10. Graciella
TEN
GRACIELLA
BASEBALL BUTTS MIGHT BE FUN TO WRITE ABOUT…
“This is a disaster,” I groaned from where I was sprawled out on Itzel’s aged tile floors. The faint scent of Pine Sol was a small comfort during my breakdown. “Like, full-blown, career-ending disaster.”
And I’d done it to my damned self.
Itzel didn’t even look, stepping right over me to get to the blender. The galley kitchen was so narrow that there was barely enough room for me to lie behind her. It hadn’t felt this cramped when we were kids waiting for her mom to hand us tacos de frijoles.
“I thought you already had that, what with the breaking and entering.”
I glared at the side of her head. Her long dark brunette hair fell in loose ringlets, stuck somewhere between a wave and curl. It brushed the middle of her back as she reached for something in the worn cream cabinets.
“Itze, you’re the first person I come to for help to solve this problem, and instead you’re bringing up shit from the past. Rude.”
I’d driven right over to Itzel’s after the disaster of an interview.
“Right.” She glanced over her shoulder, small smile on her lips as she leaned over me, grabbing a cutting board. “Let me get this straight. You didn’t pick her because she didn’t walk a fake dog?”
“That is a perfectly acceptable reason.” I threw an arm across my face.
Being dramatic helped me feel better. If I was going to suffer, I was going to make a production out of it.
Peppers cracked and popped, the bright red tomatoes hissing on the comal over the open flame of the stove beside her. The spicy scent coating the back of my throat, threatening to make me cough. But damn, did I miss the scent of jalapenos and serranos in the air.
“There was no other reason you didn’t pick her?” She turned a few chiles over, revealing the charred skins. “Like maybe you didn’t want her to be his girlfriend?”
“Fake.”
Her hum had me peeking out from under my hiding spot.
I pushed up onto my elbows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. All I did was go hmm.”
I narrowed my gaze. “No, there was a tone to it. A judgmental tone.”
“Chella,” she said softly, leaning a hip against the counter. “There was no tone to my hum. You’re avoiding answering the question. Do you or do you not want her to fake date Mr. Monroe?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Ew. Don’t call him that. Makes him sound…old.”
Her lips twitched, but I barely caught it before she turned, lifting the lid off a well-loved pot. Steam curled in the air, the scent of frijoles mingling with the aroma of roasting ingredients.
“Okay, then, did you not want her with Josh?”
I stood, moving toward the stove to study her face. Itzel might be quiet, but those facial expressions were loud.
“She looked at him like she wanted to jump his bones. I don’t—” I paused, licking my lips, unsure if I was ready to admit the other reasons I hadn’t gone with her.
“I don’t have time to start over,” I said instead, pinching my bridge.
“Where am I going to find a nice, quiet woman who doesn’t like attention and who I can trust? ”
“Don’t know, Chella. Wish I could help you.” Itzel settled the glass blender cup on its base. The thing was her mom’s prized possession, said it was the key to her salsa. “But I only talk to you and Ari. It’s too bad she’s already in love. This would be easier if you knew the woman.”
My head snapped to her.
“Why had I not thought of that before? Itze, you’re a genius.”
Her eyes widened as she turned. “What did I say? I didn’t think I was that help—”
“You. You can be his fake girlfriend.” The plans were already whirling in my brain.
“No.” She held her hands in front of her mandil, waving them like she was warding me off. The bright embroidered florals highlighted how her tanned skin had paled at the suggestion.
“Oh, come on,” I pleaded.
She flicked the blender on, drowning the small space with the groaning whir of a decade-old machine attempting to liquify the roasted solids. I rolled my eyes at the attempt to get me to drop it and move on. Fat chance in hell I’d do that.
I waited her out with my arms crossed and a brow flicked up. She wouldn’t risk over-blending the salsa.
“You know it’s fake,” I said the moment the noise cut out. “And I’m orchestrating the whole thing.”
She sent a glare my way, moving the small plate off the top of the blender—the top lost years ago—to taste the contents. “Otro chile.”
I grabbed another from the comal, heat searing into my fingertips as I dropped it into the burnt-red mixture.
The whine resumed. I smirked at how she avoided looking at me, eyes locked in front of her. Like if she pretended I wasn’t there, I might disappear—or at least change the subject. I was too stubborn for that. Had she forgotten that her mom called me terca?
A twinge of sadness hit my chest.
I’d been so angry and hurt when I left for Dallas that I hadn’t just cut my family off…I’d cut everyone from my life off.
Hell, even Ari. But she’d shoved her way back in whether I wanted it or not.
Itzel was softer than that, more caring of people’s wishes. Even if they hurt her.
“Did I mention this is easy money?”
She flicked her eyes my way.
I fought off a smirk, not wanting to lose her. We may not have shared blood, but we shared the same competitive drive. If she sensed she was losing the battle of wills, she’d throw on the brakes so fast.
I’d witnessed her stubbornness in action with admitting to the crush she’d had on the same man since high school.
Itzel gnawed on the inner corner of her lip. “I already have a job.” She pointed to the stove. “Stir the frijoles y fíjate si necesitan más sal.”
