Chapter 6
The party is in full swing by six o’clock, with Tia Carmelita and her sisters supplying trays of arroz con pollo, fried plantains, and arroz con habichuelas.
I change into a buttery yellow dress I find in one of my packed moving boxes and introduce Ryan to everyone.
My abuelita meets him and gives him the Santana nod of approval.
At times like these the absence of my own father is felt like a gaping open wound.
He died when I was ten and Mami dropped me off with Abuelita a few months later, claiming she couldn’t handle me on her own.
She said I needed more stability than she could provide.
She settled in Los Angeles to pursue acting and came around to visit a few times a year, only to leave again.
But I never left Seven Trees, the town of my father’s family.
I keep track of Ryan, making sure his hands are always filled with either a drink or a plate of food as Abuelita taught me.
The women swarm him, as is typical for single men at these family functions.
Eddie is usually one of the few single men at family weddings, dancing with every woman who comes without a date.
Sofia shows up late and grabs me in a hug. She’s brought someone, good-looking in a GQ sort of way.
“This is Kyle,” she says.
Instead of a hug, he fist-bumps me. “Dude, nice to meet you.”
He lopes off to get them some drinks, and then Sofia turns her full attention to me. “Is that the professor?”
It’s not tough to find the only other young white male in the crowd who is not related to any of us. I glance back to see Ryan shaking his head at another plate of food from Abuelita, finally relenting when she pushes it straight into his stomach.
Sofia whistles softly. “Not bad. You didn’t mention he’s totally hot.”
“Didn’t I? Is he? I don’t know.” I shrug.
“He’s cute and you know it. He looks like Henry Cavill and Indiana Jones had a baby.”
“Well, that’s not possible but I see what you’re saying.”
We both turn in unison to watch him a few feet away from Abuelita, who is still talking to him. He nods and halfheartedly takes a bite of a fried plantain.
Eddie moves to the karaoke machine and sings his rendition of “All By Myself,” the Eric Carmen version.
You might think this especially cruel, given my relationship status, but you would be wrong.
One of the best ways I get over myself is to laugh until I cry.
Eddie performs the hammy, campy version of the song, stretching out the long notes and waving his hands around with his exaggerated dramatics. He’s always known how to make me laugh.
Though I can’t say the same for everyone else. They don’t laugh so much as cringe.
“Is he all right?” Ryan joins me when Eddie throws his head back and croons, “anymore!”
“Eddie?” I smother another laugh. “Oh yeah. He’s fine.”
“Did he also just go through a bad breakup?”
“No, Eddie’s always been notoriously single.”
There was a time, family lore says, he had a college sweetheart but that ended badly. No one talks about it. He’s never been serious about anyone else.
Ryan turns to me, and his dark eyes shimmer in the moonlight. “Hey. I’m really sorry about the breakup. You should have said something before you let me go on and on about my problem.”
“Your problem is bigger. I should have known when my ex left for the Peace Corps that we were breaking up. He didn’t have the cojones to tell me to my face that he wanted out. And he’s always wanted everyone to like him.”
“Well, you don’t have to.”
Eddie finishes to a round of applause, most of it because he’s finally done.
He nearly gets hauled off the mike by my cousin Diego, who takes over the sound system as strains of Shakira pipe through the speakers.
This is more like it. My cousin Isla and Sofia grab me with an “excuse us!” and drag me with them to the center of the covered patio.
They’ve always promised, when we do these embarrassing shows for the family, that I can be on the side and barely noticeable.
In a million years I’d never do this in public except for my family, who is quite forgiving (see Eddie, above).
I learned a long time ago how to shake my hips to the music, and we have our routine.
We grew up together and spent many an evening learning the moves.
Of course, we liked Britney and Christina too, but Shakira’s music sounded like the salsa we’d grown up around.
She felt like home in many ways and, for me, it helped that she was blonde.
Another blonde Latina. I could kid myself that I fit right in and didn’t necessarily look like my mother.
Only later I learned Shakira dyed her hair.
Either way, I always get lost in a Shakira tune, imitating Sofia as she tosses her hair, licks her lips. As the song ends, our families applaud dutifully. We’re not great, but they love us anyway.
Ryan comes up to us. “That was amazing.”
“Thank you!” Isla says, blowing on her manicured fingernails and licking her lips. “We’ve been practicing for years. We call ourselves The Three Primas. Get it? Like prima donna, but we’re actually cousins. Prima means cousin in Spanish.”
