Hard Luck

by Sara Ney

  Isn’t a UTI a urinary tract infection? Why the hell is she telling us this?

  Jesus, I actually am in hell.

  “Okay, me next,” Glory enthuses. “I drunk-texted one of my exes two nights ago at midnight and he came over and we hooked up in Mom and Dad’s basement. I did a booty call on him.” My youngest sister giggles, and I want to vomit in my mouth.

  I did a booty call? Who says that?

  “Glory, what the fuck?!”

  Shit. I glance around, realizing my mistake; I rarely cuss in front of my sisters, parents, family—mi madre would kill me.

  The girls do not seem to mind or notice, so busy are they regaling True with a barrage of too much information.

  “Oh—I can do you one better, little sister.” Ana clears her throat.

  “No,” I interrupt, begging. “Don’t. Please don’t. No one wants to hear it.”

  But everyone wants to hear it, and they all shush me—True included—so Ana can speak.

  “Well.” Ana leans in dramatically. “Since we can say what we have to say in front of everyone at this table…” She shoots me a pointed look, and I roll my eyes. “I have a date on Friday.” My sister pauses. “With two different guys.”

  “Ana!” Camila shouts, horrified. “You do not!”

  “I do.” Ana is laughing. “I’m sorry, but it’s a numbers game at this point. I have a fifty-fifty chance of having a good time with one of them, though in reality, it won’t be either of them.” She snatches up my water and takes a swig from the cup.

  “I cannot believe you!” Rosie tosses a wadded-up napkin at her. “What happens if you’re running late? Who are these guys?”

  “Calm down,” Ana tells us. “It’s no big deal. Men do it all the time. I met them on dating apps.”

  I don’t even know what to say; this whole afternoon has taken a turn for the worse—it’s “escalated quickly” as some would say, my sisters completely hijacking the table and the date, which isn’t actually a date and may never be, thanks to them.

  “Did it ever occur to you not to crash my date?” I ask them. “Like, did you consider that you may ruin this chance for me by coming over here and acting like assholes?”

  Rosie’s head tilts to the side. “Who’s being an asshole? I’m not being an asshole. I haven’t even said my thing yet.”

  “No one wants to hear your thing! This isn’t a confessional! This is my date.”

  “It’s not a date,” Glory mutters beside me.

  “No shit! And it never will be, because you five are awful!”

  True snickers, eating pizza.

  Great.

  Just great. She looks totally checked out, whatever rapport we had going on ruined. Poof—gone.

  “So anyway, as I was saying,” Rosie continues, peeling the cheese off a slice of pizza and stuffing it into her mouth with a moan. “I had sex with the guy who delivered my new sofa last week.”

  Oh. My. God.

  Who are these people?

  My virgin ears! My virgin sisters!

  They are not supposed to be saying shit like this! They are not supposed to be going on two dates in one night or having sex with couch dudes or ‘doing’ booty calls.

  This is completely horrifying information, and I have no damn idea how I’m supposed to sleep tonight.

  What.

  The.

  Fuck.

  “You’re not supposed to have sex before you’re married!” I lecture them all, staring them down one by one, the Catholic boy in me preparing a sermon inside my head, making the sign of the cross and wanting to spit over my shoulder. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death…”

  “You are not saying the Hail Mary!” Mariana cackles, practically bursting at the seams.

  “You are being ridiculous, brother.” Glory laughs, still eating my food, the food I am paying for, not her, the little…the little…

  She’s not the only one laughing; they all are, True especially. Tears are streaming down her face.

  She wipes them away with a napkin. “This is the funniest thing I’ve e-ever s-seen.” She’s sputtering.

  “You.” I direct my stare at True. “Are not helping.” I would get out of this booth, but I’m trapped like a tiger in a cage—a trapped tiger getting poked and poked and prodded by its handlers.

  That doesn’t sober her up in any way—if anything, it makes the table burst into more raucous laughter.

