Page 3 of Fighting

Just the sound of Caleb’s smarmy voice over the crowd makes my hackles rise. I need a shower. I feel dirty breathing the same air as him.

“Bikini Waxes? I thought you were vehemently against those. Did you have a change of heart? I would love to see that,” Caleb says as he appears at the end of the aisle, wearing an oily smile.

Pulling me close, Mateo holds out a hand. “Mateo Santos-Manolo. We were supposed to meet for drinks this summer when I was representing Merrick Paul on the Park Ave project. It’s nice to finally meet you.” His tone is terse, belying his words. “However, I’d prefer if you didn’t talk about my girlfriend’s pubes. Seems a little inappropriate, my dude.”

Rankled by what looks like the start of a pissing contest, I try to step away. But he squeezes me closer to his side.

I bite my tongue.Girlfriend? What the hell?Sexist Satan here, though, will probably respect the request coming from him, since a woman equates to property in his mind.

I thought we didn’t believe in hell. How am I already here?

As if sent by God himself, my brother walks by, giving me an excuse to free myself from Mateo’s grasp.

“Joshua, wait up!” I yell, but my brain is shoutingoh-em-gee, kill me now.

I follow Shua to where Aba—Dad—and Tal are standing close, talking. Aba pulls me into a bear hug. “Motek! Do my ears deceive me, sweetie? Or did Mateo just call you his girlfriend while speaking to… the one you call, em”—he arches his brows—“Ha’Sah’tahn?”

My dad has been in the states for over thirty-five years, but he often slips between languages when he’s emotional or confused.

Laughing, I nod and hug him tighter. “I’ll walk you all home. I can explain.” I link arms with him and peer over my shoulder to where Grant, Jim, Caleb, and Mateo are still talking. “I’ll explain what I know, at least.”

As we head out into the cool night air, I pull out my phone and send a quick text.

Nessa:

I am NOT pretending to be your girlfriend.

Bad Idea:

Who said anything about pretending?

two

Mateo

Three Months Ago | Memorial Day Weekend

Hopingto make it to the bar unnoticed, I weave between tables quickly. The white tablecloths are adorned with low taper candles and floral centerpieces. The place really is beautiful.

Tonight is my baby sister’s rehearsal dinner, and my number one goal is dodging aunts and uncles and town meddlers. I’m in no mood to deal with all the questions and assumptions. My life in Manhattan is amazing, and its distance from Peacock Springs and small-town gossip is one of many reasons why.

I hold out my rocks glass, the oversized ice cube clinking, and catch the server’s eye. With a nod, he slides the top-shelf bottle to me. I cringe as I examine the bottle he cracked open on my first visit to the bar. From the look of it, I’ve polished off a good quarter of the fifteen-hundred-dollar tequila.

“Shit,” I mutter as I dig my wallet out of my pocket. I drop a black card onto the shiny surface and tell him to charge this to me rather than the bride and groom. His name is Ross, according to the gold tag pinned to his shirt. Or is it Russ? It’s hard to tell from here. The world has gone a little hazy. Eitherway, I ask Ross/Russ to put this on my card so that Nanay, a.k.a. my very sweet but strict Filipino mother, does not have a heart attack the night before Stefanie and Lee’s wedding.

The last thing I need is to cause my little sister any additional headaches.

But the tequila is a must if I’m going to survive the weekend and play my part. In the family, I’m the handsome devil without a brain who can get any girl he wants. The man who stumbled into a high-salaried career that isn’t in healthcare—a detail that every nurse, doctor, and physician’s assistant in the room will remind me of. Tatay, my dad, and his sisters, my titas, tease me about being one of only a couple of grandkids who don’t wear scrubs to work.

Stef doesn’t either, but they don’t give her shit since she’s in education. She’s taking care of kids’ minds.

I scoff at the phrase I’ve heard a million times.

Not one of them understands that I have a vision. I’m not as stupid as they think I am. I only have what I do because my grandparents sacrificed comfort so that my parents could have choices, which in turn allowed me to have a choice. And I’m making the most of what my American upbringing gave me.

As for the playboy part, that’s an incorrect label, though I don’t bother to correct people who want to believe it. I just refuse to settle for anything less than the best. Have you seen me in this suit? It’s called confidence, babe.

Speaking of the best, my sister’s friends are top-notch, two of whom are approaching the bar now.

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