Page 41 of Not For Keeps
Mateo Rodriguez isn’t just “get in my bed” material. He’s the whole damn home. And here I am, sitting in this lounge, listening to people who don’t know a thing about him speculate on a story they made up out of scraps. The idea that Letty is a victim in this all? Laughable.
The anger inside me starts bubbling, rising fast and hot in my chest. It’s a white-hot fury that makes you say things you can’t take back. And I know myself, and my damn mouth. So before I say something that’ll have me writing a resignation letter before noon, I stand, toss the rest of my donut and my half-full coffee in the trash, and walk out.
Fast. Head high. Heart racing.
The door swings shut behind me, muffling the gossip still spinning in that damn room.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. I go through the motions of teaching my students. I smile when I’m supposed to. Laugh when I need to. But none of it really lands.
I’m too in my head. Too distracted. Too annoyed.
Every time I pause, even for a second, my brain goes right back to that lounge. Those voices. That gossip. The way they tossed Mateo’s name around like it was nothing. Like he was nothing. And worse—like I was some side chick with no self-respect.
By the time the final bell rings, I’m emotionally tapped out. The kids race out of the classroom, and I’m left standing by the whiteboard, a dry-erase marker in one hand and a tension headache blooming behind my eyes.
Goddamn Letty. Who does she think she is? Why is she telling people that she and Mateo are together? Did they have a thing? Were they hooking up when Mateo agreed to fake date me?
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to will the thoughts away, but they’re already in. Circling. Building.
The thoughts are gnawing at me so deep, it makes my skin itch. I close my eyes. Exhale. Try not to scream.
After a few deep breaths, I decide I know exactly what I need.
I sit behind the wheel of my car, parked in the driveway with the engine off and the windows cracked, finishing the last few minutes of the podcast episode.
“…the killer had been in the attic the entire time,” the host says in her calm, slightly breathy voice. “Watching. Waiting. Listening to her brush her teeth.”
I suck in a breath and mutter to myself, “See, this is why I don’t trust creaky floorboards. You’re either going to be fighting off a chupacabra or a murderer. Either way, you lose.”
The host moves on to the closing credits, thanking listeners and teasing next week’s deep dive into a cult that lived in the middle of the country and worshipped a man named George.
I hit pause. There’s nothing like a little bit of true crime to get your heart rate going, a reminder that I’m alive and well.
I glance in the rearview mirror. Maya’s in the backseat, legs swinging, earbuds in, humming along to what I assume is that Halloween playlist she begged me to download. She catches me watching and flashes me a peace sign. I smile. I love my tiny weirdo.
I unbuckle, grab my water bottle, and open the door. The air is crisp enough to make me glad I grabbed a sweater.
“Come on, mamita,” I call, stretching out the kink in my back as I round the car. “Let’s make the most of the last daylight before it turns into murder hour.”
Maya hops out, tiara crooked, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. “We should do the murder mystery game again!”
“Only if you promise not to yell ‘this is where the body was found’ loud enough to freak out the neighbors again.”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “I make no promises.”
I really am raising my mini-me.
She skips ahead of me into the backyard, already dragging the chalk bucket and our “Mystery Kit” across the patio. It’s an old shoebox we decorated last year with Halloween stickers and filled with random clues, flashlights, and one incredibly dramatic feather pen.
“You’re such a little weirdo, kid.”
“I get it from you.” She giggles.
“Alright, Detective Maya,” I say, grabbing the clipboard she’s scribbled all over in marker. “What’s the case today?”
She pulls out a crumpled index card and clears her throat. “The case of the missing pumpkin cookie. Someone took it. We don’t know who, but we have three suspects. Each left behind a clue.”
“Was it the princess with sticky fingers, the titi with a sweet tooth, or the firefighter who says he doesn’t like sugar but is totally lying?”
