15. Diaz
Diaz
The opening credits of Moonstruck rolled across the massive screen in my home theater, and Cher’s voice filled the surround sound like velvet.
I should’ve been thrilled to watch one of my favorite comfort movies. It had all of my favorite things—food porn, unhealthy family dynamics, the original “hot rodent boyfriend,” Nicolas Cage, looking all sweaty and neurotic while baking bread.
Damn, I guess I have a type.
Tonight, though, I couldn’t focus on a single frame. Not even Cher could snap me out of it. Any second now, the queer community was going to bang down my door and revoke my membership.
Abuelita was curled up in the oversized recliner beside mine, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap while Loretta Castorini argued with her family about Johnny . . . or was it Ronny? Honestly, I’d always had a difficult time keeping them straight.
There was a certain circle of hell for the parents—fictional or otherwise—who gave their kids names that rhymed, one shared with telemarketers and the weirdos who preferred faux banana flavoring to the actual thing.
“You’re not paying attention, Peter.”
So much for keeping a low profile. I should’ve known Abuelita, of all people, would be able to pick up on the storm that was brewing inside me.
“Am, too.”
“Don’t lie. And you only had two helpings of my pastelón.” She turned her head, eyes narrowing on me like I had committed a cardinal sin.
I forced a grin. “Did you ever think I might just be watching my figure after five days of nonstop gluten?”
Her beady eyes bored into me. Uh-oh. I knew that look all too well. It was the same one she’d given me back in sixth grade when I’d made the mistake of lying about who’d (allegedly) broken our neighbor’s window. In another life, she could’ve made one hell of an interrogator.
“You are pining, mijo.”
I nearly spit out my sip of beer.
“Excuse me?”
“Pining. Like one of those sad women in my telenovelas who stare out the windows while the dramatic music plays.”
Damn. She was too observant for her own good.
“I’m not pining,” I argued through gritted teeth, even though I knew it was a lost cause. Abuelita had never met an argument she couldn’t win.
She pointed toward my lap. “You’ve spent the past ten minutes staring at the same piece of popcorn.”
I looked down and sure enough, I was holding a single piece between my fingers like it contained the secrets of the universe.
Traitorous popcorn.
“I’ve just got a lot on my mind,” I admitted.
Abuelita set her bowl down on the table between us and reached for the remote control, pressing pause. “Does that include a certain young man with freckles?”
I rubbed the back of my neck and nodded. “Matty.”
“I could tell when I visited the show set,” she said. “He is the teammate you have feelings for, yes? The one you told me about before?”
I let out a soft laugh. “That obvious, huh?”
“To me? Yes.” She reached over and patted my knee. “But nobody else knows you like I do.”
I took a minute to decide how much I was ready to share with her, landing on a PG-version of the truth. “A lot changed between us over the past week. Before we left the inn, we agreed to take a few days apart and think things through before we go back to work.”
“And now you’re regretting it?”
“Big time.” I rested my head back against the chair. “I keep thinking about him, wondering what he’s doing. But mostly, I worry that any minute now, he’ll realize it was a mistake and not want . . .”
For the sake of my own personal well-being, I didn’t finish that sentence. Abuelita was quiet for a moment, then let out a wistful sigh.
“You know, there was a point when I was younger, much younger than you, when I was seeing a few boys.”
A slow grin crept across my face. “A few, Bueli?”
“Three,” she said, a mischievous sparkle in her eye.
“Don’t look at me like that, mijo. It was the sixties.
” She waved her hand. “Anyway, your guelo, may he rest in peace, was one of them. By far the quietest of the three, a delivery driver who spent his free time helping out in his family’s shoe store.
For a while there, I thought, maybe, he wasn’t even interested.
He never pushed me to spend more time with him, just accepted whatever I was willing to give him.
One evening, he found me outside his house, crying.
I had just had my heart broken by one of the other boys. ”
I clenched my fists. I had the sudden urge to track down an eighty-something-year-old dude and give him a . . . stern talking to.
Nobody disrespected Abuelita.
“I hadn’t realized that I had run to his house, and your guelo didn’t say a word about it. He just let me in, made me some tea, and held me while I cried.”
A soft smile spread across her face.
“At the time, I thought I was in love with the other boy. The exciting one. The handsome one. The one who always knew exactly what to say.” She laughed quietly. “Your guelo barely spoke two sentences all night.”
