CHAPTER FOUR
The dining room is almost silent. Aside from the occasional clink of silverware or the soft clatter of plates being passed around, nobody speaks. The family—the Taveras—are sitting on one side, while my friends and I are on the other.
It’s the kind of table you see at a banquet, super long with more chairs than probably needed. A white cloth is draped over top, but it’s so tattered and beat up it’s really more of a gray color now. The dishes are clean, the silverware so shiny you can see all the little scratches and marks on it.
“This is my papá, Mr. Tavera.” Damien explains, motioning towards the older man with salt and pepper hair that’s thinning out on the sides. His hazel eyes are sunken in, seemingly disinterested in the conversation.
He looks up at us through his thick brows, but he doesn’t appear very happy. I can’t blame him though, I don’t think I’d be that thrilled to find a bunch of strangers in my house either. I feel awful to impose like this. Maybe this was a mistake after all.
“It’s nice to meet y’all,” he finally says. His voice is hoarse and gravelly. His southern accent surprisingly isn’t as strong as Damien’s. “I hope you enjoy dinner. My daughter, Alma, worked hard on it. She always does.”
He shoots his daughter a smile, and the woman’s face brightens a little. Her hair is sleek and long, done into two braids with neat curtain bangs. She’s undeniably pretty, with a mole just under her lip.
“It’s mamá’s recipe,” she explains while staring us down. Alma scans each and every one of us, the spark of annoyance on her face growing more noticeable with every untouched bowl she sees. She doesn’t say anything, though, she only takes a bite and shakes her head.
I look down at the bowl of soup. Pozole, I think. Of course my friends haven’t tried any, even if half my bowl is already gone. It tastes amazing, even if the pork tastes a little different than I would’ve expected.
“It’s really good,” I say as Alma’s eye catches mine, a genuine smile creeping up on her face.
Damien chuckles a little, hitting his brother Lucio’s shoulder.
The man’s hair is as short as his fathers, although it’s thicker in the front.
He’d probably do numbers on TikTok since he has the ‘look’ of every guy I’ve ever seen on there.
“You like it?” Lucio asks while leaning in, the faintest grin on his lips. It almost feels as if there’s some kind of inside joke I don’t know about going on. “Your friends don’t seem to. They haven’t even touched it.”
“I’m a vegan,” Levi lies with no hesitation. “So, uh, sorry. Can’t.”
Nadine thoughtfully hums in agreement “Yeah—same. It smells great, though.”
Lucio’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t call their bluffs. “Alright. Fair enough. Guess you got a lot of y’all vegan-types up in Los Angeles, huh?” There’s almost some sort of malice in the way he emphasizes the city’s name.
“Big city,” Grant shrugs, “lots of different people.”
“Fair enough.” Lucio takes a sip of his water. “At least one of y’all can appreciate a nice home cooked meal.”
He grins at me, but there’s nothing genuine about it. It feels comparable to some kind of act, it’s all for show, isn’t it? There’s also something else, something I can’t quite put a finger on.
I sheepishly smile back, but when I glance down at my dinner I notice someone is gawking at me curiously.
It’s the youngest brother, Toro. In the brighter light of the dining room his features are more prominent.
His eyes are two big pots of honey, so bright and warm despite his dark features.
His lashes are long and his lips a little chapped, with a few faint scars slashed across them.
He’s silent as he gawks, and I follow his eyes down to the pocket of my shirt. I see the bright blue packet of cookies and realize what he’s after before letting out a chuckle. It’s sort of cute in its own way, seeing a guy that has to be at least 6’5” acting all shy over some candy.
I pull it out, smiling at him while extending my hand out for him to take it. “You can have it, I’m probably not gonna want it after dinner anyway.”
Toro’s definitely surprised at this, face twisting into something that can only be described as pure confusion. He glances over at his father, who’s sitting in the seat furthest from him.
“Just take the damn cookies, boy.” He sighs, pushing his spoon around the bowl. He’s obviously talking down to his son, not even trying to hide how annoyed he is. “Don’t even think about eating it until after supper.”
Toro beams, reaching out to gently pluck the packet from my hand. His tanned fingers brush against my own, and it’s obvious who gets out more because his tan is much darker than mine.
His nails are cut short, his thick fingers and calloused skin telling a story of their own. He must do a lot of work around the farm just like Damien does. It’s impressive, honestly. This trip is the longest I’ve been out of the house in a long, long time.
After a moment he pulls back, letting the cookies rest on the table. With the quietest pleased hum he leans in and nods at me, his gaze interlocked with mine. He repeats the motion a few times before his hair gets in the way of his eyes.
A wide smile creeps up on my face. Something about it is just… nice. It’s sweet despite how poorly the rest of the night has gone. Plus the way he lit up makes me certain it was the right thing to do.
