Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NINE DAYS AFTER
Rafael’s grandmother’s house is a quaint redbrick bungalow in Melrose Park, surrounded by a tidy yard.
A kid’s bike leans against the side of the house, and boisterous voices echo from somewhere in the backyard.
I stall in the driveaway, standing beside Rafael’s car, which seems like a much more desirable option than his grandmother’s house.
It’s saying a lot, given I’m still breathing through waves of nausea from the thirty-five-minute drive here.
“There are people here?” I ask in disbelief, my eyes boring into the back of Rafael’s head.
Rafael halts at the door, crooking an eyebrow in question. “As opposed to goblins?”
“Very funny.”
His gaze turns challenging. “Scared?”
Yes, a little bit. I can’t face his family when I can barely handle one Vela. But it’s not the number of Velas that’s got me wishing I’d let him come on his own. It’s the fact that I don’t do this. I don’t do families and whatever’s happening to make them sound so happy.
“Petrified,” I respond with sarcasm.
“You can’t be—”
“Tío Raffi!” A voice shrieks from the other side of the screen door, which is whipped open.
Tiny arms wrap around Rafael’s waist, followed by tiny giggles.
When he turns away, I catch sight of two pigtails and a hot-pink dress with purple unicorns.
The little girl’s body is protectively enveloped by his, and this is one of those moments where most women would be sampling their first name with Vela. Lucky for me, I’m not most women.
“Come on!” She tugs him through the screen door, and Rafael throws me one last gaze that says She’s terrifying, isn’t she? before he disappears inside after the mini-Vela. The screen door squeals shut, and he doesn’t see me flipping him off.
This is fine.
Rafael can talk to his grandmother for me.
It’s not like I can do anything anyway. I’d probably be watching her ruffle Rafael’s hair and stuff his cheeks full of churros.
And while that sounds like a good time, I have no business going in there with his family, people who love and care for him when I barely trust him. It was stupid to even think—
“Coming?” Rafael’s question startles me.
I half yelp as I whip toward him.
He’s leaning against the screen door, smirking wide enough his dimple flashes, and I wonder what it’ll take to finish the job already because not existing is starting to sound really, really good. “Or do you need more time to practice that rendition of ‘Dancing Queen’?”
Embarrassment flushes my face.
I hadn’t even realized I was singing. It’s like I’m advancing through levels of mortification when it comes to all things Evie vs. Rafael, and I’ve unlocked a new level.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” I mutter as I march up the stairs to where Rafael waits.
“Not sure you’re getting the words to the song right, E,” he says.
I swat at his head with a low growl. Rafael ducks, grinning his stupid grin, as I push past him into the house—
And stumble to a halt.
It’s worse than I imagined.
Organized chaos surrounds me. Patterns and colors clash on almost every surface.
Beautiful pottery fills the shelves. Woven rugs, decorated in intricate patterns, cover the ancient wood floors.
Pictures line most of the walls, smiling faces staring back.
Weddings. Birthdays. Visits to other countries. Pieces of moments lived everywhere.
I feel Rafael behind me. “Something out of an Evie Pope nightmare, right?” He chuckles, but beneath the light tone, I detect something else. He’s expecting me to criticize the clash of colors and the clutter.
I won’t give him the satisfaction. Also, I don’t like to lie.
This is a home, and there isn’t anything nightmarish about it.
“Not—”
“Raffi!” a woman’s voice calls right as a smiling face pops into the hallway. The woman, somewhere in her mid-fifties, stares right at me. Through me, I remind myself. “You’re here,” she says.
Her chocolate-colored hair bobs as she walks straight for Rafael with outstretched arms. He leans into her, wraps her in his arms.
“My baby,” she mutters, squeezing him around the waist. “You’re late. Are all the clocks I’ve gotten you broken? Or have you been avoiding us?”
Mamma Mia—it’s Rafael’s mother. I’ve only ever seen a photo—a brief glimpse—because even when we were friends, talking about moms was never my comfort zone. I stare, trying to discern the similarities.
She’s lithe and elegant. Seems sweet and decent.
I don’t see it.
