Page 18 of It Happened on a Sunday
“It’s Camila’s night to choose,” I answer as my middle sister lets out an outraged squawk from where she’s leaning against the counter.
The objection dies down as fast as it started to build. I go back to screwing new bulbs into the canned lighting in our kitchen—just one of the long list of chores I’ve been too busy to get to over the last couple of months. But since I’m currently trying not to think about the fact that it’s been three days since Vivian gave Sloane my number and she still hasn’t texted, I’m determined to keep my downtime to a minimum.
Also, they have to get done, and with the season starting and my work at the foundation kicking up again, this is the only time I’ve got to do them.
“Yes, well, she yields her choice to you,” abuela Ximena retorts.
“I absolutely do not!” Camila protests with a flip of her short, dark hair. “I’ve been dreaming of tonight’s meal all week. I wanted—”
“Pollo en Chile Colorado,” we all finish at the same time, because it’s what she always asks for.
Now she just looks insulted. “Just because I’ve asked for that the last couple of times I’ve gotten to choose—”
“The last ten times,” my abuela corrects. “And I’m fresh out of whole chickens. So unless you want to go wring Mr. Darcy’s neck, your choice gets bumped ’til next Wednesday.”
“Icouldchoose something else, you know.”
“Then moan and complain until it’s your turn again because you had to settle?” abuela Ximena shoots back. “No, thank you.”
Camila rolls her dark-brown eyes before looking up at me. “I’m not that predictable, am I, Sly?”
Because I know a land mine when I see one, I keep my mouth shut as I finish changing the last light bulb. Except to say, “If chicken is off the table, how about carne guisada?”
The flavorful Mexican stewed beef is Camila’s second favorite meal.
“That, I can do,” my abuela replies, even as she shoots me an exasperated look that tells me she knows exactly what I’m up to. Nearly twenty years of being the only guy in this family has taught me what’s worth fighting for…and what definitely isn’t. My favorite enchiladas can wait.
“What’s next?” I ask as I climb down the ladder.
“Mariana’s showerhead needs replacing. The new one is in the cabinet under the sink.”
“On it,” I tell her as I fold up the ladder. “What time’s she going to be home, anyway?”
“I’m picking her up from track practice at five.” Camila plucks a grape from the bowl on the counter and pops it in her mouth. “Though I don’t know why she just won’t learn to drive like every other seventeen-year-old around here.”
“You know Mariana,” abuela Ximena says as she pulls a bunch of tomatoes out of the fridge. “She does everything in her own time.” She shoots me a look. “Like some other people I know.”
“I sent the flowers,” I tell her. “She never responded, though I know she’s got my number. I’m not about to badger the woman.”
“Woman?” Camila asks, eyes wide. “Flowers? What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” I tell her.
“Mateo’s got a little crush,” abuela Ximena answers at the same time.
“They werethank youflowers,” I interject.
Camila, who is about to start her last year at the University of Texas, looks almost giddy as she skips right over my explanation. “There’s a woman who hasn’t immediately fallen at Sly’s feet? Who is this mystical, magical creature, and when can I meet her?”
“Did you miss the part about her not responding to the flowers?” I ask as I grab my abuela’s toolbox. I do my best to ignore the giant sticker of a black widow that now graces the top of it.
“How could I miss my favorite part?” she counters. “So, does she think you smell like gym socks or what? Because she’d be right.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly.” I head for the stairs. “I’m too smelly for her.”
“No, seriously. Why did she turn you down?”
“He didn’t say she turned him down. He said she didn’t respond,” abuela Ximena tells her. “It’s not the same thing.”
