Chapter 10
Miriam
“So you don’t want to talk no more, ah? Why I have to call you every time?”
Patricia Rojas is consistent with, if not dedicated to, guilt trips and Saturday morning cleaning. My mother calls at ten thirty every week, and she always acts like it’s been years since we last spoke.
The bright pitch of “Gotas de Lluvia” sways through mariachi instruments down the other end of the line.
That song was a wake-up call before I’d spend hours cleaning the kitchen, bathrooms, and living room.
My father had enough money to hire a full-time cleaning staff, but no stranger was seeing what our floors looked like.
Marcela and I were the cleaning staff.
“Hi, Mama. How you doing?”
“I’m here,” she says, her words a hum above the Spanish lyrics about tears from heartbreak and no trace of love. A common soundtrack to dousing the house in Fabuloso and hanging the laundry on the clothesline outside.
“I was calling Xiomara,” she says about her younger sister. Here it comes. “But the phone just ring, ring, and ring again. She says she’s coming by, pero ya tú sabes. Ella no se acuerda de nada.”
“Mama, be nice.”
“I am!” She feigns innocence. “Just keeping it real, as you kids say.”
Tía Mara and my mother are like rubbing alcohol and bleach: a combination that makes chloroform and might compromise your organs.
Maybe you pass out, or maybe you die.
As a member of the youngest sibling committee who gets spoken about and to, I empathize with my tía.
Marcela treats me the same way. Her heavy-handed tendencies are courtesy of the oldest child hardwiring that keeps her telling me what to do.
Yet, we love each other without causing a chemical reaction or a state of emergency. Unlike my mother and her sister.
“You out of bed and on your way to work?” My mother’s West Indian accent is a heavy syrup over “out” that sounds like “oat,” and “work” that’s closer to “werk.”
Translation: The grace period for earning a PhD ran out. How are you paying bills?
Walking away from job offers keeps my family’s side-eye chambered. I don’t know if I want to recommit to a lifetime of labs or lecture halls. There’s also management. Maybe I should’ve studied rocket science to figure it all out.
My mother has her own way of expressing loving concern. Like reminding me I’m inching closer to forty, am not investing in a retirement savings plan, and have no prospective life partners, because grandbabies.
She means well, but she has always said what she felt and felt what she said.
My parents never told Marcela and me the reason they divorced.
My mother was a couple of years older than my sister is now when she filed.
That was almost a decade after we moved to Maryland.
I was two when we came to the States. My father always travels for work.
That’s how they met in Panama, during his time working for the US embassy.
If I had to guess, his work schedule is what sent her back to Panama a single woman.
“I’m at a home improvement store,” I say to change the subject. I pick up a paint sample. The mint green matches my sweater. It’s my favorite color, one that reminds me of the sun reflecting off the water near my mother’s property in Coronado.
“Eh?”
“La ferretería, Mama,” I say about my impromptu trip. “Tengo que arreglar un estante que se cayó y la barra de la cortina de ducha.”
“My goodness, Miri. ?En qué tipo de casa vives que se está cayendo a pedazos?”
“There were a couple of accidents,” I say.
“Accidents,” she repeats. “No has estado allá ni un mes y ya estás destrampando la casa. Have mercy, Jesus. What happened to the shower rod?”
The answer is riding the shopping cart like it’s a chariot.
What should’ve been an in-and-out solo trip became a joint expedition down every aisle. Now the cart is full of things I don’t need. I found a new closet shelf that I got cut down to size and a shower rod to withstand the weight of a rugby player.
Everything else in the cart is Antonio’s doing.
He talked me into grabbing “a few things”: plants, kitchen counter appliances I’ll never use, and accent pillows for the sofa I didn’t let him sleep on last night. He’s buying everything as a housewarming gift, committing me to more things to unpack and store in my home.
Once we soothed our injuries, we crowded around the tiny kitchen table Antonio engulfed with his body to talk and eat. Six hours passed with no signs of fatigue. He left around midnight, which surprised me as much as his eight a.m. “Good morning, whatcha doing today?” text did.
I wasn’t expecting to hear from him so soon, but he told me he was free today to help. Then he showed up at my house at nine with two coffees and a smile. I whipped up eggs with toast, and here we are.
Not once did I get lost in my head trying not to act odd. I was safe being me. Comfortable.
