Page 46 of Wasted On Us

“Oh, Eden. Papalo!” she breathes out, a trace of nostalgia in her voice. “I used to grow this years ago, such a distinctive flavor. This... this is very thoughtful of you.”

Relief washes over me like a wave. She likes it. The plant, the thought behind it. I’ve managed to make a good first impression, a connection. In Abuelita’s eyes, I see something more than just gratitude. It’s a shared understanding, a tiny bridge built in a moment over a Papalo plant.

“Would you like something to drink, Eden?” Abuelita asks, turning toward me. Her question breaks through my reverie, reminding me of the new environment I’m in. One much more warm and brightly decorated than the home we just left. “I’ve got some freshly brewed coffee. Or if you prefer something cold, I’ve got iced tea.”

“I would love a glass of iced tea.” I suddenly feel awkward and somewhat rude with my hat on, and I take it off, letting my hair tumble out onto my shoulders, massaging my scalp with my fingertips. “I’m so happy to be here. Mateo talks constantly about how much he adores you.”

“Well,” she sighs, sniffing one of the pots on the stovetop and wrinkling her nose in thought before adding a small handful of salt. “I’ve been blessed to be a part of his life since his mother passed. I guess I made him feel a little too loved. I can’t get him to leave.”

Now, it is Mateo’s turn to laugh. “You’d be lost without me, Abuelita. Who would test your cooking?”

“Your father. This is his house, after all.”

“Okay,” he relents, picking up the cutting board and knife from the counter and setting them in the sink. “But who would help with the clean-up?”

“We have a dishwasher.” She gestures at the appliance with the spoon in her hand.

“I feel like she’s trying to kick you out, Mateo.” I can’t help but smile at their exchange. It leaves me wishing that I had this kind of relationship with either of my parents. Even my grandparents were never this close with me. “Are you sure she loves you?”

Before he can answer me, Abuelita’s spoon is hovering inches from my face. “Here, try this.”

I open my mouth obligingly, taking the offered black beans—which happen to be the best beans I’ve ever tasted in my life. I make an embarrassingly earnest noise of contentment, saying something along the lines of ‘oh, my god,’ but with my mouth full it just sounds like a string of vowels instead. Abuelita smiles at Mateo, who just shakes his head.

“See?” Abuelita says, pointing the spoon triumphantly at Mateo. “That’s the proper reaction when someone tastes my cooking.”

Mateo rolls his eyes, but a fond smile tugs at his lips. “I told you, Abuelita. I love your cooking, too. You’re just too used to me.”

Abuelita chuckles, patting his cheek affectionately. “You’re right. Maybe I do need some new victims... I mean, taste testers.”

The warmth in the room is palpable, and I find myself feeling at ease, even though it’s my first time meeting Abuelita. Her humor is infectious, and her love for Mateo is clear as day. She draws me right in, and I can see where Mateo inherited that easy charm and zest for life. And even though I’ve only just met her, I can’t help but love her a little too.

We continue to chat as Abuelita cooks, and I learn more about Mateo’s family, his childhood. Abuelita shares funny stories of a younger Mateo, like the time he tried to cook breakfast for her and ended up setting off the smoke detector. Or the time he brought home a stray cat, insisting it was a ‘house tiger.’

Through her stories, I see a side of Mateo I’ve never seen before—a loving, family-oriented side It’s endearing, and it only deepens my feelings for him. Abuelita is the heart of this home, the glue that binds everything together. And Mateo is a product of that love and warmth.

Despite Mateo’s protests, Abuelita shows me an old photo album, filled with pictures of a younger Mateo and his family. Seeing him as a child, with his messy curls and wide, innocent eyes, it’s hard not to keep my pulse from racing when we share a smile.

“Look at you, all grown up now,” Abuelita says, glancing fondly at Mateo. “You were such a handful back then. Now, you’re a handsome young man, taking care of your old abuelita.”

Mateo grins, wrapping an arm around Abuelita as she beams. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The room fills with laughter and good vibes, and for a moment, I forget about the world outside—the looming threat of my father finding out who Mateo is and where we went when we left him. All I want is to stay in this bubble, with Mateo and Abuelita, and their infectious laughter and heartwarming stories.

Their obvious love for each other.

But eventually, the reality of my situation seeps back in, and I know it’s time to leave. I promise Abuelita that I’ll visit again soon, and she gives me a warm, heartfelt hug. “You’re always welcome here,mija.”

My heart squeezes a bit when she uses that traditional expression of endearment. “It’s been really nice meeting you, but if I don’t get back soon my parents are going to start to worry about me. I’m sure you understand the feeling.” I cast a knowing glance from Abuelita to Mateo, and she nods kindly. Taking my hat from the island in the middle of the kitchen, I turn and head back for the front door. Mateo follows me out, closing the door behind me and reaching for my hand.

“C’mon. I’ll walk you back. We’ll take the long way again, yeah?” It’s tempting fate, but I can’t turn him down. Not when he looks at me with that smile and those big brown eyes. We don’t talk much on the way back, simply enjoying the feeling of our hands in each other’s and listening to our breathing and the crickets outside. He stops short of my house, pausing at the spot where the street curves away and we can’t be seen from my parents’ windows, and he plants a soft kiss on my cheek.

“We’re still going to meet in the middle later, right?”

I nod. We had discussed it this morning, meeting at Mrs. Lambert’s house tonight after everyone had settled in for the evening. The house is vacant, and there’s no way we can get up to anything in either of our own places while still living with our parents. I’m conflicted about it—on the one hand, it’s not like anyone is using the house for anything and Mateo has full permission to use it, but on the other, it feels risky since it’s halfway between two warring factions.

Maybe that’s part of what makes me agree to it in the first place.

“I liked it better when that meant in the middle of the bed.” Leaning my head against his chest, I breathe a sigh against his shirt before tearing myself away and trudging back to the house. I come back just in time for a quick bite of strawberry shortcake and help with the clean-up, trying not to make prolonged eye contact with my mother or Ensley, lest one of them ask me where I’ve been or if I have any plans for tonight. Once Ens goes home for the night, my father retreats to his office, and my mother plugs into her e-reader with a glass of Chardonnay. I sit by my bedroom window and wait patiently for the street lights to come on. Mrs. Lambert’s house is clearly visible from where I am, and as soon as I see the light switch on in the kitchen, I tiptoe out of the side door and over to the back gate of their yard. Mateo has left the bolt open, just like he said he would, and the wooden fence segment swings open with a small creak.

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