“C’mon! Tia needs you.” Sofia hooks an arm through Isla and hauls her away.
“Your family,” Ryan says. “They’re so—”
“I know. They’re loud and annoying, but you have to admit, the food is great and there’s never a dull moment around here. This isn’t the first time Eddie’s pulled off a party with only a few hours. He’s dangerous since he bought that karaoke machine.”
“I was going to say…they’re great. You’re lucky.” A speck of pain crosses Ryan’s gaze.
“Honestly, I know they’re a little much sometimes but they mean well.”
Looking for privacy, I walk toward the shrubs and overgrown trees that shade the brick paved walkway, beckoning him to follow.
“Tell me about your family.”
If there’s one thing my abuelita taught me, besides making sure to wash and soak beans before they’re cooked, it’s to honor all family. She’s never said a bad word about my mother, even if she has plenty of ammunition.
“What do you want to know?” Ryan asks.
“Are you still separated?”
“Divorced.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Look, I don’t want to talk about this.” He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and studies the ground.
“Just one question and I won’t say anything more on the subject.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“What did she think of you writing a romance? Is she a fan of the genre?”
Not all women are, I’m keenly aware. In fact, Holly and I once joined an online writing chapter and left when the leaders derided the entire romance genre as being “predictable and plebian.”
The question I’ve asked, which isn’t all that personal, seems to make Ryan particularly uncomfortable.
“No, not a fan, but she knows I wrote this one. What did your ex think about you writing romance?”
I sigh. “He was…not supportive. After a while, he got impatient with me for always complaining I could never get my own work published. The thing is, I had to keep my ghostwriting work confidential so I couldn’t even celebrate any of my successes.”
“That has to be tough, not being able to celebrate your success.”
“Something tells me you understand something about that.”
“Right.”
“I do have a book I’ve been revising forever. Sometimes I think I’ve written the heart right out of the book.”
“It’s time to stop, then.”
“Easier said than done.”
“I’d like to read your novel,” he says.
“You would?”
“When you’re ready. It’s the least I can do. Even if I’m not the intended audience, I could give advice on voice and point of view.”
Yes, especially now. What he wrote is successful.
Suddenly, the thought of Ryan reading my work…
I feel a little squeamish. I’ve had a few alpha readers, mostly Sofia and Isla, who love it, but they’re my cousins.
I’ve entered it into a few contests, which only require the first three chapters, and it always does well.
But once it gets to an agent, the rejections inevitably follow.
Maybe I am too derivative and that’s the problem. Ryan reading one of my love scenes would feel like grocery shopping naked because maybe he’ll think that, too. Maybe he’ll think it but he’ll be too nice to say anything.
“I…may take you up on that.”
A slice of moonlight beams through the branches of our family oak tree. One nice thing about the shed is I occasionally get to feel like I live in a shady forest thick with shrubs and trees.
I wander toward the swing set my abuelo set up long ago for all the grandchildren. We’re all grown now and ready for the next generation. It will be my cousin Diego first, I assume, because he’s been dating his high school sweetheart for years. Hopefully the swing will hold up.
Either way, life goes on because a memory never dies.
You can count on it. And if you’re lucky, you have plenty of good ones.
I think of my papi and how he pushed me on this very swing, laughing and telling me to let my toes touch the clouds.
I think of my mother, and wish the memories were better.
But I have to reach far back for those, to the times before my father died.
I kick off my sandals, take a seat in the empty swing, and push off.
Ryan sits on the swing next to mine. “Your breakup is recent. I should ask how you feel.”
I pump a little harder, and the soles of my feet graze the top of the garden fence. “He…he made it sound like he wanted to join the Peace Corps to give back, but only later did I find out he followed a woman there.”
His coffeehouse crush, Nadia. We used to bump into each other from time to time but he never gave me the slightest hint he was interested in her.
A few seconds later, I stand and my toes graze across the short damp grass. “I have to confess something. I’m sorry but I haven’t read your book. I meant to, but I’ve got a Tbr stack two feet high.”
Ryan shakes his head, smiling. “I’m happy to meet someone who hasn’t.”
“I’ll download it to my e-reader tonight.”
“Not necessary. I should be able to get ahold of the digital file for you. Just give me a day.”
“Because I can’t go on the morning show without at least reading half the book if not the whole thing. I’d feel like a complete fraud. Ever hear of impostor syndrome? I’m about to live it.”
He shakes his head. “You’re a writer even if you didn’t write this book.”
I know he’s right and I’m going to go ahead and claim that belief.