by Ellie Hall
“What about your new boyfriend?” I point my thumb over my shoulder.
“Conversation’s a little flat. Do you mind if I stay here?”
Do I mind? Not in the least.
“Meh,” I say, shrugging my shoulder. She socks me in the arm.
I head onto the interstate and we let the darkness of the night cover us in a serene quiet. It’s strangely familiar and feels nice. After a while she sighs dramatically.
“If you must know, I’ll tell you, I guess.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re dying to know why we had to flee in the night and I suppose I’ll tell you if you insist.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
She turns her body to face me. “It’s my ex-boyfriend.”
“Really not interested.”
“He’s been trying to sue for defamation of character, but he doesn’t have any grounds whatsoever. That’s why my dad had me cooped up in his penthouse. He’s keeping an eye on me.”
“You really don’t have to tell me—“
“After our lawyer pretty much laughed in his face, we thought it was all over. But he’s a slime ball and will do anything for money. And vanity.”
“Uh huh.” Sounds like she just wants to vent, so I nod and keep my eyes on the road, only half listening. I really need a coffee.
“Late last night he leaked some nude photos of me.”
Whoa there. Now I’m wide awake.
“Hold up. N-n-nude, nude, or just ya know...nudes?”
She’s giving the death glare, I just know it. “Uh, I mean...what a scum bucket.”
“They’re not me. He must have hired someone who’s great at Photoshop.”
“So just to be clear, are they nudes of you photoshopped in compromising places, or is your head transposed on someone else’s body?”
She socks me again. That’s going to bruise.
“You’re a pig.”
“I’m just trying to be helpful, that’s all.”
She laughs despite the gravity of the situation. See? I made her laugh. Helpful.
“They’re really bad. It could hurt my charities, my endorsements, my environmental work... I need to get away for a few days to figure it out.”
“Alright. Just name the place. I’ll take you there.”
She has a smile in her voice. “Thanks.”
It doesn’t take long after that for her to drift off to sleep. This is a dangerous road at night if you don’t pay extra attention to the lines but I can’t help stealing a glance her way when the moonlight hits her face just so, casting a silver lining around her profile. Somehow over the next hour or so her body slides across the bench seat and she nuzzles up to me, resting her head against my leg.
Eyes on the road, dude.
I venture one hand off the wheel to stroke her hair. I tell myself it’s because it’s falling over her face, restricting her breathing. But it’s silky and soft and my gentle touches seem to give her some comfort. After a while my arm rests across her back and we stay that way for a long while. She wakes to the sunrise just outside of Bakersfield and I’m a little sad to lose the warmth of her body pressed against mine.
“I’m starved,” she says, all groggy.
I point out it might not be the best idea to stop in a cafe for breakfast but I find a Denny’s that delivers curbside and we go park somewhere after we get our order. I don’t generally approve of eating in the limo, but I make an exception just this once. We both sit in the back and shovel pancakes, eggs, and bacon in our faces. And coffee. Lots of coffee.
For a brief reprieve, we forget about who we are and all the stupid drama in our lives and just eat, just talk, just be. In a couple hours, we’ll be back in LA and this moment will be a memory but for now I’m a man and she’s a woman and that’s all that matters. She seems so vulnerable right now, like everything hangs in the balance.
“Velma texted me,” she says once we’re about an hour from home. “Paps are all over the hotel and in front of my house.”
Velma. Hm. I wouldn’t have guessed that.
“Okay, then. Do you have another place? A safe house, maybe?”
She shakes her head. “Every known place is inundated with press. And my ex would happily tip them off to all my favorite spots.”
“Where to, then?”
“I dunno. Could we hang low for a while? I need a few hours to figure this out.”
I groan. “It’s Sunday. My mom will kill me if I don’t go to Mass.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“To church? Are you trying to stir up more gossip?”
“I can wait at your house.” She’s biting her lip, laying the doe eyes on me. Seriously, I’m in major trouble with this woman. What would she do alone at my house? Go through my stuff? Touch my personal things? Sit where I sit? Lounge where I lounge? No way. My January problem is getting out of hand. She’s already living in my mind, I don’t need her in my personal space.
