Page 19 of It Happened on a Sunday
“Feels like the same thing,” I mutter as I climb the steps to the third-floor bathroom. Not that it matters. The flowers really were a thank-you. Nothing more. It’s the request for the phone number that made me think she might actually get in touch.
But it’s probably for the best she hasn’t reached out. I don’t have time for anything resembling a relationship right now, and neither does she. The sheer amount of San Diego Lightning game tape I’ve watched this week is proof positive of that.
So what if I can’t get her sharp eyes and fuck-off attitude out of my head? She’s like thunder—close enough to rattle me but impossible to reach.
“She probably didn’t see them,” my abuela shouts after me, echoing the excuse I gave her in the car.
The last thing I hear before deliberately closeting myself away is Camila asking, “How can someone not notice when she’sgetting flowers?”
No way do I want to hear my sister’s reaction when she finds out who I sent flowers to. Twice.
Originally, I had the same thought as my abuela. Maybe Sloane didn’t get them, or maybe they blended in with the rest of the flowers she probably gets on a daily basis. But it’s hard to imagine that both bouquets I sent, one to her hotel and one to the venue, went unnoticed. Especially considering the size of them.
Which means Sloane isn’t interested. And that’s fine. A woman has the right to spend time with whomever she wants, whenever she wants. And a man has a responsibility to take no—or no comment—for an answer. Especially when that man knows her disinterest is the best thing for both of them.
That doesn’t stop me from thinking about her, though. And listening to her music, which has been one hell of a ride in and of itself. Her earlier stuff is light and fun, but the albums grow darker and more intense over time.
The transformation is painful to hear. There’s no denying that she’s built upon every trauma she’s survived, unlocking new layers of art and talent and power from her pain. Still, I wish she didn’t have to. I wonder what kind of music Sloane would make if she felt safe again.
Her last album is devastating, but it just might be the best thing I’ve ever listened to. I don’t know why I waited so long to do it.
I put it on shuffle as I get to work unscrewing my baby sister’s calcified showerhead. “Firelight” comes on. It was the first song she sang at the concert last weekend, and I can’t help remembering her face as they lowered her to the center of the stage.
She looked like a dark goddess, a sorceress prepared to vanquish anyone who dared oppose her. But even then, inher fuck-me-up boots and bow-down-to-me dress, there was a disconnect. A bunch of tiny details that didn’t quite add up to the image she was trying so hard to project.
Two hours later, I’ve installed the showerhead, changed more light bulbs, patched a hole in the laundry room wall, fixed a broken drawer, and have finally moved on to the last item on my abuela’s list: reinforcing the closet rod in Mariana’s bedroom, because apparently it keeps falling down under the weight of all her clothes.
I’m putting in the last screw when my baby sister strolls in wearing a shit-eating grin that makes me instantly wary.
“Sloane Walker, huh?” Mariana asks, throwing herself across the bed.
“Don’t start.” I swipe the music off.
“Hey, I love that song,” she complains.
“Then stream it on your own phone.” The second the words come out of my mouth, I know I shouldn’t have said them.
Sure enough, it takes about ten seconds before “Hopeless” starts blaring all over again.
“She’s got a great set of pipes, I’ll give you that,” she comments as Sloane’s husky voice hits a high note. “And she’s gorgeous. But do you really think you can handle all that?”
“I have no doubt the stories about her have been highly exaggerated.” I dump the drill back in the toolbox. “And I’m not talking about this with you.”
“I’m sure that’s what all the guys think.”
“About talking to you? I’m sure it is.” I hightail it out of her bedroom, but in true brat style, she just follows me.
“Cute,” she tells me with fake cheer. “But I was talking about Sloane, and you know it. I can’t believe you sent theBlack Widowflowers. Did you actually think that would work?”
I don’t know what I thought, except that I wanted to talk to her again. Whether or not Ishouldwant that is something I don’tplan on getting into with anybody, especially not my kid sister. “Which part of ‘I’m not talking about this with you’ do you not understand?”
“The ‘not talking about it.’ Obviously.” She grins at me before taking the stairs down to the kitchen two at a time. “I can’t believe you have a crush on Sloane Walker.”
“And I can’t believe you went on a date with Vikram Chakravarti,” I retort as I follow right behind her. “The kid flunked out of home ec.”
“I already told you, he did it on purpose. They were using non-vegan butter,” she huffs. “I like that he’s a man of principle. And, just so you know, we’re going out again this weekend.”
“What? I thought you had theater every night this weekend.” I frown at Camila, who is currently helping make a salad for dinner. “How come this is the first I’m hearing about this?”