I clucked my tongue. “Ay, no me digas, ‘I have a job.’ We both know your customer care position doesn’t pay what you deserve. And besides, you get to keep it. You keep your whole life the same except for having un novio,” I said, gathering some of the liquid to taste.
“Dammit,” I yelled, waving my hand around.
“Tonta.” Itzel shook her head. “You need to blow on it before you put it in your palm.”
“I didn’t use to.” I licked the droplet off my burnt hand and added a hefty dose of salt to the pot. My ancestors would be pissed.
“When was the last time you even made frijoles from scratch? Ari told me how you used the microwave for tortillas.”
“Esta pendeja, that was one time, and I only did it because I was drunk and didn’t want to burn down the apartment for a quesadilla.”
I blew on the next tasting.
Itzel shrugged and gave a cocky smile, pouring the freshly made salsa into a container. I let a comfortable silence fall over us, knowing she needed time to consider.
Whatever the opposite of impulsive was, that was Itzel.
“How much does it pay?” she asked, so quietly I almost missed it.
I scrambled for my bag, pulling out the thick contract meant for Lauren, crossing the kitchen for the small breakfast nook that flanked one end.
The table I’d sat at hundreds of times during my childhood took up the entire space, forcing me to squeeze along the edges before plopping onto a plastic-coated cushion.
“How’s this for a few months of being a girlfriend?” I plopped it down across from me, motioning for her to sit.
Her eyes went as wide as dinner plates, face in full panic mode. She’d made it to the section outlining payment. “Do I have to sleep with him or something?”
“What? No, you’re not sleeping with him!” I blurted out a little too quickly.
“Oh, thank god.” Her shoulders dropped out of her ears. “But who pays that amount to go on some dates with a man?”
“The Stars do,” I said with a chuckle.
My eyes wandered around the room while she read the rest of the contract.
The table still wore the same off-white lace tablecloth covered by thick plastic, same one on the chairs.
Pale yellow plastered walls were the backdrop to what felt like a sea of crosses and portraits of Jesucristo and la Virgensita.
I was pretty sure our moms hung them that close to the ceiling to drive home the idea that we’re being judged from heaven for our actions.
“Pórtate bien” should have been tattooed on my mom’s forehead so she wouldn’t have had to tell me as many times as she did. The irony was that when she’d given me those reminders, I’d been the picture of a perfect daughter.
“I don’t know, Chella.”
The hesitation in Itzel’s tone cut through my thoughts. Panic settled in my gut.
“You’ll only be his girlfriend until the start of the season.” I gripped her hand, afraid she might bolt back into the kitchen. “Then we’ll roll out a breakup announcement. Say some bullshit about how, because of the demands of his schedule, you two parted ways.”
I needed her to accept this.
“I’ve never even had a boyfriend. I don’t think I’m who you’re looking for.” She gnawed on her lip. “I can barely even look at the guy I’ve liked for years.”
“But this helps that, too,” I said, the idea just dawning on me. “There’s a baseball game you’ll get to go to, and Monroe’s throwing the first pitch. It’s José’s team.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I don’t like him.”
“I know that. Though I’ve got no clue why, he’s way hotter than his younger brother,” I said, ignoring her irritated sigh. “What I was trying to get at was that maybe Miguel would be there.”
“I don’t know, Chella.”
“You’re the only one I trust with this.” My hands tightened around hers, voice barely above a whisper.
“Truth is, I need this for my résumé. I need a career win as big as saving Josh Monroe’s reputation.
Something that makes it so no one cares about my work history.
” Shame stained my cheeks pink. “Otherwise, what am I going to say when they ask about my last job?”
She was quiet for a long moment before the corner of her lips pulled up the tiniest amount, and relief flooded my chest.
“When you told me we’d be hanging out a lot this summer, this wasn’t what I thought you had in mind,” she teased, holding out her hand. “Pen, please.”
I couldn’t get her one fast enough. The rock sitting on my chest eased with every letter of her name she signed on the dotted line.
It was nearly gone when she paused.
“This says that public displays of affection at outings might be required. Do I have to kiss this man, Chella?” Her voice rose two octaves. “Because kissing is listed here.”
Something sour turned in my stomach.
“No.” My response was so aggressive that she flinched.
I cleared my throat. “I mean, no, you don’t need to kiss him.
It’ll be fine for you to be photographed close to him and stuff.
” A thick black strike cut through that line in the contract, my initials shining in the margins, taking ownership of eliminating the requirement.
“There. All done.” The smile I slapped on felt too big for my face, but I rolled with it, hoping she’d let the weird reaction slide.
She didn’t.
“Uh-huh.” Itzel’s brow ticked up a bit in suspicion. “Is there any other reason you don’t want me kissing him?”
“No.”
Great. The first time I said that word, it was too aggressive. Now it sounded too high and squeaky.
I scrambled for something to say.
“I just don’t want you doing something you don’t want to do.”
The words rang true. I might be in denial over the other reason simmering just below the surface, but this one was equally as important to me.
I stood, nearly sending the wooden chair crashing into the wall. “I’m going to check the frijoles so your mom doesn’t throw a chancla at my head.”
From behind me, all I heard was, “Ay, Chella.”