
“It’s the Metro,” I explain. “I haven’t figured out what to expect from my commute yet, so my timing’s been way off.” I’m nursing a pomegranate smoothie from the café next door and checking my voice mail messages before my five o’clock Zumba class. My father’s left three messages, none of them urgent.