“I wouldn’t dare avoid you,” Rafael mumbles into her hair. “Are you trying to suffocate me?”
She pulls away, smiling widely—and oh, now I see it. A single dimple creases her cheek. “I wouldn’t be so obvious if I was,” she says with a wink. I can’t help smiling as she hooks her arm through his and starts to drag him away.
Rafael looks over his shoulder and jerks his head for me to follow.
Of course I don’t.
I retreat a step.
This was a big mistake. I shouldn’t have come inside. Should have known better than to think Rafael intended anything but to unsettle me. What I should have done is stick to the checklist and advocate professional help.
What can his grandmother possibly do?
Kill me with kindness?
Feet stomp on the staircase to my right, startling me.
The girl with the pigtails and unicorn dress storms down the stairs, construction paper and crayons in hand, and she zooms past me, humming a song that’s vaguely familiar.
Something about standing at the edge of the ocean. Frozen? Tangled? Moana!
Rafael hummed it a week straight, taunting me as he “brainstormed” across from me. I parried with ABBA, humming “The Winner Takes It All” until the songs induced nausea … and we were called into Dana’s office to discuss appropriate work etiquette. Another level unlocked in Evie vs. Rafael.
Cringing at the memory, I turn to leave, determined to start walking home. I’m almost out the door … but a photo along the wall catches my eye.
Although I shouldn’t, I give in to the temptation and inch toward it, curious for another little peek into Rafael’s life.
When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. When life throws you behind enemy lines, you gather intel, and if that means naked-baby photos, lucky you. Although lucky wasn’t how I was feeling when I saw his naked tush. Liar.
Fanning my face, I lean and squint at the photo, needing to see a baby in diapers to get rid of the image of a man in bedsheets.
I focus on the photo of a kid. Rafael’s toothless smile is discernible in a beach photo.
In another, he’s surrounded by three girls, and they’re standing in front of a church.
Here he’s waving from a cherry-red Chevy Camaro …
and here he’s standing beside a handsome man dressed in a striped suit and sporting a thick mustache.
It’s like I’m looking at an older version of Rafael, and he doesn’t wither up into a raisin like I imagined. Wishful thinking on my part.
The last photo on the wall features Rafael in a graduation cap and gown—Loyola University’s colors.
A group of people surround Rafael, each person’s smile wider than the one before.
Except that of the man I imagine is Rafael’s father.
Still, if pride were to be captured in a photo, it’s in this one.
So much happiness. So much love. So unlike my graduation.
I celebrated alone, sitting in the booth at Pauline’s Diner, enjoying a slice of cheesecake (on the house).
After which I went home and cried. Not because the day had been pathetically sad but because Annie wasn’t there with me.
I’d crossed bucket list item #3 (Get a degree) off the list, like I’d done with #1 (Move to Chicago).
I was checking things off alone, even if we’d started the list together, and somewhere along the line, I’d stopped doing the things at all.
“Proof I graduated,” Rafael says, startling me.
I freeze, hoping he can’t see the welling of tears from my profile.
“From the school of assholedinaires?” I pretend to study the photo.
He huffs a laugh. “Close. Prelaw. To my father’s dismay, however, I didn’t follow through with the law school part.
” I don’t miss the way he slightly tenses.
I know from the way he barely speaks about his dad that there’s more there.
It was how I realized there was more to him than what he offered the world.
There were breadcrumbs, and I hoarded them for a time.
“That’s Gloria.” He points to a more-recent photo of his oldest sister.
“And her three children. She’s the closest to my mother, Louise, who just tried to smother me, so I’m sure you’d approve.
” He grins as he drags his finger across the photos.
“This is Graciela—Gracie. She’s finally pregnant, but she’s had a hard time getting here.
” I should walk away—tell him to stop—but his guard is down (and I’ll take the lemons and lemonade).
His finger hovers over a young woman blowing a raspberry at the camera.
She’s older in this photo than in the one on his iPhone screen saver.
“And here is the real baby of the family. Gianna. She’s finishing her first year of law school at the University of Michigan.
” The pride in his voice makes my chest ache.
“She’s the one who’s going to become an immigration lawyer and make up for all the ways I disappointed my dad. ”