  Eleven

  True

  Who knew pizza with Mateo would be this fun?

  I was already enjoying myself—he’s pleasant to be around—but this? This hijacking by his family makes it all so much better. Satisfying, even, to see the expression on his face change from curious when he watched them walk in to dread, to horror.

  Now, he sits prisoner in the corner, pinned in by his younger sister, barely fitting and uncomfortable. Mateo’s face is a shocking shade of pink from his cheeks to the tips of his ears as he is forced to listen to his siblings’ confessions.

  They’re doing it on purpose, as siblings are wont to do, delighting in his shocked gasps, the gagging sounds, the sputtering.

  Did he actually think the five of them were virgins?

  Probably.

  Men are naïve like that when it comes to their sisters, my own brothers included.

  I don’t know how long we sit here laughing and talking, how many cups have been brought to the table and refilled, then refilled again. More appetizers ordered, more napkins.

  The server comes by with the final check, and it’s only then that the girls decide it’s time for them to leave, giving their brother the privacy he’s wanted this entire time, his mouth suddenly having been zipped shut.

  Most likely too terrified to speak, letting his sisters have the spotlight, taking the attention off of him.

  When we gather up our jackets and say our goodbyes, his sisters take turns hugging me—kissing and hugging him—before blowing back out the door the same way they blew in: with a loud commotion.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” Rosie whispered in my ear when she embraced me. “We like you.”

  They will be amazing aunties.

  The thought makes me feel a million things, all hitting me like a wave: shame, excitement, guilt.

  It’s clear they worship Mateo—they would hate me if they knew what a liar I am. Maybe not forever, but long enough. Especially that youngest one, Gloria—I can totally see her scratching my eyes out.

  He and I are out by the curb waiting for our cars in the bustling city, the loud honking and bright lights from the traffic lights and business signs making the mood feel less casual. I wouldn’t call this a date, but it began feeling more…something midway through.

  Each time I caught Mateo’s eye after his sister told a story about him or they ganged up on him to tease him, we shared a look.

  None of it actually bothered him, what they were doing.

  He loves them so much.

  I need to tell him, just not…

  Here.

  Not now, not like this.

  “Thank you for late lunch slash dinner,” I finally say, gripping my purse and feeling grateful I have a warm winter hat on. It’s cold outside and I’m beginning to freeze.

  He doesn’t look like he’s going to kiss me…

  …but what if he kisses me?

  Don’t be a fool, True—you barely had any alone time with him. What would make you think he’d want to make out with you?

  “You’re welcome.” He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat, dispelling any illusions I have about his lips on mine.

  I clear my throat. “Um. So…should we, uh.” Shit, I’m so bad at this. I have never in my life asked a man on a date or to dinner, and it’s killing me to be starting now, like this. “Would you like to do this again?”

  “Pizza?”

  His tone makes me laugh. “No? Maybe…I don’t know, something nice?”

  “True Wallace,
are you asking me out on a date?” I swear his eyes are going to bug out of his head, and I can’t decide if he looks shocked or flattered or both.

  “More like—somewhere quiet and nice where we can talk.”

  “What if…” He shifts on his heels. “I made you dinner this weekend?”

  Dinner this weekend.

  At his place.

  Actually, now that I think about it, that makes more sense. What if I tell him I’m pregnant and he causes a huge scene? What if he flips out and flips a table? Or shouts at me?

  Nah, not his style. He’s too calm for that; just look how well he handled his sisters, so patient and kind.

  But dinner at his place—though way more intimate than I had in mind—probably would be the best scenario.

  I nod. “Okay.”

  His brows shoot up. “Are you serious? You’d actually come to my house and let me feed you? This isn’t a prank?”

  He’s so cute and hopeful, and I smile, biting down on my bottom lip. “Why on earth would you think I would joke about that?” My head shakes.

  “Um, because you’ve been avoiding me for three months?”

  Good point.

