Page 20 of It Happened on a Sunday
“Probably for the same reason you don’t tell us about asking out international pop stars,” Mariana taunts. “And not all dates happen at night. He’s taking me to breakfast, thank you very much.”
“Wash your hands and set the table,” abuela Ximena tells me. “And you get drinks for everyone, Mariana. Lucia will be here any minute, and she says she’s bringing someonespecialwith her.”
I stiffen at the news that my oldest sister is dating again. “Who?”
“His name is Mason,” abuela Ximena answers evenly. “And you’ll be nice to him.”
I’m not so sure about that. I was nice to Grant and— I cut the thought off before it can finish forming. Going there isn’t exactly good for my mental health.
“Do we like him?” I ask as I cross to the sink. I’d be lying if I said I was okay with my younger sisters suddenly dating people I don’t know and haven’t had the chance to check out. Thenagain, I’ve made mistakes even when I did vet them, so what do I know?
The pain I try so hard to bury starts bubbling deep inside of me at the thought of what Lucia went through the last time.
“I like him,” abuela Ximena volunteers, shooting me adon’t startlook.
“Yeah, well, you also like Sloane Walker,” Mariana answers with a bat of her chocolate brown eyes. “So your taste is questionable. Also, I don’t see why we always have to wait for Lucia.”
“We were waiting for you, too,” my abuela fires back. “Youdidjust get home from practice, if you remember.”
“Whatever.” Mariana claps me on the back on her way to the drink fridge in the garage. “I can’t believe you sent flowers. A woman like that will never fall for flowers. She must get half a dozen bouquets a day.”
“Still not talking about this with you,” I tell her as I dry my hands and reach into the top cabinet for our good plates. My abuela has insisted we use them for Wednesday dinners ever since I got drafted by the Twisters and moved back to the area.
We don’t get together on the weekends during the season for obvious reasons, but Wednesday nights are sacred. And sacred occasions, no matter how regularly they occur, deserve the dishes with the little pink flowers on them.
“How about talking to me about it?” abuela Ximena says as she starts cooking the tortillas on her comal. “If the flowers didn’t work, have you thought about sending her something else?”
“I’m not exactly sure what you want me to do here,” I reply, nodding my thanks to Mariana when she hands me a Topo Chico from the garage. “I’m not in the habit of hounding women to go out with me.”
“Obviously,” she tells me with an eyeroll so exaggerated it reminds me where all my sisters got it. “They usually tossthemselves at your feet. You’re just put off because she hasn’t.”
“That’s not true.” I’m put off, if that’s what she wants to call it, because I hate the idea that she’s struggling. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re drowning, and I don’t want to be one of the things that pulls her under. “But I’m not going to harass her to talk to me, either. That’s not cool.”
“This isn’t about harassing her.” She looks over her shoulder at me even as she flips the tortilla with her fingers. “It’s about the fact that you have to make sure you get her attention. If she tells you no, then yes, let it go. But she hasn’t said no.”
I glance at the door. Lucia and her guy can’t get here soon enough. “Or I could just accept that she isn’t interested, abuela. Thatisthe gentlemanly thing to do.” Even if it does stick in my craw—partly because I really don’t know if she ever got the flowers and partly because I can’t get her or her indomitable energy out of my mind.
If I knew for sure she’d gotten the flowers, I could just move on. It’s the not knowing that keeps me up at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering if she’s awake, too.
“I don’t see the harm in trying one more time,” my abuela tells me as she plops the last tortilla onto the cast iron.
I lean against the counter next to the stove. I may have given up my enchiladas, but there’s no way I’m letting one of my sisters grab the baby tortilla.
“Actually, I don’t, either.” Camila looks up from where she’s mincing cilantro for abuela Ximena’s signature vinaigrette. “When Jessica was interested in moving from friends to more, it took a little time for me to catch on. And it wasn’t flowers that won me over.”
“What did?” I ask, half dreading the answer. There are some things a guy doesn’t need to know about his sister, after all.
“Cake,” she smiles, eyes unfocused as if lost in a memory.
“Cake?” I repeat, doubtful. “Is there a fall-in-love-with-meflavor that I don’t know about?”
“It wasn’t the flavor. I mean, it was, but not like that.” She sighs happily. “We were all talking about this bakery near my apartment at school one day. I said I wanted to try their strawberry cake, but they were always closed when I got back from studying.”
“And she made it happen for you.” Now that’s something I can get behind, especially in the person dating my sister. “Unfortunately, I don’t know what I can make happen for Sloane that the people around her can’t do better.”
“Then it has to be something she wouldn’t think to ask for herself,” Camila says like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Which it could be, except: “Obviously we’re not part of the same friend group.”