Antonio pushes the cart in a circle. He accelerates down the aisle and kicks up a Timb, shifting the shopping cart at the last minute to avoid crashing into a display of light bulbs on sale.
He bounces back at the force of his torso colliding with the metal handlebar with an “oof” and catches a potted plant on the cart’s bottom shelf.
I muffle a laugh at him scratching his beanie, which matches his orange coat.
Our eyes lock as an employee calls for assistance in the tile department over the PA system.
A smile creeps into a grin above his trimmed boxed beard.
It spreads the smooth, wide lips that came dangerously close to mine last night.
The proximity of our mouths and the Skinemax nudity of his body covering mine shut off my ability to process. Everything in me overheated.
Panting in Antonio’s face like a Boston terrier or him sprinting into my room wearing a towel the size of a washcloth wasn’t how I imagined his first visit to my house, but it happened. Just like the eyeful of bulge against the white cotton between his gladiator thighs did.
God, those thighs.
The weight of them almost sent me through the floor. I didn’t get a full look at him mid-fall, but you better believe I snuck a peek at them…and at the butt I’ve seen stretch out his rugby shorts.
“Miri!”
I jump when my mother’s voice cuts through the inappropriate replays of my bestie, who’s staring like he’s onto my secret.
Am I that obvious?
“You listening, child?”
The number you are trying to reach is not in service.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say without a clue what we were talking about.
Antonio pushes the cart closer. His smirk pulls his lower lip between his teeth. I reroute my attention to something that won’t fog up my glasses or get me cussed out from Central America.
All-purpose caulk.
Great.
“Don’t use any power tools while you’re spacing out like that, Miriam. Your Tío Chucky almost burned off his hair and scalp messing with a blowtorch. Para qué lo necesitaba ese tonto, no lo sé. What’s got you distracted?”
I eye Antonio. He smiles and mouths, You in trouble.
“Nothing.” I back away from him and the caulk.
My faculty for scientific analysis hiccups. I have a mental catalog of numerical methods to approximate answers to problems I can’t solve through algebraic procedure.
The Finite Element Analysis is a go-to for how a complex mechanical structure will react to different conditions that impact its stress distribution. Yet no method helps me comprehend why I can laugh with or at Antonio one minute and want to test how much body heat we’ll generate the next.
Urges come in waves when I least expect them. Like right now, in a home improvement store, while I’m on the phone with my mother. It happened briefly last night when he came over, and then upstairs when we were sandwiched together.
There has to be an academic journal with published research that explains the biological effects of a friendship with someone who is hide-in-the-bushes fine, with a kind heart and a good butt to match.
I need that analysis and proposed solutions so I’m not staring at a tube of caulk, imagining how thick Antonio’s container is.
What is wrong with me?
“Don’t spend all your hours on drill bits and shower curtains,” my mother snaps.
“No lo haré. We’re wrapping up.” I wince the moment we slips. This is why I don’t like talking on the phone, or in general.
My mother latches on to the confession before I can take it back.
“Marcela is there?” The pitch in her voice shifts. “Pass the phone. I tried calling her and kept talking to her voicemail.”
“I’m not with Marcela,” I clarify.
She went to meet her sneaky link in Crystal Beach late last night, to deal with her stress. Does the Canada Border Services Agency know she’s hopping countries to bounce on penis?
Is that what you need? International peen?
Do I?
The other end of the line goes quiet. “Then who are you with?”
Fluorescent light beams down on buttery caramel skin. The sleek lines of Antonio’s cheekbones shift when his mouth tips up. Under a hood of lashes, brown eyes wander from the phone pressed to my ear, down my oversized sweater, and to my hand stationed on my hip.
He’s waiting for a response, and he gestures for me to go on.
Jerk.
“A friend, Mama,” I say with nonchalance.
That’s what he is, even if he excites tingles in places that shouldn’t tingle. Well, one place should, but not because of him.
A tingle-free friend zone.
“What friends do you have there?” I snort at the question. My mother is no better than Marcela.
“I have one! I plan to add a few more next week.”
Something I can’t interpret flashes across Antonio’s face. I motion toward the self-checkout lanes and dip my brows at his headshake. “Mama, I have to go. Love you.”
“Love you too, baby.”
I stuff my phone inside my winter coat. “Why aren’t we leaving?”
“We’re not done here.” He folds his arms over his chest, forcing the material in his jacket to strain over his biceps. “Who are you meeting next week?”
