Page 12 of The Crush
She is definitely about to launch in to a speech right before she sees someone over my shoulder, and when I see the way her eyes widen, my stomach drops.
“Daniel Alejandro Ríos,” my mother proclaims as she plants her hands on her hips and skirts around me. “Where have you been? Why haven’t I heard from you?”
“Ma’am.” He glances my way, but only for the time it takes him to realize my mother is currently armed with a serving utensil. He wisely gives her his full attention. “Sorry. I’ll be better about it.”
My mother continues to stare him down for a few more seconds, long enough to feel that she’s really gotten her message across, before she marches up and yanks him down into a hug.
“It’s so good to have you home, mijo.” His eyes close briefly when she squeezes him tighter. “We’ve missed you.”
“Missed you, too.” He smiles as she releases him, not the full version but still enough to make me weak in the knees nonetheless. “Can I help with anything?”
“No, no.” My mother pats his cheek affectionately before gesturing back to the table. “I have this. You should go enjoy yourself. See people. Talk. Would be good for you. Isn’t that right?”
She turns toward me, expecting support. And Daniel takes the opportunity to look at me again, his eyes searching my face while I note the way his hair is still damp from a pre-party shower, curling in the heat above the collar of his dress shirt and making him appear younger. More like that teenage boy who was going to see the world, who was alwayssoquick to laugh, to be kind. Who had an irrepressible sense of justice that often landed him dodging fists to his pretty face.
He looks more like the Daniel I remember from before, but the truth is, I don’t really mind if that version of him isn’t who came home. Both are stillhim.
“Mija, you’re looking faint again.”
Oh. My. God.I have enough time to see Daniel’s concerned frown before I’m once again dodging my mother’s attempts to take my temperature with the back of her hand.
“You need to get out of the sun,” she insists, already back to the table. “If you pass out, people aren’t going to want to be stepping over you to get to the food.”
Well, good to know the real source of her concern. “Itoldyou I’m—”
She waves a hand at me, her nose wrinkling as she checks the bags of disposable plates and napkins that have been set aside. “I need to go back to the car. Danny, see to it that she sits. She’s been acting strange all week.”
Oh, perfect, I think, glaring at her back as she walks off.Let’s not keep anything to ourselves.
It takes me a few seconds more to face him, wondering if maybe he won’t be there when I do. But he is.
What if he’s always it for me and I’m never it for him?
“I should go set these down,” I tell Daniel, looking anywhere but in his direction as I try to get my emotions under a controllable threshold. Instead, I gasp when he abruptly takes one of the plates from me and starts guiding me toward the sliding door with his hand at the middle of my back.
I glance around as we disappear inside, checking to make sure no one is spying by the drink coolers. Then the door closes and the thin illusion of privacy closes around us with it.
“Well that was subtle,” I mutter, setting my platter down right next to where he dropped his on the counter.
He scoffs, walking us deeper into the kitchen with his hand still on my back. A bit lower now than it had been outside.
“I’m only following orders,” he says when he turns. “Supposed to be making sure you sit, remember?”
Without meaning to, my eyes flick to the place where he’d sat me on the kitchen counter on Tuesday. Something he notices, judging by the way his own eyes stray in that direction before he moves to stand in front of me. “We should really talk.”
Given that nothing good has ever followed those four words, I cross my arms over my chest in preparation, feeling both dread and a snap of mostly unfair frustration. It isn’t as if I could’ve really expected to hear from him before now. He can’t exactly call or come by the house and ask to speak to me without triggering some curiosity at best, alarm bells at worst. But I think I would’ve preferred making excuses to my family rather than having to pretend my heart isn’t about to be shattered with what feels like all of La Orilla outside.
“What happened earlier this week…” he begins. “I never should have let myself get carried away like that, and I owe you an apology for it.”
“You really don’t,” I say back, trying to keep my voice even. “Nothing happened that I didn’t…” I keep myself from saying how much I wanted him. Or for how long. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Isa—”
“Seriously.” My voice cracks, and the more I feel the tears starting to come, the more desperate I am to get it over with. To try to leave this conversation with enough of my dignity that I’ll be able to at least face him at future family functions. “There is no need to make a big speech. I get it. You think it was a mistake. You don’t want—”
He takes a step closer, bumping me into the counter again before he says in a low voice, “If it was as simple as whether or not I want you, Isabel, we would be having a very different conversation.”
My heart rate skyrockets before my mind has a chance to catch up. “What?”
