Page 34 of Wishing for La Luna
Espero que estes ready
Because you can’t put the genie back in the bottle.
Es Rio
The lyrics make me shake my head. I call her crazy for the way she’s always acted toward me. But I’m the one reading a million things into an almost kiss. She’s probably long asleep, and I’m writing about her.
Si ella es loca, what does this make me? A fucking mad man.
10
Luna
“I’m going to be sick.”
My mom looks up from the garment she’s sewing, needle in hand, to stare at me with a calm-down face. “You’re going to be just fine.”
“How?” I ask.
“Maeven set everything up, and she’s extremely thorough. You see people are already talking about you and Rio. The last two weeks since the Knicks game, you’ve been in everyone’s mouth. The two of you are naturals at this.” She finishes and goes back to sewing.
“He hates me.”
My mom snorts. “No,ese muchachitodoesn’t hate you. Just like you don’t hate him. I thought the flowers were a nice touch. Shows he can be sweet even though he singsesas freaky frescuras.”
Her wording always makes me chuckle, but my eyes drift to the peach rose and eucalyptus bouquet sitting on our dining room table.
“Mami, the flowers were Maeven’s idea.”
“Except, it wasn’t. She was surprised when I mentioned it, so make sure you thank him.”
Oh man.He sent them to me. I don’t need more things to be conflicted about. I tinker with my hair, making sure my edges are tight.
“I’m spending the night at Darren’s tonight. If something happens, call me.”
I can’t help but tease her. “I’ll be okay. Go be with your man. Get it, girl.”
“No seas atrevida. I can still give you a fewnalgadas.” To prove it, she swats my butt.
The doorbell rings, surprising both of us. My mom hands me the t-shirt she finished hemming, and I throw it on. “Don’t fight at Yankees Stadium. Don’t have deep conversations either.”
“You sound like Maeven,” I say as I kiss her cheek and head for the door. When I open it, Rio is standing outside, filling the door frame in jeans and a baseball jersey. His smile is instant.
And so is the rustle of butterfly wings in my belly.
“Hi.” He leans for a kiss on my cheek, and then his gaze darts behind me. “Buenas tardes, Doña Raquel.”
He goes around me to shake her hand, but my mom gives him the customary kiss on the cheek. “Take care of mymariposita,and no fighting,” she says to him.
He pauses and then says, “Lo prometo.”
His manners are so sweet, my mom blinks a few times, and I can’t fight the grin that breaks over my lips. Then we rush out the door without talking.
We get into the car, the radio playing ‘No Más Guerra’by Belú “La Teniente.”
I love this song. It’s high on my Spotify playlist. “I should’ve known you listen to Belú.”
Rio frowns. “Who?”
