Chapter 19
Aria
Three years ago, when I wanted to escape the hardships of working at the hospital, I went to Vegas.
Three months ago, I felt the urge to leave Austin.
No, urge isn’t the right word. I needed to get out of Austin because the home I once knew was tainted and I didn’t feel safe, even with cartel phone numbers in my contacts.
I needed to escape it all, and that feeling brought me to Chicago.
Now, there’s a new urge rolling through me, one that isn’t dictated by my hardships at work or escapism. No, the urge this time is something different, something less emotional and is wanting to go back on every rule I ever set myself, yet again and accept Elliot’s invitation to dinner.
Like a date.
Or maybe as friends.
I don’t know, but I want to go to dinner with him, and then I want him to take me to his bed.
And I want to do it again. And again. And again. But without the whole relationship thing. I just want to have fun and enjoy myself. I want to go into the living room and beg his brother for his number, because even though I’ve spent the last six days here, I don’t have it.
But instead, I’m getting a snack, because I don’t want to give into this damn urge. It would be good if I did; it would be fucking fantastic, if my memory serves me right, but I refuse.
I have willpower.
I’m a nurse who works with kids, dammit. If I have the willpower to not cry when they get bad news, I will have the willpower for this.
Trying to make my brain think of about anything besides dinner with Elliot, I make sure the mango I’m cutting up is perfect. I even put a whole lot of attention on the lemon, making sure it’s cut perfectly in the middle.
The perfect cuts don’t matter, though, because the mango sections and the juice from the lemon are all going to go in one place: my mouth.
I grab the plates and head to the living room.
Since Grayson is six days post-op, there isn’t a whole lot he needs me or Sophia for.
He is walking with the mobility aids, his incision is healing up beautifully, and his pain management has been good, but he is still worried about being alone for long periods.
I can’t knock it, though, since I’m getting paid to sleep in a way more comfortable bed than what my rental has to offer. I’ve also come to think of Grayson as more of a friend than a patient.
“Here. Eat this and don’t complain,” I say, handing a bowl of mango to Grayson as he sits on the couch, doing something on his laptop with a superhero movie on the TV.
He places the laptop on the coffee table and takes the bowl from me, giving me a smile I can’t really place.
“Did you put lemon and salt on this?” he asks, sounding happy.
“I did. I know some people don’t like it, but this is a comfort food of mine. So try it, and if you don’t like it, I’ll get you a plain one.”
He doesn’t even let me finish before he grabs two pieces and pops them into his mouth. “This is my comfort food too. I love mango con sal y lemon.”
His pronunciation throws me off a bit. “You speak Spanish?” I ask, taking a seat a few cushions away.
Grayson nods yes as he shoves more fruit into his mouth. “It’s my first language.”
I think my mouth is hanging open. “Your first language?”
He does come from a super-rich family; maybe they had a nanny or something who spoke Spanish, and that’s how he picked it up.
“Having a Mexican mother, being born in Mexico, and spending the first five years of my life there made sure of that.”
Dumbfounded.
Absolutely dumbfounded.
“You’re Mexican?” I ask. I have no idea why I’m in shock.
“Half, but yes. At least, that’s what my Mexican passport says. You look surprised,” Grayson answers, throwing me a smirk.
I try to compose myself as best I can. “It just threw me off a bit.”
“That’s the usual reaction when I tell people. People see me and my siblings and automatically assume that we may identify a certain way, but they are usually wrong,” he says with a shrug.
Me. I’m part of that statistic.
“I’m sorry I was one of those people.”
“You’re fine. Are you Mexican?” he asks.
I nod. “I am. My grandparents immigrated here in the sixties and seventies. I can’t speak Spanish all that well, though. I understand it better than I can speak it.”
“It doesn’t matter how much of the language you can or can’t speak. As long as you are proud of who you are, that is all that matters.”
I nod, and we go about finishing out mango as we watch the superhero movie.
I’m able to sit through the movie for a total of thirty minutes, but after seeing nipples on a superhero suit for what feels like the hundredth time, I get up and take our now-empty bowls to the kitchen.
Both Elliot and Henry have told me not to clean, to leave everything how it is and someone will take care of it, but I can’t leave a kitchen dirty. My mom and Abuela taught me otherwise.
As I wipe down the counter, I hear the elevator ding, announcing someone’s arrival.
I half expected it to be Henry, but it’s Elliot, and there is something off about him.
