Page 8 of It Happened on a Sunday
She stretches long and catlike before prowling toward us, more predator than pop star. But it’s all too polished, too precise. The kind of sexy that’s built to be watched, not felt.
Hips swinging, shoulders swaying just enough to knock one thin dress strap off her shoulder and add to her undone aura. Long, tousled red hair, smudged eye makeup, unzipped boot, dress half falling off.
But it’s all for show. One hell of a show, sure, but still justa show—one that feels like I’m watching her disappear even as she’s standing in the spotlight. And that’s before she parts her ruby red lips and flashes her fangs at me, darting her tongue out to do a slow swipe over her top-heavy upper lip.
I take it for what it is, a warning and an invitation all rolled into one. And, total honesty, when a woman with more curves than a back country road looks at me like that, I’m usually open to seeing what happens next.
But that’s not what I’m here for. And even if it was, this Sloane—the Black Widow looking for another conquest—isn’t the one who’s caught my attention. No, that’s the woman who reached out with such openness to grab my abuela’s hand. The woman who stared out at the crowd as her mask slipped and battled her way through hell to get back.
I’d really like to talk tothatwoman.
So instead of catching her pass and running for the end zone, I take a step back and say, “That was one hell of a concert. Thank you.”
Sloane blinks. The bravado falters for half a second, maybe less. But it’s enough to let me know I’m not wrong about her.
Abuela Ximena steps forward then, going in for one of those long, tight hugs she’s known for. I wince a little internally, shooting the security guard who came in with us an apologetic look.
“Oh!” Sloane gasps. For a second I think she’s going to fight against my abuela’s very enthusiastic embrace. And I get it. As someone who’s spent a fair amount of time in the public eye, I know better than most what it’s like to have strangers grabbing at you without your permission. Still, I hope she won’t be too cruel about it.
But Sloane surprises me. Instead of pulling away, she stoops down low—now that she’s this close, I realize she’s got about an inch on me in those boots—and tries to wrap her arms aroundmy abuela’s slightly bent frame.
I saytriesbecause what she actually does is awkwardly pat my abuela’s back, kind of like she’s burping a baby. The whole thing would be hilarious, except for the fact that she has no idea what to do with her hands.
An inexplicable tightness invades my chest at the realization, because no one should have to learn how to be held.
“I’m sorry,” my abuela tells her when she finally pulls back, her voice wobbling just a little. “I should have asked if that was okay first. But it really seemed like you needed a hug.”
Again, a startled look flits through Sloane’s heavily made-up eyes. And again, it disappears so quickly I would have missed it if I wasn’t watching her so carefully.
“Don’t be,” Sloane responds graciously, tucking the Black Widow away, though she’s got the rest of herself all locked up, too. “You might have been right.”
“Oh, I’m always right. Just ask my grandson,” abuela Ximena answers as she turns to wave me forward. “This is Mateo, by the way. But everyone calls him Sly on account of how good he is at sneaking past the defensive line.”
I know my abuela wasn’t thinking about anything but football when she said it, but her description definitely doesn’t make me sound great.
Before I can correct it, though, Sloane’s brows go up. “I’ll remember that.” The words almost drip with disdain.
“Just to be clear,” I tell her with a rueful shake of my head, “I save any and all unwanted advances for the football field.”
The look she shoots back says as clear as day,We’ll just see about that.
I’m not offended. The world is a fucked-up place. It makes me sad, though, to imagine what Sloane’s been through if the Black Widow is the armor she has to slip on to feel safe in it.
We stand there like that for several seconds, her not willingto give an inch and me struck silent for the whole fucking mile. There’s a war going on behind those eyes, and I want so badly to step in and fight.
But then my abuela burrows a bony elbow into my rib cage. The sudden pain snaps me out of my reflection, and I say, “Thanks so much for letting us come back to meet you. Abuela Ximena’s a huge fan. She’s got every one of your songs memorized.”
“And you don’t?” She looks me over with a smirk, her eyes lingering on my Black Widow shirt.
“I know a couple,” I answer. It’s a lie; I know several. Who doesn’t? But banter is easier than small talk, probably because it’s been my little sisters’ primary method of communication my whole life.
“What’s that saying? ‘Damned by faint praise’?” Sloane asks.
“Nothin’ faint about it, darlin’.” I let my drawl slip out, mostly because I don’t think to stop it.
The corner of her mouth tips up, just a bit, as she turns back to my abuela. “Do you mind if I call you Grandma Ximena, too?”
“Abuela, please.” She lights up like a firework. “Grandma doesn’t feel right to me.” She claps her hands, and I see how they catch Sloane’s eye.
