Page 11 of The Crush
“Yes, I heard you,” I reply, officially wound too tight. “She’s a good girl. I’m a bad guy. Don’t worry, Pop, I heard you.”
My dad lets out a weary sigh as he approaches, his work-rough palm landing on my shoulder when he’s even with me. “The only one around here who thinks you’re a bad guy is you, Danny. Just you.”
He gives my arm a firm squeeze before his hand falls away and he moves to the back patio door. “I’m going to go start the grill. Grab the chicken out of the fridge for me before you come out.” The door slides open, but my dad pauses before passing through. “We need to talk about what still needs done for Saturday.”
“Saturday?” I frown, exhaustion and frustration warring in my head. “I’ve told you I’m not up to going over to the Riveras’ right now. I’m—”
“You’re not going to them. They’re coming to you,” my dad says simply, then walks out so that I have no choice but to chase him for answers.
“What?” I ask, stepping out onto the concrete slab behind the house. “You invited them over?”
With a shake of his head, he squares up to his ancient grill and starts shaking out a bag of charcoal. “You should look at a calendar every now and again. Might help you figure some stuff out.”
I’m about to fire off another retort, but lose a little of my conviction when I find I actuallycan’tremember the date. I turn back inside and head for the calendar hanging on the fridge, my attention immediately catching on the date circled in bright red. The first weekend in July.
Shit.
Ten
Isabel
Saturday, July 2, 1994
Chin up. Brave face. Smile.
I roll my eyes at my own pep talk, the baking dish in my hands feeling like it weighs fifty pounds as I follow the music as well as my mother around the house to the Ríoses’ back patio.
So he kissed you. Big deal. And then his dad walked in. Fine. Then you were sent home like a scolded child while Daniel stood there looking like he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. Why should that mean you can’t still have fun?
Perhaps choosing the Tuesday before the Ríoses’ annual cookout had not been the best timing for mymomentwith Daniel. Likely a detail I would have thought of had I not been so determined tonotthink about what I was doing. How fortunate for me that I’d had nothingbuttime to think about it in nearly every conscious and unconscious second of my life in the four days since.
Primarily, the remorseful look that Daniel had on his face while I left has grown more and more nightmarish to the point I’m convinced he will never want to see me again. But then other times, I’m less sure.
Fuck, bonita, I like when you make that sound.I bite my lip as we come around the corner of the house, suppressing a savage rush of need that whips through me as I think about him saying those words. About what it had been like to touch him. To actually kiss him after fantasizing about it for so long. The word count in my diary alone…
Yet somehow the reality had been even better than the dream.
“Mija, are you feeling all right?” my mother asks, inspecting me closely as we reach the food table. “You’re so quiet today.”
“I’m not,” I say, defensive despite the way I’m searching the already assembled crowd. “I’m fine.”
She raises an eyebrow at me, unconvinced, although she’s soon distracted by the rather challenging task of finding room for all the dishes she’s prepared. A few more of which Gabe is already on his way to fetch from the back of the Suburban, thrilled to have the excuse to sneak away from where my father is currently holding court—discussing the Cowboys’ ‘94 season chances in excruciating detail.
“Can you find a place to get rid of these?” my mother asks, taking the covered dish out of my hands and exchanging it for a chilled dessert platter whose miniature chocolate cakes are already beginning to melt in the heat. As she passes it to me, I’m fairly certain I hear her mutterstore-bought, otherwise known as the closest thing my mother will say to profanity.
“I’m sure they’re good,” I say, hoping the person who brought them isn’t within earshot. At her look, I amend quickly, “Even if they’re not as good as yours.”
She purses her lips, handing me another dish she’s deemed unsuitable, and I bite my tongue before coming to the defense of a second nameless grocery store bakery patron.
Even by my mother’s usual unattainable standards, this party is always the one she fusses over the most. Undoubtedly because the cookout is something she and Daniel’s mamá always used to do together. Only now, she does it for the both of them.
I sigh, adjusting my approach. “What if I put them inside? Get them out of the heat until it’s time for sweet stuff.”
“Put yourself inside too then,” she retorts, reorganizing the remaining dishes by course. “You don’t need to be out in the sun all day. You’re coming down with something.”
I roll my eyes, feeling perfectly capable of facing a Texas summer day in my pale-yellow top and shorts. Knowing I would be outdoors most of the afternoon and evening, I’d even taken the time to pull my hair into a Selena-inspired ponytail with a few tendrils left free. Fortunately, I’d talked myself out of the impromptu bangs. For now.
As my mother turns back, I duck while she tries to tuck one of the said flyaways behind my ear. “Would you stop?” I mutter.
