CHAPTER ONE - ADDIE
I ’m really going to miss those stories. I think as I shift my weight onto one of my legs and rub at my upper arm. When Abuelo was alive, he was always telling me about his childhood in Nicaragua.
I can still hear his boisterous voice as clear as day.
“Oh, ‘lee-tool’ mouse!” he’d call out as soon as he walked into the front door. This nickname was given to me as a baby after he visited me and my parents in the hospital. And I guess I couldn’t stop twitching my nose around . . . like a little mouse.
Suddenly, my nostalgia is interrupted when I feel someone giving me a small bump on my shoulder.
“Hey, Addie. How are you holding up?”
Erin has a small paper plate full of assorted fruit, vegetables, and stale sugar cookies. Unlike me, she seems to have an ample appetite despite the occasion.
All I can do is sigh as I look at the casket again, slowly blinking as I look at my dearly departed grandfather.
She puts a carrot chip down and pats my back. “I know.”
“I just hate open caskets.”
Erin tucks some of her short, light brown hair behind her ear, nods, and sucks air through her teeth. “Me too. But it’s what the family wanted.”
The corner of my mouth curls up, and my annoyance is only capitalized.
I can hear my mother’s fake whimpering, filling up the corner of the mansion’s dark and cold parlor room.
And don’t get me wrong, the morgue-like atmosphere is one she prefers—whether there’s a dead body inside of it or not.
She wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
I told myself I’d never return to this insufferable place. But, here I am.
The open casket is the reason my daughter, Luna, is not here.
She loved Abuelo Sal just as much as I did.
And after I found out about my mother’s plans, I fibbed and told her it was an adults-only event.
It was a stupid lie. I know it. But it was all I could think of at the moment.
So I promised myself to tell her the truth once I return to Phoenix.
Then, as if she can read my mind, Erin, while resuming her snacking and crunching, inquires, “How is Luna holding up?”
I take a breath.“She’s fine. Sad. But fine.”
My cousin’s head tilts and her lips roll on each other. “Right. It’s a hard loss for the entire family.
I clench my jaw and my fists, but I try to conceal both from her view.
That isn’t fair, Addie, I remind myself. Ever since hearing about his passing, I’ve struggled with this strange feeling that I should be entitled to grieve the most. I mean, out of everyone at this memorial, I can bet that I spent the most time with him.
However, that doesn’t change the fact that he was the figurehead and the patriarch of our family. So, his death is a definite huge loss for all of us.
With a sniffle, I refocus and graciously step away from my cousin. I head back over to the poster boards, which Luna helped me put together at the last minute.
Oh, shit. I notice that one of the red, paper orchids that I hot glued in the corner of my favorite picture—where he’s young, shirtless, mustachioed, and smoking a cigar—is falling off.
Thankfully, Luna thought ahead, and she had me stuff some double-sided tape into my purse. So, I take some out, apply it to the back, and readjust it.
I swear, sometimes it feels like she’s the one parenting me. But I assume most mothers experience this from time to time, especially when their children are as smart and thoughtful as mine.
Suddenly, my shoulders arch back as the distinct smell of my mother’s Chanel perfume hits my nose.
“Mother,” I say emotionlessly, without turning around.
“Ad-ri-ana,” she says, carefully enunciating every syllable.
For someone born and raised in the neighborhood of Watts—a place where you have about a one in twenty-nine chance of becoming the victim of a crime on the daily—she sure puts on a convincing show that she belongs in Holmby Hills.
“Addie,” I correct her. Nobody calls me by my full name. I don’t necessarily love it.
She just simply ignores me. And when I finally decide to face her, her chin is held high up in the air.
“Mother,” I repeat while folding my arms over my chest.
Her beady and judgmental eyes are surrounded by thick lines of eyeliner, and her thin lips smiles in red.
Then, her head snaps over in the direction of her father-in-law. “He looks good, no?”
I bite my tongue. “Uh-huh.” Countless people have said similar things to me today, and every time, I can barely stop myself from saying, Mhm.
“Your father would’ve been proud of what we’ve done.”
“Mhm.” He died in a freak skiing accident when I was just shy of two years, so I never really knew him. From what others portrayed to me, he seemed like a wonderful man who had a lust for adventure. Just like Abuelo .
I have never been sure what exactly he saw in my mother. And given what she did to me eight years ago, I swear that she doesn’t seem to have a wonderful bone in her entire body.
Her eyes scan me from head to toe.
I look up at the ceiling and wait for the impending condescension.
“You’re looking . . . healthy .”
Thanks. To my mother, being “healthy” is a bad thing.
But before she can say more, I butt in, and speak for her, “Yes, I’ve gained a few pounds.”
I see the muscles next to her mouth tighten. “That isn’t what I meant.”