“That’s hard to imagine.”
As far as I knew, my guelo had never met a stranger in his life.
The man could strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere.
Cashiers, mechanics, the guy stocking avocados at the supermarket, it didn’t matter.
A five-minute errand inevitably turned into a forty-five-minute social event.
One that usually ended with swapping recipes or making plans to go fishing.
“The next day,” Abuelita continued. “I made a list of reasons why the two of us would never work.”
“A list?”
“A long list. His family had no money; mine had even less. He worked all the time; I wanted to see the world. He loved baseball, and I thought it was boring.”
I gasped, clutching my chest. “Say it isn’t so, Bueli.”
She threw her head back and laughed.
“The point is,” she said, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. “Every time I thought about being with him, I always found another reason why we wouldn’t work. Another problem, another obstacle.”
Her expression softened.
“Then one night, after I had spent weeks doing exactly that, he took my hands in his and said, ‘Elena, if you look hard enough, you will always find reasons not to be with someone.’”
I swallowed. The room felt suddenly smaller.
Abuelita tilted her head in my direction and arched her brow.
“There will always be something in your way, mijo. Distance, family, timing, money—the world is very generous with reasons. Tell me,” she said gently, as if I were a lovesick teenager again. I certainly felt like one. “Are you looking for reasons why it won’t work with Matty?”
I looked down at the single piece of popcorn still clutched between my fingers and nodded.
The team.
The media scrutiny.
Our careers.
There were a thousand ways things could go wrong, and yet—
“Maybe you should spend a little less time counting reasons not to and ask yourself if you already have one good reason to try.”
The answer came so fast it almost knocked the breath out of me.
Matty.
Just . . . Matty.
He was my reason, and I was his. At least, I hoped I was.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the low hum of the theater’s ventilation system and the distant tick of the clock in the hallway. Finally, I let out a shaky laugh and dragged a palm down my face.
“When did you get so wise?” I grumbled from behind my hand.
“We both know I’ve always been wise. You’re just usually too busy being dramatic to notice.”
I smiled despite myself. “Fair point.”
She studied me for a long moment, then tilted her head. “So, what are you going to do about it? I’ve never known you to give up on anything, or anyone, you care about.”
“I want to see him,” I admitted. “But I also don’t want to ditch you again. Not when I’ve already missed a week of our time together.”
Abuelita shoved at my chest. “Go. I’ll be fine. Besides, I still need to reorganize and label your bathroom storage. You have entirely too many half-used bottles of cologne in there. It’s a disaster.”
I barked out a laugh. “You’ve already done so much while I’ve been gone.”
And that wasn’t an exaggeration.
I’d been home less than twenty-four hours and was still discovering things she had somehow accomplished during the week I’d spent at the inn.
The pantry had been reorganized, top to bottom, with neat labels for every shelf.
The refrigerator looked like it belonged in a goddamn magazine, and my laundry room had somehow gained three new storage baskets and lost at least a decade of accumulated clutter.
Most impressively—and concerningly—she had rearranged my living room furniture. I was still stuck on that one. The massive coffee table alone weighed nearly the same as a midsize sedan and had somehow been moved several feet to the left.
“The room flows much better.” She huffed.
That was the worst part of all.
She was right. The room did flow better.
I had absolutely no intention of telling her that, though. The woman was already impossible; she didn’t need the encouragement.
“And don’t think I didn’t notice the new painting in the guest bathroom.”
Abuelita’s eyes lit up. “You like it?”
“Like it?” I laughed. “Abuelita, it’s a giant painting of a very well-endowed, naked man riding a donkey through a field.”
She waved her hands dismissively and clicked the movie back on, clearly done with this conversation. “It’s art. Very tasteful.”
“That’s one word for it,” I mumbled.
Abuelita cackled. “Peter Rafael, are you blushing? At your age?”
“I’m not blushing. I’m traumatized. There’s a difference.”
She reached over and patted my cheek. “A little trauma builds character. Now, stop stalling and go see your boy before I decide to redecorate the rest of the house while you’re gone.”
I was halfway out of the theater when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, heart nearly leaping out of my chest when a familiar name flashed across the screen.
Matty
I know you said to take some time to think, but . . .
A slow grin spread across my face when it buzzed again.
Matty
Come over. Please.
If you’re not too busy.
And bring Abuelita’s pasties with you.