I blow out a big sigh, knowing this is a bad, bad idea. “You’ll be safe at my parents’ house. We have dinner together every Sunday. Then we’ll figure out what to do.”
10
ENRIQUE
“No me jodas, guey.” Tio Enrique has half his steak stuffed in his mouth, is arguing with Dad at a decibel only appropriate at concerts, and sloshing wine all over himself. Food particles are spraying forth like Abuela’s old hose sprinkler. And that’s not the worst of it. Apparently today was bring a friend day and guess who’s Francesca’s new BFF? Barf girl.
Thank goodness she’s nice and not a psycho like some of the other weirdos Francesca knows. Theatre people! But Beth (that’s her name) seems normal enough despite my first impression of her in the backseat of my Cadillac.
“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” I say.
She looks at me funny. Maybe she doesn’t recognize me?
“I drove you to the Darcy mansion in my limo. You were... indisposed?”
Awareness lights up her features. “Oh, right. That was just nerves. Thanks for asking though.”
Francesca goes on to tell me she met Beth that night when they performed together at the fancy Hollywood gala. Makes sense. Francesca makes friends everywhere she goes.
I don’t get a chance to chat much because there are five conversations going on at the same time. That’s typical for the Precio Sunday dinner, but for some reason it’s aggravating me more than usual. Maybe I’m over-sensitive because of what January must be thinking—that my family is a bunch of kooks.
Dad’s other brother, Pedro, is also here. (Ignacio and I started calling him Pedo when we were little and it kind of stuck. And in case you’re wondering, pedo means fart. We’re so hilarious.) He only comes for the food.
“Five bucks Pedo brought Tupperware,” I whisper to Ignacio.
He shakes his head. “Too late. I already saw him come in with a whole shopping bag of them,” he says. “He can have all the leftovers he wants. Nobody’s gonna want to eat this again.”
He’s referring to the Bratchurro my dad invented. A bratwurst dipped in churro batter, then deep fried. He’s trying to one-up Ignacio’s trendy fusion dishes and failing miserably. I opted for the steak, thank you very much, but January was gracious enough to try the Bratchurro. She’s even pretending to like it which to me earns her all the gold stars, especially after Tia Lucy’s rude reaction when I introduced her. “Quien es esta flaca gueda?” she’d said, taking her in from head to toe. January didn’t seem to feel slighted at being called a skinny white girl, but I know Tia Lucy wasn’t exactly tossing around a compliment.
Most of my other brothers are here too; Nate’s chewing on his steak blissfully while Memo and Sebastian are missing out on all the fun. Currently, Mom is laying the guilt trip on Dante and Mateo.
“Someone needs to go with Nacho to help set up.” She points with her fork at both of them. “And neither of you have much going on.”
“I have to practice with the band,” Mateo says. “The earliest I
can be there is Friday.
Dante follows suit. “I’m busy. Francesca can go. She’s not working.”
“I have an audition on Thursday,” she says.
This piques January’s interest. “What kind of audition?”
Francesca hides behind her hair, a little embarrassed to answer, so Beth answers for her. “She’s going for a role in the National Tour of West Side Story. I’m helping her pick out her best sixteen bars.”
“I love that show,” chirps January. “Are you hoping for Maria?”
“Oh, no. Just ensemble. I probably won’t even get past the first cut. But my friend Edmund is a shoo-in for Tony.”
“Oh him!” Nate pulls a face. That Edmund guy has been coming around since Francesca was in first grade. We’re still not sure what his intentions are. We get a kick out of giving him a hard time.
“Well, I think you’d make a great Maria,” says January and takes a bite of her Bratchurro, forgetting how horrible it is. She’s trying really hard to hide a grimace as she chews.
“Good, right?” Dad prods. January’s eyebrows hit her hairline as she nods slow and exaggeratedly. Dad tosses a proud look at Ignacio. “Take that.”
“Sorry, Mateo,” says Mom. You’ll have to go.”
