Rule #8
PREPARE YOURSELF FOR CRAMPED QUARTERS
CAI
Sonny and Abuela lead the way back to the main house, arm in arm, Sonny carrying her overnight bag in his free hand. I balance the pan of arroz con leche and a loaf of Cuban bread she insisted on bringing.
The wind has become more pointed and sharp, as if it’s being forcefully pushed into streams. It makes an audible whistle as it whips around the trees in the backyard.
At one point, a gust pushes through the narrow gap between a planter and a piece of sheet metal, producing a wobbly, alien, high-pitched squeal.
The eerie noise makes Sonny’s head snap towards the sound.
Abuela smiles. “?Te da miedo?” she asks Sonny.
I’m about to translate—“are you afraid?”—but before I can, she makes comical ghost “Ooooos” and wiggles her fingers in a spooky wave.
Sonny laughs nervously. “Abuela, don’t play with me. I’m not too good to leave an old lady as ghost bait.”
Abuela and I laugh. “Abuela’s dad was a ghost hunter. Not really a hunter—more of a myth-buster. He’d stay in places said to be haunted or test cursed objects just to dismiss superstitions.”
“Really?” Sonny asks, looking at Abuela, who beamed with pride.
“Sí, Papá era único.” (Yes, Papa was unique)
“I wrote a story series based on him in college,” I told Sonny.
“I’d like to read them,” he says as we reach the house.
“You don’t have to do that,” I reply.
He stops at the door and looks at me, eye contact unwavering. “I know.”
My chest does something stupid and tight. No one has ever said “I know” like that—like they see me and still want more.
Abuela swings the door open and, as a greeting, says, “?Fiu, qué manera de echar Fabuloso!” (Phew! It reeks of Fabuloso!)
Tia Julia and Mama are inside, arms full of folded sheets and towels, bustling as if on a mission.
They take the cleaner comment in stride, barely giving Abuela a second glance.
The kitchen smells like garlic and coffee, mingling with the cleaner scent.
The bottle of Fabuloso lists the scent as “lavender,” but I will only ever recognize it as the Fabuloso smell.
Abuela makes her way to the TV in the living room, which is on low volume and tuned to the Weather Channel.
Mama comes over to us, saying, “Al Fin! Sonny, mijo, drop Abuela’s bag by the couch. Then take these sheets—” she thrust a stack at him without missing a beat. “We need them in all the rooms.”
Sonny takes them quickly, giving her a small salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mama turns to me next, eyeing the pan and bread. “Of course, Cayetana with the food,” she says with no attempt to hide the shade.
I feel the familiar sting but bite my tongue and walk to the counter to set everything down.
Then she drops the bomb. “Can you take Sonny and drop sheets in all the rooms? I was thinking you two could take your old room?”
I spin toward her. “The same room?”
It feels weird, wrong, almost, to imagine staying with Sonny in the room where I wasn’t even allowed to have boys in with the door open in high school.
Posters of Backstreet Boys and NSYNC are probably still on the walls.
The twin beds, in case I ever had a friend sleep over, but were mostly for a visiting cousin, pressed against opposite walls as if they are avoiding each other.
Mama pinches the bridge of her nose as if this is the most exhausting conversation of the day. “You have two beds in there, and I assume we don’t need to have the birds-and-bees talk with you at twenty-nine?”
“Mama!” I say, going completely red. “I have a boyfriend whom I’m very committed to!”
I say it quite defensively, trying to hit the right level of outrage expected of someone in a serious relationship to keep up the act. I notice Sonny tense next to me as I say it, his arms squeezing tighter on the sheets he is holding.
The words taste sour, and I wish I could take them back as the photo of Trevor with his arm around someone else flashes in my mind.
“Good!” Mama says, as if making her point.
“So we can move on to other accommodations like getting your grandmother, your sister’s family, your brother, Tia Julia, Elena, and your cousins all a place to spend the storm.
You know that our house is the most secure, and we all have to make accommodations when there are hurricanes. ”
“Yeah, of course. We’ll get the rooms ready,” I say, feeling a little embarrassed by my reaction.
But Sonny looks thrilled. His eyes light up like I’ve just handed him the keys to a secret garden. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I promise,” he says.
We begin to make our way down the hall toward the rooms. “Cai, I need you to paint me a full picture of who you were as a teenager,” he says, in a tone that imitates someone undertaking some scientific inquiry.
“Were you a Lolita goth girl? An artsy intellect? A collector of Lisa Frank Trapper Keepers and cute little erasers?”
I laugh, thinking the reality is almost just as embarrassing as what he’s suggesting. “Oh, don’t worry,” I say, trying to sound casual even though my heart is thudding. “The room will paint a pretty good picture. I hope you like pink.”
