Page 47 of Sicken of the Calm
“Joaquin?” Iva’s voice snaps meout of the fog of fury that had enveloped me. I’m not a stranger to aggression– football isn’t exactly a non-contact sport – but the level of anger that’sbubbling inside me is a rarity. In fact, the last time I remember feelinganything like it was when I found out what my high school teammates were sayingabout, and to, Ezra.
“Nothing,” I grit out, handingEzra his drink. He accepts it, but he’s looking at me in concern, and it makesme snap back to reality for real. I don’t want him to even suspect what thatasshole said about him. “Nothing,” I repeat, softer this time, and before I canthink about it, I sling my arm across Ezra’s shoulders, pulling him against me.Ezra freezes, a kick to my stomach as I realize how inappropriate the move Ijust made is. We aren’t boyfriends. A kiss is one thing, but this is a clear,possessive signal that doesn’t fit with the boundaries we’ve put in place forourselves.
I’m about to pull away when hesuddenly relaxes, leaning against me, his arm wrapping around my waist as hisother hand raises his drink to his lips. He re-engages in the conversation Ihad interrupted with my arrival, seeming completely casual, although I’mstarting to catch onto Ezra’s act.
When I look at her, Iva is givingme the raised-eyebrow look I had been trying to avoid.
“We’re talking about this,” shemouths at me. I smile, rolling my eyes.
Future me will deal with that.Present me has better things to worry about, like the warm hand stroking just undermy T-shirt. I let the last of the tension seep out of me.
I’ll enjoy the ride until I seewhere the night is taking me
**********
I try not to smirk as Ezra’s eyeswiden almost comically, staring at my bare chest as I open the door to myapartment.
“Sorry, practice ran late and Ihad to take a shower,” I say, holding the ends of the towel that hangs aroundmy neck as I step back to let him in. I know the position makes my biceps bulgeout, and his eyes go straight to them. It’s amazing what a regular sexualpartner that looks at you like that can do for your confidence.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, stepping in.
“Put your coat wherever,” I say,even though he knows the drill. I turn around, lifting the towel to finishdrying my hair. I can practically feel his eyes drill into my back.
“Um, right,” he stutters. I tampdown a laugh. As much as I like him having control, it feels good to get somepayback for all the teasing he’s put me through. I hang the towel in thebathroom before going to my closet and putting on a thin henley to go with thesweatpants I’m already wearing. When I turn back toward him, Ezra is looking alittle disappointed, and this time I must not be able to control my expression becausehis eyes narrow, a finger lifting to point at me.
“I’m onto you,” he saysaccusatorily.
“I have no idea what you’retalking about,” I reply innocently.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, strippinghis outer layers and hanging them by the door before flopping onto the bed.“So, what’s on the menu? Series or movie?” he asks. I’m about to reply when I’mcut off by an incoming Skype call. I turn to look at the screen, even thoughthere’s only one person it would be.
“It’s my mom. I should…”
“Yeah, course,” Ezra says,shifting up toward the head of the bed so that he’s out of the camera’s sight.I give him an odd look before sitting down on the chair and accepting the call.I don’t know how I feel about him being witness to the conversation. After whathe revealed about his parents, even if just tangentially, it feels a littlestrange to rub his wound with the salt of how close I am to my family. Still,there’s no way I can drop my mom’s call without paying for it later.
“Hey, mamá,” I say in Spanish asher face comes onto the screen. She’s smiling widely, her long, dark hairpulled up haphazardly.
“Hey, honey. How are you?” shereplies in kind. We speak in Spanish unless there’s an English speaker inearshot it would be rude to exclude. Since she doesn’t know Ezra is here, it’dbe weird to talk in anything but our mother-tongue. My mom squints at thescreen, frowning. “Have you been eating? You look like you’re losing weight,” sheaccuses. I huff out a laugh. My mom accusing me of starvation is familiarterritory.
“Yes, I’m eating.”
“What did you have for lunch?”
“A sandwich.”
“A sandwich! That’s not food.”
“It was a big sandwich. What didyou have?” I ask, trying to put the heat off me.
“Salted cod, peas and yuka, andsoup.And tarta de cabello de angel.See?” she says. Isigh, smiling. Anything less than two courses isn’t food in her book.
“We won the game on Friday,” Isay before she can ask me about every detail of the sandwich.
“Oh!” Her face lights up, and theconversation thankfully turns away from food. After I’ve filled her in onpretty much everything in my and Iva’s life in the few days since she lastcalled, glossing over Ezra as simply a friend I hang out with, she startsfilling me in on the family, detailing how she thinks my little sister Elisa,currently sixteen, apparently has a boyfriend who no one approves of on thebasis that no one could ever be good enough for her. She tells me about theracoon my dad found in the back garden and how she suspects he’s feeding itbacon, about how the prices of peppers have gone up,again. She tells meabout how my extended family are doing in Puerto Rico, and how my Aunt Doloresis thinking of moving to live in my hometown due to everything that’s happeningin Puerto Rico, which she also details as if I don’t watch the news.
“It’s all corruption, all thetime! Not that it’s any better over here. Dios mío, como están las cosas…” shesays, shaking her head.
“Mamá, just don’t break anyplates,” I tease, even though the way she’d thrown one on the floor the morningafter the last presidential election in the U.S. hadn’t been particularly funnyat the time. It’s one of those things that you have to laugh instead of cryabout.