  And we didn’t even get to the point today where we discuss that—my bad behavior, that is. And I have lots to make up for.

  “How about I bring dessert?”

  Both our cars are brought to the front and he steps down into the street, handing the valet a tip, holding the door so I can shimmy my way in.

  I glance up at him while I buckle my seat belt, Mateo leaning down, toward me.

  “I’ll text you and we’ll figure it out.”

  “Okay. Great.”

  This time he does kiss me—quickly and unexpectedly—before shutting me in, tapping on the roof of my car then stepping away so I can drive off.

  He doesn’t waste time waiting to text me, and I’m soaking in the bathtub at my brother’s when he does, feet propped up on the edge of the fiberglass bowl so I don’t overheat.

  I dry my hands on the towel before picking my phone up, suds stuck to my knees, boobs, and arms.

  Mateo: Was I hallucinating earlier or did you agree to come to my place?

  Me: Ha ha, very funny! Are you waiting for me to change my mind?

  Mateo: Don’t do that. I already told my mom she needs to make me a pan of her famous enchiladas.

  Me: You did not!

  Mateo: I’m a mama’s boy, what can I say? Also, my food would kill you—trust me, you don’t want me cooking. This is for the best.

  Mateo: Wait, you like Mexican food, right?

  Me: Sí. Who doesn’t?

  Mateo: ¿Hablas español?

  Me: Um…no. Slow down, don’t go getting excited.

  Mateo: Okay. I’ll just go back to being excited about our party.

  Me: LOL is that what you’re calling it?

  Mateo: If I call it a date, you’ll freak out and cancel on me.

  Me: I already committed—and are you forgetting that I am the one who asked you out??

  Mateo: You didn’t give me enough time. I was about to.

  Me: You were?

  Mateo: Sure. Maybe not while we were standing outside, but I would have called or something.

  Me: Why not while we were standing outside?

  Mateo: Um, because it was freaking cold!

  Me: Yeah, there was that…I’m in the bathtub now to get rid of these chills.

  Mateo: Oh to be a bubble in that tub.

  Me: A bubble in that tub? Bwahahaha that’s a new one.

  Mateo: You know, like a fly on the wall?

  Me: I get it, I get it. Very cute.

  Mateo: Ah, so you admit it—you think I’m cute.

  I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. He knows I find him attractive—I slept with him, didn’t I?

  The proof is sneaking up past the water line, my tummy now showing, now busting at the elastic of my yoga pants, now screaming for attention, way harder to hide.

  I put the phone on the bathtub ledge for a few moments, running my hands over my belly. Poke the tip of a finger into my belly button, which is still an innie, thank God.

  It really is incredible, this new body of mine, though honestly, I wish my boobs would get bigger—definitely the universe’s way of punishing me for not telling the baby’s father he’s going to be a baby’s daddy.

  Ugh!

  I reach for the towel again, drying my hands.

  Me: Stop fishing for compliments.

  Mateo: I’m thirsty, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

  Me: Like plenty of women don’t boost your ego on a daily basis. I’ve seen your social media and read the comments.

  Whoops. I hit send before I can snatch the words back, my admission—in writing—that I’ve been creeping on him online.

  Mateo: Ummmmmm, did you just admit to cyberstalking me?

  Me: Absolutely not! All I said was I’ve seen what women say, so stop trying to add me to your list.

  Mateo: You know, True, sometimes it’s not the things people say—it’s the person who says it. Maybe I don’t care about hearing nice things from anyone but you.

  That gives me pause.

  Has me staring at that last message and digesting the words.

  He’s right—so right. It isn’t the things people say; something coming from the right person is what matters. A stranger calling you pretty or saying you’re ugly makes little impact if they’re nameless and faceless and mean nothing to you.

  That can get tuned out with practice.

  But him wanting to hear it from me?