SONNY
This is a tense situation. I know it is. But I am loving every moment of the family drama and homey feel. I don’t love the little comments disparaging Cai, or her assertion that her relationship is still on and committed. So I do my best to push it out of my mind.
The insistent buzzing phone in my pocket is harder to ignore.
Once word spread that I am not at the conference as expected but waiting out the storm in Miami, the messages have been nonstop.
Some are about booking travel back to Arizona at the first available time after the storm.
There are also requests to join video or conference calls to discuss next steps.
Except for the one call I took with a senior executive to give him an update, I have mostly ignored the rest. The company will be fine without me for twenty-four hours and probably even better for having to do a little problem-solving on their own.
I’m a workaholic. I never took breaks, especially not before a launch.
I barely do vacations, and I am involved in projects at even the most basic levels.
So the fact that I’m not trying to go back to work right now, the fact that I’m able to focus on what is happening here and zero in on what Cai is telling me, further signals to me that I am where I need to be.
It feels good to step away and, for the first time ever, exercise my privilege as CEO.
Cai has a continuous stream of dialogue as we go from room to room. Each looks like its own world. Some have murals and multiple beds. Others are more like offices or dens, but with an old foldout couch. One is decorated like a tropical resort. And another, like a mountain cabin.
Cai tells me the story of each one. When the room was added or decorated.
She explains to me which uncle, cousin, or family friend was practicing whatever trade had inspired the addition.
Then she goes into who used it and what for.
She is amazing in her effortless recounting of events, and with the right detail and pacing, stories come to life.
I can see why she wants to be a writer with a natural talent like hers.
I find myself getting excited every time we open a door.
Then she pauses at one and turns to me before opening. “I went through a real, trying-to-fit-in phase. I really wanted to be Elle Woods from Legally Blonde for a bit there. And ummm…” she looks around nervously. “Well, I never really updated it when I grew out of it. It didn’t seem important.”
I can’t help but smile. I love how nervous she is to show me her inner sanctum. “What? Am I the first boy you’ve ever had in your room?”
She fidgets again. “You’re the first boy I’ve ever brought home to meet my family.”
I’m sincerely not sure whether she is kidding. I’m flattered and curious why this would be the case, but I hardly have time to react as she opens the door.
I’m hit full in the face by a world of hot pink. The reference to Legally Blonde is obvious, but it also adds in some Clarissa Explains It All with the posters of boy bands and teen heartthrobs. Cai hadn’t been kidding about the room being a time capsule.
I walk around looking at everything. There are Polaroids of kids laughing, with braces-filled mouths and crunchy, gelled hair.
A Magic 8-Ball sits next to a hamburger phone.
A Tiger Beat picture of Joshua Jackson is clipped to her mirror with butterfly clips.
An antique-looking jewelry box lay open with some braided friendship bracelets and a mood ring.
Then I see it: tucked on the bottom shelf, a Nintendo 64, and Zelda: Ocarina of Time Master Quest!
I had never seen this game in real life, and the N64 looks barely touched.
This game and console, in mint condition, are probably worth a fortune.
Zelda is one of my favorite franchises, and this is one of the few I haven’t played.
It’s hard to find nowadays, and I know only a few who ever played it and none who own it.
I can’t help myself; I reach for it instinctively. “You have a Nintendo 64?” My voice cracks as I’m unable to keep my excitement under wraps.
Cai glances over disinterestedly, but arches an eyebrow quizzically. “Oh yeah, I got it as a gift like a million years ago. I may have used it twice. I probably should’ve gotten rid of it. I’d give it to one of my nieces or nephews, but I don’t want it to turn them into one of those people.”
I bite my tongue to keep myself from reacting.
I’m a little hurt by her ignorance and sweeping generalizations.
This game, in particular, has puzzle elements and lore that she might actually have enjoyed if she had given it a shot.
“You know not everyone who likes video games turns out to be a loser.”
She isn’t looking at me as she responds, opting to get the sheets on the beds, but I can tell she’s scoffing as she says, “Could’ve fooled me!”
“If you’re referring to your boyfriend, he can’t be that much of a loser; he got you chasing him.
” The words are out of my mouth before I can think, and she spins towards me, opening her mouth as if to say something.
Then she stops, swallows hard, and like a gut punch, I notice her eyes start to moisten with fresh tears.
I feel like such a shit. I reach out to apologize, but she pulls away, not only physically but emotionally. That barrier I’ve been breaking down is back up.
She snaps, “I have to run to the bathroom.”
“Cai, I’m an asshole; I shouldn’t have…” but she puts up a hand to silence me as she runs out of the room. Leaving me alone in her childhood sanctuary. I’m just another ass who made her cry.