“He’s sayin’ thank you.” Damien explains before anyone can ask, spoon swirling around his bowl. “We don’t normally let him eat crap like that but takin’ it away would just result in him throwin’ a tantrum.”
My smile drops. “Oh, uh. Sorry. I didn’t realize—”
“No need to apologize,” Mr. Tavera chimes in. His voice carries authority, as expected from the man who’s obviously running the show here. “He works hard enough, anyway. Even he deserves a lil’ treat every now and then.”
Despite how much I hate that, I nod. There’s something grossly dehumanizing about the way they talk about him. But I also understand that is not my family and not something I should even think about getting involved in.
Grant stands up, pushing his chair out as wood rubs against wood and lets out a low screech. “I’m about ready to tuck in for the night. Um… Is there a place for us to sleep, or…?”
Mr. Tavera stares at him, expression unchanging. “Course,” his attention shifts to his daughter. “Show ‘im to his room, please.”
“Um—” Nadine jumps out of her seat, clearly not liking the idea of her boyfriend and some stranger going off alone together. “I’ll come too. I’m tired.”
“Uh-huh.” Alma guides the two out of the dining room, and their footsteps trail off as they head upstairs.
Somehow it’s even more awkward now, which my other two friends can clearly sense since they just get up and chase after others.
Not even a goodbye or anything. My friends can be real assholes sometimes.
Now it’s just me and a bunch of men that I do not know. That’s not terrifying at all, considering they’re all big strong farmer guys who probably view me as nothing more than a stupid little socialite from the city. To them I’m probably ‘spoiled’ or ‘rich’ despite being neither of those things.
“So, uh…” I absolutely cannot stand the silence. “Do you guys want any help washing up, or…?”
I feel as though I owe them something, and washing dishes is the least I can do. A delicious dinner and a place to sleep is beyond generous. Even if they’re all sizing me up, they’ve done so much for us already.
They must be trying to figure out what exactly my deal is. Well, all of them except Damien maybe—he doesn’t seem to care much.
“It’s alright,” Mr. Tavera murmurs. “You’re a guest. You ain’t gotta do none of that. Alma’ll clean it up when she gets back.”
I give it one last little push. Only one because Mr. Tavera sort of scares me. “No, really… I insist. I don’t mind at all.”
Mr. Tavera glances over at Lucio, who just shrugs. “Alright, sure. Go ahead.” They both seem wary of me, which I don’t blame them for. I am just a stranger in their home, but still I offer an awkward half-bow and get to gathering up the bowls.
“What should I do with all the leftovers?” I ask, staring at the four completely full bowls lined up next to mine.
“Toss ‘em,” Lucio mumbles, the crinkle of plastic filling the air as he helps to carefully open the cookies I gave Toro. Mr. Tavera nods in approval, and I don’t linger around. I take the first batch of dishes to the kitchen, which is well kept and clean.
After I wash a couple bowls clean and set them in what I assume is the drying rack. The wooden thing was definitely hand carved, but it’s not polished and almost looks like more of a weird art piece.
Footsteps on my right let me know someone is there standing in the doorway. I glance over to see Alma peering at me curiously.
“What’re you doin’?” She asks, unmoving.
I blink, feeling caught even though I didn’t do anything wrong. “Uh… washing the dishes?” I say, eyes squinting in thought.
“Pa let you do that?” One of her brows raises up, and she finally steps over to join me near the sink. “He says this is women’s work.”
“I… don’t share that sentiment.”
“Interestin’.”
She’s working with me now, but I feel more like I’m in the way. She works methodically, and it’s clear this is something she’s grown very familiar with. I step back, awkwardly tugging at the collar of my shirt.
“Am I… Am I bothering you?”
Alma stops and looks at me. Her expression is hard to read, but her eyes are lit up with intrigue.
“Not really. It’s just weird to have another person in the kitchen.
” She turns back to the sink, resuming on the last few dishes.
“But you should on head back to yer’ friends. They don’t seem very happy.”
She pauses.
“They don’t seem all that similar to ya, either.”
I get what she means by that. It’s not exactly the first time I’ve heard it. I stick out in my friend group, for better or for worse.
“They’re good people,” I say, and I believe it—even if the behavior they’ve shown here just makes me seem like a big fat liar.
Alma just shrugs, which must mean that the conversation is over. I turn to leave, but nearly yelp when Toro appears in the doorway. I’m not even that short, but standing so close to him makes me feel small. With my head tilted all the way up, our eyes meet again.
He doesn’t say or do anything. He only stares curiously. His head cocks to the side, not unlike a dog trying to process something they don’t quite understand. He scratches at his stubble awkwardly before just stepping to the side with an audible huff.
I don’t really know what to make of that so I just smile. “You have a good night, okay?”
His face brightens, but he still says nothing. I move to join the others upstairs. As nice as the Taveras have been to us, I can't say I’ll be that sad to leave tomorrow.
Just one more night and I’ll be in my own bed.