“Yes, it is.” I know you better than that, Rosalinda.
She doesn’t like her full name, and no, the irony of that is not lost on me.
Plus, she prefers for people to call her “Rosa.” And if I ever failed to call her “Mother” to her face, she would probably erupt into hysterics.
So, this little dig is best reserved inside my own mind.
Unaware of my inner monologue, she looks flustered as she glances around the room. “Have you seen any of the Cohen boys?”
Instantly, my blood runs cold in my veins. “Seriously? They’re—they’re here?”
“Well, I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”
Now, I’m looking around, while trying to hide my face with my hand. The last thing I need right now is to see the younger brother.
“Especially Hayden.”
Hearing her say his name out loud causes goosebumps to spread on my skin. In order to conceal them, I pull down the sleeves of my black dress.
“He always liked your grandfather.”
I look down at my twiddling fingers. “That he did.”
“Well, I’d better keep making my rounds,” my mother says after perking back up and wigging her shoulders under her $2,000-dollar Gucci blouse. It’s ivory with billowing sleeves, has a small black tie under the collar, and is a pale comparison to the outfit I picked off the clearance rack at Kohl’s.
Sure, I grew up in designer clothes, but that, and any other financial support from my mother, stopped the second I came home and announced I was pregnant.
Ugh. I shake my head thinking about that day. Sure, I was no stranger to disappointing my mother. Far from it. But becoming a single mom myself pushed things off the edge.
With all of these thoughts swirling around my mind, I feel a little crazy. But I, fortunately, see my Aunt Melissa’s welcoming face emerge from the crowd.
She has the same red curls as my father used to have, but while his shaggy hairdo only came down to his chin, her hair reached past her shoulder blades.
“Auntie Mel!” I exclaim as I pull her by the arm and back into the hallway where she came from. Her wide smile warms my heart as she engulfs me in her arms.
When she releases me from the hug, she holds my face in her hands for a second. She’s several inches taller than me, so I have to tilt my face to hold her gaze. “How are you, mi sobrina ?”
I softly clutch her wrists. “I’m okay.”
She takes a peek over my shoulder. “Is he here?”
I glance back but don’t let my eyes focus on anything. “I’m not sure.”
“Hmmm.” Her brown eyes narrow. “I’ll go scout things out for you.”
I awkwardly chuckle. “I appreciate that.”
She goes to walk past me, but then, she stops herself and lowers down closer to me. “What about your mother?”
I quietly groan. “She’s—she’s the same as always.”
Auntie Mel’s tongue clicks. “Figures.”
“Oh, Mel-is-Saa!” my mom shouts over the crowd in her well-practiced “rich lady” accent. “How lovely to see you here. So glad you could come!”
“Because this isn’t my father’s funeral or anything,” my aunt whispers sarcastically to me out of the corner of her mouth.
I raise my hand up to hide a smile. Leave it to Auntie Mel to pull me, even momentarily, out of my profound sadness.
“Don’t go too far,” she warns. “I want to hear all about graduation.”
That’s one area that’s been significantly overshadowed by the death of my grandfather.
I nod, and she grins back at me with her eyes wide. But once my mom gets closer, she puts on a facade. “Rosy, how good to see you!”
Both women continue to insincerely catch up, which leaves me to walk outside and get some much-needed air.
As I walk closer to the big, Baroque-style doors, a few more people try to catch my attention. But I just wave and tell them I’ll be right back.
And just as I think I’ve successfully snuck away, my nose bangs into something hard. Then, as I reach for my face, I feel myself start to tilt towards the ground. Falling.
With that, I feel a palm cup my elbow, and my body is right side up again. “Addie?”
I cautiously open one eye. And it’s him. Hayden Cohen in all of his handsome glory.
“I—” I try to formulate a sentence. But in my lingering dizzy state, all I can focus on are the bulging muscles that are visible even under his navy jacket.
After releasing me from his grip, he licks the corner of his mouth, looks at the ground, and slicks back some of his dark hair. “It’s been a while.”
“Um, yes.” I fold my arms. “That it has,” Internally, I’m praying not to sound too awkward or dorky.
“How have you been?” he asks before raising his hand to his forehead. “I mean, of course. Your grandfather.”
“Yeah. Uh, he’s in there.”
Hayden kicks his feet and slides his hands into his pockets. “Right.”
After standing in front of each other in silence, he finally says, “I honestly almost didn’t recognize you.”
Oh, great. Let me guess—the weight. Self-consciously, I pull at the hem of my thigh-length dress, which I got on sale.
But once I see his squinted eyes carefully examining it, I realize maybe it’s the off-brand ensemble that’s caught him off guard. However, I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than the added pounds.
“Nice dress,” he mutters while itching the back of his neck.
Jerk.
. . . And that’s why I’ve made the decisions that I have.