Looking over at the time on the oven, I see it’s past ten at night. I’ve spent less than a week here, but I’ve become attuned to when Elliot comes home, and ten o’clock is late for him.
“Hey,” I say, wiping the counter one more time before turning to him.
This morning, he looked so put together; right now, he looks like has gone through the emotional ringer. His hair is all over the place, the tie from this morning is gone, and there’s a stain on his white button down.
“Hi,” he lets out, dropping his wallet, keys, and phone on the counter.
I watch him as he grabs a beer from the fridge, opens it, and downs it in one swoop.
“Rough day at work?”
Once he is done with his beer, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and turns to me. “You can say that.”
His eyes look sad. I try to bite my tongue, because we shouldn’t get personal, but I can’t help it. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Some of the sadness in his eyes goes away, and a small smile even gets thrown in my direction. “No, it’s okay. Thank you. though. It’s not something I want to drop on you.”
But I want him to. That revelation catches me by surprise. I don’t know how much more time I am able to spend with him before I do something I shouldn’t—like tell him to have his way with me. Or make him tell me about his day.
“There’s cut up mango in the fridge. I can put a bowl together for you if you want?” I offer; I just can’t walk away from him when he is like this.
The small smile from earlier comes back, but this time, it’s just a smidge bigger. “I didn’t know I had mango in the house.”
Now it’s my turn to give a smile. “You didn’t. I stopped by the store on my way here. Grayson and I ate the majority of it, but there is still some left for you.”
His head nods. “Mango sounds great right now.”
I actually beam at his words and get to work at preparing him a bowl.
The whole time I’m doing it, I can feel his eyes on me. Just knowing he is watching me has little flutters bursting in my belly.
Yup. I need to put distance between us.
I prepare his bowl just like I prepared mine. When I get closer to him, bowl in hand, I realize he is no longer watching me. Rather, he’s looking down at the bowl in my hands, his expression unreadable.
“You put salt and lemon on it,” he observes.
“I did. Is that okay?” I bite my lip in worry, which I think he detects, because his eyes quickly move up to mine.
“Yeah,” he says before looking back down to my hands. “It’s okay. It just took me by surprise. I can’t remember the last time I ate it that way.”
I extend the bowl to him, and this time, he takes it.
“Grayson told me it was a comfort food for him, so I thought it would be for you too.”
He nods as he grabs the fork. Elliot is silent for a few beats as he eats before he breaks it.
“My mom used to cut up fruit for us all the time. She would always add lemon and salt; sometimes, she would add some Valentina to it. Mango, cucumber, watermelon. If it was strawberries, she would sprinkle some sugar. With bananas, she would add honey.” He speaks as if he is getting lost in the memories.
“What was your favorite?” I ask, leaning against the counter next to him.
“The banana with honey.” Another small smile forms on his lips. “There was a tianguis, an open-air market, close to our house, and she would take us to pick out fruit a few times a week. They didn’t have bananas often, but when they did, she would get two bundles for me.”
He pauses for a second, as if the memory is playing out right in front of him. It takes him a few seconds to remember where he is before he goes back to eating as if his mind wasn’t somewhere else.
“Do you miss living in Mexico?” I find myself asking.
He looks over at me, his eyebrows furrowing a little bit, as if he’s silently asking how I know that.
He just said he they lived there, but I explain.
“Grayson told me he lived the first five years of his life there. I figured that applied to you too.”
He nods. “I spent the majority of my childhood and teen years wanting to go back.” He doesn’t elaborate further.
I’m silent for a second, trying to make sense of it but only coming up with more questions. He spent years wanting to go back. Did he stop wanting that? Or did he go back, and what he found isn’t what he remembered?
My mind is about to let the questions roam free, but Elliot ends up speaking before I ask something he may not want to answer.
“Thank for the mango.” His voice is low, leaving goosebumps on my arms as he walks over to place the bowl in the sink. “I’m going to go the burger place down the street to grab something else to eat. I’ll be back in a little bit. Have my brother send me your order if you want something.”
He raps his knuckles against the counter before throwing me a closed mouth smile and turning back toward the elevator.
Elliot is not even ten feet away from me when my mouth speaks of its own accord.
“Can I come with you?”
When he turns, a sweet smile sits on his face, causing flutters in my stomach. “You sure?”
Am I?
Again, I let my mouth speak for me instead of thinking. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
He extends a hand toward me. “Then let’s go.”