Page 39 of Fair Trade
I zoom in on the latest paparazzi shots, trying to see if his face shows any sign of having a good time. But like in every other photo, Nick’s face looks stoic and closed off.
Unlike the cheeky bastard I know him to be.
“Is it part of your job to stalk your boss, or is that something you like to do in your spare time?” my mother asks as she swats me with a tea towel on her way to the stove.
“I wasn’t stalking. Just making sure he wasn’t doing anything that might reflect poorly on the Monarchs,” I respond, a bit too quickly.
“Ha. You think I was born yesterday?” She places a hand on her hip as she stirs the carne guisada on the stove.
“Who was born yesterday, Clarissa?” Tía Gloria asks.
My mother points her lips in my direction. “Esta. Looking at photos of her boss like it’s her homework.”
“Are we talking about that papi chulo billionaire Luisa refuses to introduce us to?” Tía Marisol chimes in, topping off her sister’s wine.
I point my finger in their direction. “And that is one of the many reasons I never will. Papi chulo? Really?”
Tía Gloria chuckles to herself. “Luisa, we may be married and a touch too old for that man, but we still have eyes, you know.”
I mouth exaggeratedly, “A touch.”
They start to cackle among themselves as I shake my head. “You three are like the Dominican Sanderson sisters. But instead of cauldrons and spells, you have calderos and chisme.” I walk away, leaving them in a fit of laughter.
I fight off a smirk, because as outrageous as they can be when they’re together, I wouldn’t take a minute of their teasing for granted.
For a while—when my mother was in the pits of her depression—the magic between the three of them was gone, but they never gave up on her.
It makes me a little sad that I’ll never have a sibling to share moments like that with, but I never fester on the thought, notwanting to give the very reason my mother struggled so much with her mental health another ounce of my energy.
Instead, I walk into the living room and take in the expected sight.
My father, along with my two uncles, playing dominoes.
My father catches my eye and raises his glass of Brugal rum in my direction. “Mija! Get over here. We need a fourth. Playing these two pendejos gets old after a while.” My dad winks as he takes a sip of his drink.
“Pendeja tu madre,” Tío Marcos says as he mocks a backhanded slap to my father.
“¡Que en paz descanse!” the women in the kitchen shout.
“Can we stop talking about people’s deceased mothers and focus on the game?” I tease as I slide into the empty seat.
“As long as you don’t cheat,” Tío Ernesto grumbles.
“My daughter and I never cheat. You’re just a sore loser,” my dad defends.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s pretty clear you guys have the winning genes. No need to rub it in,” Tío Marcos groans.
My father and I share a secret smile as he smacks the dominoes on the table. My uncles make a show of shuffling the pieces around the table before we quickly make a grab for the tiles we’ll line in front of ourselves.
My father lifts the bottle of rum in offering, and I shake my head, opting for the bottle of Presidente beer my Tío Ernesto offers.
The bottle isvestida de novia.Which means the beer is so cold, there is a layer of ice around the bottle. It makes it look white. Therefore, resembling a bride dressed in white. This is the proper way to drink a Dominican beer, and I love how my family keeps up with traditions even though they are so far from home.
“All right, tell us. Is that Stonehaven guy behaving himself, or do we need to pay him a visit?” Tío Marcos asks while cracking his knuckles.
I give him a dubious look. “You’re a part of the little league staff at your grandson’s school, not the mob. What are you going to threaten him with, a plastic bat?”
“That’s pee-wee baseball. C’mon, Luisa. You should know the difference,” he teases.