January whispers across the table to me. “Where are they going?”
“Mexico. Nacho—er, I mean, Ignacio is catering our cousin’s quinceañera.”
Who knew destination birthday parties would be all the rage with fifteen-year-old girls?
“Sounds like fun,” she says, smiling brightly.
“It’s really not,” I say. And when did January’s smile start to melt my butter like this?
Nate, who has absolutely no danger of being roped in to going to Mexico five days early mainly because of his swanky insurance job, decides to put in his two cents.
“Kiki. Why don’t you go?”
“Yeah, Kinky.” January winks at me. I’m dead.
“No.” Also, I’m killing Nate after dinner.
“Why not?” He’s egging me on and I’m thinking I won’t wait until after dinner. I’m sure I have some dirt on him. I just can’t think straight with the way January’s grinning at me.
I grit my teeth. “I have to work.” I incline my chin toward January and all heads turn to look at her.
She just shrugs. “I’m up for it.”
Is she serious? Yes. She totally is.
Tio Enrique laughs heartily. His mouth is full of baguette now. Mom claps her hands together. “That’s settled. At least somebody doesn’t mind helping their brother.”
Ignacio slaps me on the back. “Thanks bro.”
“Uh huh,” I grunt.
“No pasa nada,” Uncle Enrique slurs. “What happen to you to me?”
Chunks of baguette fly from his teeth, the trajectory sending them to land right on January’s plate. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life—and that’s a tall order. January’s eyes bulge out and I’m half expecting her to join Beth’s barf club when Tia Lucy appears by her side shoving a serving plate in her face.
“More Bratchurro?”
11
JANUARY
I could disappear here. Not in a “search party for January’s body” sort of way. But in an “escape to paradise for the rest of my life” sort of way. Enrique’s uncle Anslo (who’s actually a second cousin once removed or something) owns a winery in Valle de Guadalupe: Mexico’s Napa, just East of Ensenada Beach. Rows and rows of grapevines stretch out for miles on soft, rolling hills cradled by the desert mountains. Anslo’s whole family runs the vineyard and trendy tasting rooms which is a hot spot for tourism among the fifty other wineries in the valley. It’s an oasis at the end of a log, dirt road—with rustic charm California could only dream of. I feel like I stepped into that Keanu Reeves movie, A Walk in the Clouds. The winery itself is beautiful and impressive, but Anslo’s house has my heart. The distressed wood facade is adorned with mediterranean tiles and sturdy stone masonry. It sits atop a hill with spectacular views of the valley, and in the distance, the ocean can be seen when the air is clear. Oh, and they have a pool which is where I spend most of my time reading while Enrique and Ignacio shop for local produce. I’m told they expect four or five hundred guests. No wonder Ignacio (or Nacho as most people call him) needed help with the catering.
Anslo’s wife, Simone, is simply lovely. She gives tours of the winery a few days a week and homeschools her kids the rest of the time. She speaks five languages including French, and since I spent five years of my youth in France, we hit it off like old friends.
Today, Anslo took us on horseback around the vineyard, explaining the varietals and basically nerding-out over viticulture. He spoke with such passion, that even though most of it went right over our heads, Enrique and I were enthralled.
Anslo galloped back to the tasting room to join Simone for the sunset crowd about a half hour ago, leaving Enrique and me wandering the fields with our Aztec horses. We’re walking amidst the lush vines to take a break from saddle butt (it’s a thing), just talking and losing track of time. The sun is starting to hang large and low on the horizon, casting a golden glow on the grape leaves and across Enrique’s bronzed face. I’ve never felt so serene and I’m thinking maybe I just might hide away from the press forever and live a simple domestic life with someone special.
Enrique gazes into the orange sky. “I could easily settle down here.”
Did he just read my mind? Is this a sign? “Me too,” I say without giving it a moment’s thought. It seems so natural. His eyes cut to me unencumbered by those mirror sunglasses which usually hide his expression. They’re equal parts wishful and incredulous. The sun is at his back which leaves his face partially shrouded in shadow, but I can still see the frown spread across his features.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” he says. His voice is soft and low, almost lost on a gust of wind. But my ears are trained to his timbre. This new discovery sends a flutter of goosebumps across my skin. When did I become so hyper-aware of him? Even his slightest movements. His softest sounds.