“Nosy much?” I huff. “You and my mother will get along just fine.”
He nods. “Can’t wait to meet her. Same question.”
“What else do we possibly need?” Our shopping cart looks like it ran away from an HGTV set. All that’s missing is a high-performance toilet and shutters.
“We don’t need anything. You’re getting cans of that paint color you keep eyeing. I’m getting a juicer.” He nudges me out of the way with the cart. “What’s next week?”
My nose wrinkles. “Why a juicer? I don’t juice.”
“But I do.” He glances at the aisle signs above us. “The guys keep breaking the ones I buy for Steel House. I like juice in the morning and after practice. This way.”
We pass another aisle. I snag a couple of outlet covers to replace the ones in my bedroom.
The scene of last night’s—
“So what’s happening next week?” Antonio asks again.
Tingle-free friend zone.
I blink. “Huh?”
“The few friends you plan to add next week.”
“Oh. That.” I fidget with my jacket zipper and look down at the salt streaking my winter boots.
“There’s an event that takes you around the city on a bus and drops you off at different bars.
It’s for people who want to make friends.
Organic opportunities to establish friend groups don’t happen as often as they did when we were younger.
“Research suggests that our number of friends peaks in our early to mid-twenties, then goes down. I’m already fighting an uphill battle, and I want to better my chances in a controlled environment with like-minded people who are also looking for friends.
I don’t need a lot. I just want more than one, and someone who isn’t my sister. ”
It’s me again, rambling.
Antonio’s face sours. He opens his mouth and closes it.
“It’s okay to laugh,” I say quietly. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Why would I laugh?” His voice is smooth and low.
“There’s nothing wrong with trying to make deeper connections.
I inherited most of what you’d consider friendships from rugby.
But the only people in my life I call beyond wanting to have fun, the relationships that go deeper than surface-level shit, are Julian and you. ”
“Oh.”
“The quantity isn’t as important as the quality.”
I smile. “So you don’t think what I’m doing is weird?”
“Oh, I do.” He scratches his beard and laughs. “Only because it sounds like speed dating. Do you get a steak dinner if you both swipe right at the end of the night? I’ll go, and we can pretend not to know each other.”
“Shut up!” I reach for the cart but come up short.
“Do you want a wingman?”
“A what?”
“A wingman,” he says again. “Someone to be your emotional support or sing your praises. Point out people with ulterior motives.”
A crease burrows between my brows. “Why would anyone have ulterior motives?”
His stare is the most serious I’ve seen him.
“All those book smarts and not a lick of street—Doesn’t matter.
There’s always some asshole waiting to take advantage.
They’ll pretend to be your friend and like what you like until the minute they slide the panties to the side.
Once they get their nut”—he shoots his hand into the air like an airplane—“gone.”
“This is why I stay in the house,” I mumble.
“Stick with me, kid. I’ll keep you safe.” He winks and pushes the cart.
“Did you forget I’m older than you by five years?”
“I haven’t. Doesn’t mean I can’t teach you a thing or two. I’ll meet you at whatever bars you go to, and I’ll sit off to the side if you want.”
Having someone there I’m comfortable with will make the event less awkward.
Hopefully.
“I’d like that, thank you,” I say.
“Good! Now back to my juicer. I’ll grab one for your place too.”
Antonio’s eyes light up at appliances I have zero interest in or room for.
“What makes you think you’ll be at my house enough to need a juicer?” I ask the back of his puffer coat. My line of sight remains on his belt and not the gym booty or the tree trunks for legs under the pair of jeans that are sculpted to his form.
“Friends let friends juice,” he says to the shelves of counter gadgets. “And before you say something slick, I’m not sharing with any new friend you might make. Ooh! This one has a thousand-watt motor.”
“Antonio,” I sigh. “You’ve seen my kitchen.”
“It’s cute, and this will look nice in it.” He grabs a box with a lopsided grin that deflates when he sees my glare. “What if I keep it in my trunk?”
I snort at his pout. “You want to keep a juicer in your trunk for when you visit? I don’t know who’s more off their rocker, me or you.”
“Both of us, bestie. Is that a yes?”
I’ll regret this. “Yes.”
He fists the air, then assesses our already full cart. “We should’ve gotten a flatbed.” He frowns at the jumble of random supplies and accessories we accumulated over the last hour. “Let’s get your paint for our painting party.”
“Our what?”