  I squirm in the tub uneasily, unsure of myself and what to say. I didn’t grow up with just boys in the house—my mom was there too, obviously—but it sure made an impact being Tripp and Trace Wallace’s little sister. I feel like I was raised by wolves sometimes, with no social graces and the manners of a man.

  Ugh. Why don’t I have sisters to ask for advice?

  You do, halfwit—you have Hollis and Chandler now.

  No. You are a mature woman with a baby inside you—grow the hell up and give this man a damn compliment.

  Me: I…thought you were very sweet tonight with your sisters. My brothers would have thrown a fit and probably gotten up and left after all the teasing.

  Mateo: Ha. I thought about it.

  Me: You did?

  Mateo: Eh, for a second. But Glory had her elbow jammed in my gut, which made it hard to move, let alone escape. I’m sure she was doing it on purpose.

  Me: LOL she’s cute. Is she in college, or…?

  Mateo: Yeah, she’s in school right now taking classes online. She’s not sure what she wants to do so it’s all prerequisites for business.

  Me: Smart girl.

  Mateo: She’s a brat.

  Me: Aren’t we all…

  Mateo: You are DEFINITELY a brat.

  Me: Hey!

  Mateo: Ha! So brat, what else do we want for dinner this weekend. Do you like wine or beer…?

  Me: Um…no—water will be good.

  If he’s suspicious of this request or curious about it, he doesn’t say so.

  Mateo: Ice cream, cake, pie, cookies?

  Me: Yes

  They all sound good to me right now, and I wonder if Tripp has anything sweet downstairs.

  “True?”

  There’s a knock on the door and I quickly set the phone down and run the faucet so the foaming bath liquid I dumped in earlier creates more bubbles—to cover up my STILL SMALLISH BOOBS—and sink lower into the water.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Molly—you alive in there?”

  I cock my head toward the closed bathroom door. “Did my brother send you up to check on me?”

  There’s a pause. “Yes, but he also sent up some of the brownies I just made.”

  Molly comes over to my brother’s house a lot and uses his kitchen for her cooking and baking projects, and I’ve recently become the lucky prototype tester.

  “You can come in.”


  Slowly the door eases open and her head peeks around it, cautiously, as if she’s worried she’s going to catch me standing buck-ass naked in the center of the bathroom.

  “Oh good, you’re not naked.”

  “I mean—I am.” I run my hand through the water to disperse the new bubbles over places I don’t need her to see.

  “I don’t need a peep show,” she says, sitting on the toilet with a plate in her hands.

  “Yeah, neither do I.” I fluff more bubbles as they collect around my knees, dragging them up my torso then setting my sights on the plate Molly has. “Those look fresh.”

  She grins. “They are.”

  I can smell that, and brownies happen to be my favorite, especially when they’re fresh out of the oven.

  I dry my hands off. “So does my brother grocery shop for all the baking supplies, or do you bring them over?”

  “I bring them over, but sometimes I forget something and dig through his pantry. He doesn’t seem to mind.”

  Well no kidding he doesn’t—she supplies him with all the yummy, delicious things.

  “Chandler keeps a little basket in there with random sweets, like chunky chocolate chips or butterscotch or baking flour. Things like that. I don’t think she cooks, either.”

  No, she wouldn’t—she was raised with a silver spoon in her mouth, and it’s unlikely that anyone showed her the way around a kitchen, no offense to her. It’s not like she can help being born rich.

  It just means my brother still orders out a lot or grills while they learn together how to cook actual meals.

  Molly offers me a brownie and I take it, biting off one gooey end and sighing.

  “Damn, Molly, this is amazing.”

  “I noticed you’re not really eating for two, so…”

  I shoot her a look. “You know that’s an old wives’ tale, right? You don’t actually have to stuff yourself silly when you’re having a baby.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.” I laugh.

  She nods, taking a brownie for herself and nibbling on it, looking distracted. Usually I can’t get the kid to stop talking, and now she’s barely uttered ten sentences.

  “Is there something on your mind?”