Page 106 of All Twerk, No Play

“She doesn’t care about that. I told her you had a shitty weekend. The cure is her chilaquiles with homemade queso fresco. They all know you—”

“They?”

“She may have told my sisters that I’m stopping by,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. I pulled my hand from his, dropping my forehead into the cradle of my hands. “We’ll be quick, no more than an hour. We can still make it to Saratoga tonight, ok? I’ll set a timer on my watch.”

Goddammit. He’d come to the Hamptons and endured criticism without complaint. And our route upstate went straight through Queens … on the drive down, he’d done a Sign of the Cross for the Mets when I drove past Citi Field.

His puppy dog eyes were pleading with the request to visit his mother. His favorite person. “At least try the chilaquiles before you dump me, ok?”

I nodded in resignation. Not like anything this weekend had gone according to my plans, and as much as I hated being unprepared, at least Spencer wasn’t going to corner me in this kitchen.

Eric was out the driver’s side door before I had a chance to change my mind, his hand outstretched to help me balance on sleepy legs. With a hand on my back, he guided me through an iron fence to the right side of a duplex, the concrete steps softened by rose bushes below the windows.

My heart dropped into my stomach as the door opened to reveal a Latina woman who ushered us into the small foyer.

She looked like Eric, with the same brown eyes, a compact body, and dark hair flecked with gray. Her welcoming grin sent a pang through my chest, but I shook it off and plastered on a tight smile.

Eric pulled her into a gentle hug, greeting her in Spanish. The way she brought her palm to his cheek to stroke his dimple told me that she preferred him clean-shaven too. Though I had to admit, I missed the beard …

He rolled his eyes, placing his hand on my back. “Mama, this is Victoria.”

Her arms rose as she said in accented English, “I heard you had a hard weekend and might need a hug,mija.”

Her expression was hopeful but understanding if I declined. I stepped cautiously closer and her arms wrapped around my shoulders with the gentle care I’d grown to expect from him. My throat tightened at the comforting smell of cumin and vanilla. “Nice to meet you, Mrs.—”

“Please, call me Gloria,” she said as they guided me into the house, where an old soul song echoed from the kitchen about a lovely day. The living room was tiny, with an overstuffed mustard sofa, fabric worn in patches. The small TV sat on a scuffed walnut stand. The room had mid-century modern vibes—with an emphasis on mid-century.

But even with the dated furniture, the room radiated warmth. A handmade afghan was thrown over the sofa, slippers were tucked under the worn coffee table, textbooks cluttered the side table.

“You have a lovely home,” I said. They exchanged a skeptical look, but I meant it. Sure, the throw pillows could use a facelift, but it was tidy and warm, a welcome change from Beverly’s pristine estate, so cold you could do surgery on her kitchen island.

A framed photo beside the TV caught my eye: A younger Gloria sat on this same couch with a bright-eyed girl leaping off her lap. A man rested his arm casually along the backrest. Between them sat a young, dimpled Eric, carefully holding a swaddled baby.m

“He was so protective of his baby sister, even then,” Gloria murmured, pointing out Adriana, baby Luisa, and her late husband Jim. Her fingertip traced his face in a gentle motion that reminded me so much of my mother that it made my chest ache.

“Beautiful family,” I forced out.

She knelt in front of the TV stand to pull out a photo album. “You need to see his baby photos, all cheeks.”

My breath caught, considering how different this weekend would have gone if my mom was still around. Would she have embarrassed me by subjecting Eric to my baby albums? Did Dad even know where they were anymore?

Eric ran a hand over his flushed cheeks. “Mama, she doesn’t want to see—”

“I’ve waited 27 years to show these off—”

“I don’t turn 27 until June.”

“You think my dreams for you started the day you were born?” Gloria teased. “Go check the black beans, give us some space.”

He mouthed,‘Sorry,’before retreating to the kitchen.

Next thing I knew, I was on the couch with Gloria flipping through page after page of photos, swallowing down the resentment rising at her pride in every soft memory she shared of his toothless smiles, first steps, and chubby thighs.

I couldn't hold back a laugh at a photo of a preschool Eric in tightie whities, surrounded by kitchen pans, smacking one with a spatula and grinning widely with that familiar charismatic smile. “So he’s always been like this?”

“He’s been a walking iPod shuffle since he was a baby, wiggling that cute little butt to every song he hears. RIght, Cruz?”

She called him Cruz too?

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