“I do.”
The words hang there between us, like there’s an invisible string and somebody clipped them on there with a clothespin to flitter around in the breeze. I do.
Enrique is frozen solid. Maybe he’s thinking if he moves he might lose some kind of game or disrupt whatever magic this is. But that’s the thing about magic. It moves with you. At length he turns toward the sunset, taking in a deep breath.
“Why?” His shoulders droop towards the earth, head hanging to his chest.
“Because I—“
“No. Why are you so...”
What? Shallow? Entitled? Spoiled? I’ve heard it all.
He scrubs a hand over his face and blinks at the sky. “Surprising.”
Oh.
“Unpredictable. Aggravating. Breathtaking.” He shifts his gaze at me sidelong. “Perfect.”
He takes a step away, resting his arm on the saddle as he exhales deep, you know, because making a confession like that is a lot of exercise. What now, though? Does he expect me to answer a question like that? Will he ride off into the sunset now, leaving me to pine for him as the wind sweeps my hair wildly? (I might watch too many old movies)
But just as I think he’s going to make his epic exit, he spins, and almost like he has no control where his feet carry him, he takes me fiercely. Passionately. His massive, strong hands are tangled in my hair, tugging at my scalp. His mouth covers mine, consuming me with raging intensity. The kiss is hard and desperate. Hungry and demanding—and I’m here for it. I let out a breathy sigh and he takes that as a green flag on the racetrack. Vaaaroooom. I feel his arms slide around my back to press me into his body, fusing me against him. It’s not close enough. I want more. I return the kiss, stroke for stroke, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt in a vain attempt to draw him closer. Heat rolls through me, my heart hammering in my chest. A growl hums in the back of his throat. It vibrates on my l
ips and just drives me absolutely wild with desire. The more we kiss, the more insatiable the want. I feel alive and awake and dying a beautiful death.
He moves his hands to the delicate skin of my neck, softly brushing his fingertips from my jaw to my collarbone. A shiver runs through me at his touch. The kiss turns to sweet, reverent caresses, playful nips to my bottom lip, and tender butterfly pecks on every inch of my face. He kisses the apple of my left cheek, then my right. Then my nose. Then the crease between my eyebrows. With every pass from one spot of my face to another, I catch a glimpse of his dark eyes skating over me lovingly. He’s adoring me with his lips and treasuring me with his eyes. I’m cherishing him with my heart. This man, who crashed into my life with his disarming smile and brazen cockiness, has proven to be all virtue and goodness, making it extremely hard not to fall for him. Also, he’s a HOT kisser.
And I know right here and now, that even if walks away, mounts his steed and says “adios pilgrim”—nothing in my ridiculously privileged life will ever compare to this perfect moment.
12
ENRIQUE
Here I am at another quinceañera for a distant cousin I may or may not be related to by blood. Mom made her usual entrance through the double doors to the church flanked by six of her sons in our signature black suits. We all turned heads. My brother Memo, dressed in gleaming white robes, celebrated the Mass alongside the local parish priest. Francesca played guitar and sang so beautifully, Mom cried. Then again, it doesn’t take much to make Mom cry. The birthday girl wore a puffy pink dress accompanied by an entourage of teen boys and girls dutifully holding court. She looked every inch the cotton candy queen.
The reception is everything it ought to be, rivaling the expense and grandeur of anyone’s dream wedding. Mateo’s Cumbia band is providing the dance music and Nacho’s food is divine. I saw a lady wrap two chicken breasts in a paper napkin then shove them in her purse to take home. I don’t think the cream sauce will survive the trip. Everyone’s dancing and drinking while the string lights glow against a purple sky as the afternoon turns to dusk. The guests have already danced the obligatory Achy Breaky Heart in Spanish and most of the old men have had too much tequila and are getting obnoxious.