Page 24 of Never Kiss the Bad Boy

Turning the water to skin-melting hot, I stare out the window over the sink. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone but myself, but I’m looking for Kyle. I’ve been too busy to even glance toward Kathy’s house today, so I haven’t seen him, his strong arms, or his sexy smile.

But Kyle and his crew are nowhere to be seen.

Whatever. My little fantasy about Kyle, and the tiny bit of anticipation I allowed to build up while thinking of his attempt to back up his bragging, has worn off and I’m barely running on fumes at this point.

I make it through a hefty stack of pots, my irritation growing with every circular scrub of my steel wool. Everyone else has gone home for the day, yet here I am, still working my ass off. One dish at a time, one day at a time, over and over, yet barely scraping by.

As I set my rice cooker to soak, there’s a knock at my door. Expecting it to be Kyle and having no more energy to fight with him, or fight my own physical needs, I don’t bother turning around and instead, just shout in the general direction of the front door, “Fuck off.”

“Excuse me, Daniela?” a male voice answers.

Shit. It’s not Kyle.

That’s my older brother, Xavier.

I look heavenward, wondering why God hates me so much. Xavier is the last thing I need today. Still, I grab a dishtowel and dry my hands as I walk toward the door.

“Come on in,” I tell him as he barges in without invitation before I can get there. The knock was apparently nothing more than a simple formality. I’m not surprised. Xavier likes to think that he’s my father’s stand-in and that I’m some responsibility he has to bear until I have a man who’ll take over that role. They’re both traditional like that. Or at least, they’d call it traditional. I’d call it misogynistic. But you know, to-may-to, to-mah-to.

He’s dressed sharply, in gray slacks with a crisp line down the front and a button-down blue shirt that’s open at the collar to show his gold chain and has the sleeves rolled up to show his gold watch. His hair looks freshly styled, though I know he fixed it this morning before leaving the house. He works hard, but his job as a car salesman is more talking and desk sitting than sweating and actual labor, which is why he looks daisy-fresh and I look and smell like sunshine and salt. And not in a fun, beachy way.

Xavier doesn’t come around often, not to my house, so this can’t be good. For either of us. He’s likely here to lay down some antiquated law I’m supposed to obey, with talks of what I ‘should do’ and ‘could be’, and I’m in no mood to deal with his bullshit. He’s barely said three words and I can already tell this is going to go poorly.

Especially when he looks past me at the messy kitchen filled with half-clean and half-dirty dishes and frowns in distaste.

“How goes the serving of the poor, hungry masses?” he asks. He tries to flash his salesman’s smile, but he can’t hide the snark from me.

Xavier has always thought himself too good to serve, whether at the family restaurant, at home, or even now, in his own marriage. My sister-in-law, Mara, takes care of Xavier and their two kids, my niece, who’s six, and my nephew, who’s three. She seems truly happy with that arrangement, so I’m happy for her. But I have no interest in that type of relationship. Actually, put me down for negative interest in that.

Or any relationship, I remind myself.

“Great.” That’s enough conversation on that topic as far as I’m concerned, so I turn, giving him my back as I return to the kitchen and my dishes.

I don’t know why he bothers to ask. It’s the same answer I always give him. Even when I was starting out and trying to figure out how to make this unusual setup work, I never let Xavier know it was anything other than perfect. If he had the slightest hint that anything was wrong, he’d tell me to get a ‘real job’, or even better, get married and take care of a husband and then kids. In his mind, that’s what I’m destined for, so why fight it?

And I most definitely won’t share that I’m having some temporary issues while Kyle’s working next door. It’d make Xavier’s day for me to admit defeat and follow the path he thinks I should take.

“Hmm,” he hums, not believing me for a minute. Thankfully, that’s not why he’s here and he gets to the point quickly, probably ready to disinfect himself from the molecules of food and detergent floating in the air. “Mama and Papa are worried about you.” He looks around for a place to lean his butt, and when he doesn’t find a spot he deems pristine enough for his hundred-dollar slacks, he settles for propping his shoulder against the side of the fridge. “You haven’t been by in so long. To hear Mama tell it, you’ve all but abandoned them.”

“I skipped one Sunday, and I called to let Mama know,” I correct. I don’t need his guilt trip, or Mama’s. I could send myself on a worldwide tour with all the guilt I pile on myself. “I’ve been busy. You know we’re in the middle of construction season, so there are more orders than usual.”

The truth is, after eating breakfast with Kyle on Saturday, I couldn’t go grocery shopping without my stomach threatening to revolt, and those pancakes were too good to risk ruining like that. I’d had to push shopping off to Sunday so that I was ready for the week, which meant no visit to my parents.

“Nothing is more important than family,” he reminds me, as if I’m too stupid to prioritize my own life and need him to guide me through it. “We’re certainly more important than those sweaty, smelly?—"

“Watch it,” I warn, glaring over my shoulder to stop him before he can say something truly offensive. “Those people put a roof over our heads for our entire childhood,” I point out. “They put shoes on our feet and clothes on our backs. Maybe not department store loafers like you’re wearing now, but what Mama and Papa provided for us worked. And they were able to give us that because of customers like the ones I serve now.”

He sighs in frustration. This is our never-ending back and forth. We came from the same upbringing, with the same foundation of hard work, integrity, and stubbornness. He used it as a stepping stone, climbing a social and professional ladder while looking back on where he came from with derision and distaste. I’m still living the same life we grew up in—pinching pennies, fighting for a moment’s peace, and not caring about what some snooty person thinks of me. As evidenced by my continual battle with my neighbor.

The difference between me and my brother, though, is that he thinks he’s made it, becoming something greater than me, Mama, or Papa, while I think he’s an insufferable jerk whose ego has outgrown his humble beginnings. I wouldn’t trade places with him if I could. Of course, he wouldn’t trade places with me, either.

I bite back another sharp comment, knowing it’ll do no good, and go back to cleaning while Xavier watches me. My new plan? Let him say what he came to say and get out of here so I can finish work. My bed is calling my name.

“You still do it that way,” Xavier says as I put a crusted-up pot of sauce on my stove, this time filled with water and a citric acid tablet. “The old school methods.”

“It works, it’s cheap, and it’s less chemical-y than some of the alternatives,” I tell him. “Unless you’re offering to buy me a pressure washer for my birthday?” I lift my brows, questioning him.

My birthday isn’t for months, but it’s good to plant the seed of an idea with him well ahead of time. That way, by the time my birthday actually rolls around, he’ll think it was his idea all along.

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