Page 92 of The Sweet Spot

“Olá, Pai.”

“Olá, Luca. You have a minute?”

“Sure.” I roll the windows down and put the car in park, cutting the engine. I might be here for a minute. “What’s up?”

“Tomás and I are still putting together the team for the Mason-Ridley project…I wanted to know how you felt about writing code for our software architect. Renaldo—you remember him, I’m sure—is chief software architect, and Nathalia will be dealing with the structure and UML diagram. I think you’d work well with them.” He pauses. Traffic horns blare in the background; he’s probably on his daily lunch walk downtown. “This is a big deal, Luca. I need to know if you’ll be joining us.”

And just like that, I’m no longer in sunny Santa Cruz but somewhere in the busy beehive of my father’s office building. Tomás Avila is the operations manager, one of Pai’s originals from the very beginning. Not only is he Pai’s number two, he still does much of the hands-on stuff with the firm’s larger jobs. Nathalia Coval is a little newer and a lot younger, a thirty-something who was recruited straight out of college. She’s diplomatic, efficient, and smart as a whip, making her the obvious choice as project manager. When I first started interning at Veritas, she was one of the employees that took me under her wing and trained me on the day-to-day functions.

It’s a team I’d enjoy working with, and a project I’d be interested in. Mason-Ridley is a sustainable architecture firm based in Canada and Veritas has been brought on to overhaul the software they use on a daily basis. A few years ago, I would have already said yes, but these days there’s an increasingly frequent ache in my stomach when I think about leaving again. It’s not that the project isn’t worthy—it is. It’s not that it won’t be successful—everything my father touches turns to gold.

It’s that if I keep on doing this, keep on working for my father, I might never step out on my own. What’s success if I realize, twenty years down the road, that I’ve been chasing the wrong person’s dreams?

“Let me think about it,” I say after a moment.

“Don’t think too long. It’s a good team and a very, very lucrative project. If this goes well, we might be able to get you a permanent position and who knows where that could lead?”

“Okay. I’ll get back to you in a day or two.”

“You do that. Talk soon.” As is his custom, he promptly disconnects, off to conquer his little corner of the world.

My mind’s still on our conversation as I walk around to the side of the house, where the savory, mouthwatering aroma of cooking meat mixes with the smell of weed. Shaking my head, I find Matty on the deck, doing bong rips while Saira and Kellan linger near the enormous grill. Matt’s blonde is in the pool, drifting lazily on the pizza float.

I blink, surprised that Saira’s still here. Guess they hit it off even better than we thought they would, judging by Kell’s hand on her hip as she flips something with the tongs.

“Lucaaaaaa,” croaks Matt, grinning through a cloud of smoke.

“Matty, what’s good?” I knock his fist on my way to the grill.

Kellan arches his eyebrow when he sees me. “You by yourself, bro?”

“Yeah, Wren’s going hiking with her dad. Hey, Saira.”

“Hi, Luca.” She smiles prettily, tucking her long, black hair behind her ear. “Hope you’re hungry…we got a ton of stuff coming up.”

“I can see that.” I chuckle, eyeing a mountain of chicken and salmon that’s waiting for its turn on the grill. “You having another party?”

“Nah.” Kellan shakes his head. “But I mean, six people…if Wren’s coming back.”

Saira smirks, returning to her duties. “She’ll be back.”

Wren

On the Sunday before Arlo heads back to New York, Luca invites me to a family dinner up in Walnut Creek. His brothers will both be there, as well as his sister-in-law, nieces, and nephews. I’m a little nervous, but not really—hisMãehas been keen on meeting me for some time. The feeling is mutual. I’ve seen pictures of her, so I can see where he gets his eyes and that silky hair, but now it’s time to meet the woman behind the smile.

We leave Santa Cruz behind for the Bay, playing a chill hip hop mix from the nineties; lots of Common, Mos Def and Tribe Called Quest. The sun is bright, the weather cool. Soft wisps of clouds pass by in a faded blue-jean sky. We stop at a Brazilian bakery in Oakland, a place Luca swears by.

“Mãe loves theirbeijinho de coco,” he says, pointing to the little coconut truffles. “She has a wicked sweet tooth.”

So does my mom. I buy her a few, making a mental note to bring macarons for Luca’s family the next time we do this.

From there it’s about forty minutes to the house where Luca grew up. The weather warms tangibly as we exit the tunnel, leaving behind the crisper microclimates of the Bay. I’ve only been to Walnut Creek a few times, but I remember how pleasant it is, with its wide, tree-lined streets and upper-middle class aesthetic against the backdrop of Mt. Diablo.

We pull up behind a minivan in the otherwise empty driveway of a large split-level. Luca had said his mother loved her garden, but now that we’re here I see that might have been an understatement. The front yard is crowned with clover, Cirsium and yarrow. Pink, yellow, and orange California poppies line the walkway leading to the front door, where a tan welcome mat decorated with bananas proclaimsit’s bananas in here!

“Wow,” I breathe, snapping a picture of the garden with my phone. “I have to show this to my mom…she goes nuts for stuff like this.”

Luca chuckles, ringing the doorbell. “Mãe’s all aboutas flores. You’ll see.”

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