Page 38 of The Ruckup
I knew exactly who’d called about Drake being illegally parked outside the courthouse. I didn’t even have to see the smug lookson my residents’ faces to know it was Sylvia, Betty, and Sharon who were responsible.
“I’d like to meet those women someday.” My grandmother turns back to the chicken legs she’s cooking for our lunch. Her eyes slide my way. “I wouldn’t mind meeting the man you’ve been spending time with either.”
I try to smother out the smile brought to my lips when she mentions Leo, and fail miserably. “He wants to meet you too.”
My abuela turns to face me, one hand grabbing her walker for added stability, her graying brows lifted high on her forehead. “Then why aren’t you calling him to come over here?” She motions in the direction of the chicken sizzling on the stove. “I made plenty of food.” A wide smile splits her face. “I’ve seen the size of that boy. I’m sure he can always eat.”
Now it’s my turn to lift my brows. “You’ve seen Leo?” Even though my parents and Leo’s have been friends for years, Abuela isn’t much of a social butterfly. She never went to any of the parties or get-togethers. So how did she manage to get her eyeballs on the blond Adonis I’ve shared a bed with for the past six nights?
But still haven’t had sex with, which is starting to get really disappointing.
It’s not likenothing’shappening. We’ve done just about everything else, but he hasn’t remotely attempted to push for more.
I’m too big of a chicken to make that move myself. And I couldn’t now even if I wanted to, because my period is about two seconds away from starting. As if this day couldn’t have been shitty enough, I had to sit through court fighting cramps and bloating.
Being a woman can really fucking sucks sometimes.
“I know how to use the interweb, muñeca.” Abuela turns back to the food. “I’m notthatold.”
I snort. “I don’t think it has anything to do with age. My mother is pretty terrible at navigating the Internet.” I shake my head. “She’s always sharing those scammy found-dog posts on her timeline.”
“That’s because your mother is an idiot.” My abuela peeks at me over one shoulder. “I love her, but sometimes I wonder if she ever thinks before she acts.”
I know the answer to that. “She lets my dad do the thinking for her.” Any time I ask my mother a question, her answer is always that she has to discuss it with my father. Like she can’t form a conclusion using her own brainpower.
And since that’s what I saw growing up, I landed in a similar situation. Married to a man I allowed to make all my decisions. I stayed quiet and small and passive. I let him do the thinking for me.
I wish it wasn’t true. Want so much to pretend like it didn’t happen.
But it did.
“I don’t know how she ended up like that.” My abuela shakes her head. “Sometimes I sit and try to think of what I could have done to make her think it was a good idea to give away her voice like that.”
I know my grandmother has a lot of regrets. I know she feels bad for how much she had to work when my mom was growing up. How often she was gone and my mother was left on her own. I’veheard her apologize directly to my mother for it countless times. Take accountability for the mistakes she made.
I’ve also heard my mother refuse to accept her apologies, which is okay. No one has to accept an apology if they don’t want to. It’s just ironic that she’s unwilling to apologize to me, yet expects any and all of her failings to be simply overlooked.
“I think some people just turn out the way they do no matter what happens to them.” At least I hope so, because I’m trying really hard to turn out differently than my mother. I might have gone down a wrong path initially, but I corrected the course. I don’t want to be in a voiceless marriage. I want to be with someone who listens to what I say. Someone who values my opinion.
Someone who valuesme.
Someone like Leo.
I know our reconnection is very new, but I already feel like I know him relatively well. Well enough I can’t help but compare him to Drake. Think of how different a life with Leo would be than the one I led during my marriage.
When I’m quiet for a few minutes, my grandmother turns, angling a brow at me. “Are you going to call Mr. Rugby, or not?”
I can’t hide the smile that works across my face. “Yes. I will invite Mr. Rugby over.”
Pulling out my phone, I open up the text thread I have with Leo and tap out a message.
My abuela wants to know if you would like to come have lunch with us.
His response is immediate.
Absolutely I would.
I tap out my grandmother’s address, sending it before I join her at the stove, helping chop up the vegetables that will simmer with the chicken. After adding the onions, peppers, tomatoes, and potatoes to the large skillet, we pour over a can of tomato sauce and a couple cups of chicken broth, then set it to simmer while our rice cooks.
