Page 12 of It Happened on a Sunday
Abuela Ximena chuckles, but I do my best to ignore her glee as I reply to Vivian. “Did you give it to her?”
Vivian:That’s why I’m asking. What’s happening here?
Me(and by me, I mean my abuela responding to my car’s prompt): They’re taken with each other
Me:That was abuela Ximena. We are not taken with anything. She probably wants tickets to a game
Vivian:I can do that without giving her your number
Me:No, go ahead and give it to her, just in case she wants something else
Me(and by me, I mean my abuela again): Like a date?
“No!” I order, shooting her an exasperated look when the car asks if it should send that.
But she just shrugs. “I know I’m old, but in my day, there was only one reason a girl asked for a guy’s number.”
“Did girls even ask for numbers back then?” I query.
She shoots me a wicked grin. “The smart ones did. How do you think I hooked your grandpa?”
“I thought you ran him to ground and hog-tied him,” I answer with a smirk, because she was a champion roper and barrel racer in her day.
“Well, that too.” She smirks right back. “But seriously, I saw the way you looked at her.”
“Like I was impressed with her talent? Because I was.”
“Of course you were.” She waves my answer away. “Who isn’t? But that’s not what I meant. You think just because I need bifocals I didn’t notice that you saw something different in her? Maybe something…familiar?”
My stomach clenches. Not just because I thought I was better at hiding that shit than I obviously am, but because I don’t wantmy abuela to know just how fucked-up I am with how everything went down with Lucia.
It’s not that she doesn’t know about it. Lucia isn’t just my sister. She’s her granddaughter. But that doesn’t mean I want her to know how much my failure haunts me. Or how much I blame myself for all the shit my sister’s been through.
“Is it really so far-fetched to think she did the same?” Abuela Ximena reaches over and squeezes my hand again. “Not to mention that you’re pretty dazzling yourself.”
I force a grin I’m far from feeling. “I think you might be biased about that.”
She snorts. “Yeah, me and all those ‘best-looking athlete’ lists you make on the regular. I’ve got clippings in my scrapbook. Page forty-seven, right next to that picture of you in the tiara and heart-shaped sunglasses for Camila’s fifth birthday party.”
“I rocked that tiara, thank you very much.” Still, my face starts to burn at the reminder of those ridiculous lists. They don’t mean shit to me—I’m way more interested in how I perform on the field than I am in what people write about me off it.
“Also, we’re using ‘on the regular’ now, huh?” I tease, going for deflection, since my abuela is more than capable of reeling off the last ten lists in chronological order. She and my sisters have been poking fun at them since my sophomore year of college ball. “I’m impressed, but who are you?”
“A woman who’s been around the block enough times to know what it looks like when someone is interested.” She shoots me herI mean businesslook. “You should send her flowers.”
“That’s a jump from asking for someone’s phone number,” I tell her. “Especially since we don’t know why she wants it.”
“So send her flowers and find out.”
“She’s a superstar, abuela Ximena. I doubt she’d actually get them.” Not to mention, just because I feel a strange connection to her doesn’t mean she feels the same way. The last thing Iwant to do is make Sloane uncomfortable—especially when she’s already struggling.
“Of course not,” she says with a snort. “But if you happen to remember that you’re famous, too,andchange your mind, you should send calla lilies. They’re her favorite.”
“Any particular color?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Abuela Ximena’s grin deepens as she pulls out the Sloane Walker/Black Widow journal she’s never without and starts to scribble who knows what down. “The dark-purple ones.”
“Purple’s her favorite color?” I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does.
