23. 21.
21.
Callie
I drink wine with a straw and it’s not even the most pathetic thing that happened this week.
Three days ago, I told myself I was smart, strong, and independent. I put on my big girl pants and was set to use my time off wisely. Doing arts and crafts or something like that.
Knitting for orphan kittens.
Painting my crappy apartment.
Anything and everything. I put jeans on even though I wasn’t planning to leave the house, but it was one text that crushed it all. One small, five-letter text that took the floor off my feet.
Anya: I tried my best, kid.
I know what she means the second I read it. The air leaves my lungs in a hurry and a cold goes down my spine as I sit on my couch and turn on the TV.
I never turned my nose to the gossip channels, I can’t, given my line of work. Gossip and reality TV work hand in hand. But I never thought I was going to see the day when I fear it. When I turn it on and see my biggest fear live and in color right in front of me.
“Trouble in Paradise?” Alison Mack, the host, says with a sadistic smile. “The twelfth season of The Final Rose is days from airing its first episode, but rumor has it that wasn’t just the twelve hopeful hearts the new Eligible stole.”
I hold my breath as an old footage of Sebastian came to the screen. The beautiful man in one of his suits talking in front of a children’s hospital ribbon-cutting event, and the small shot of him from the teaser. The clips play in a loop, repeatedly, as Alison’s voice tells the sordid tale.
“The Final Rose’s new Eligible is no one but Sebastian Riggs, Britain’s most eligible bachelor. The production of The Final Rose is left scratching their heads trying to find a way to solve this unprecedented problem. An informant says that The Final Rose is in crisis after Riggs allegedly was found having an affair with one of the crew.”
“… No one can blame a girl for falling in love with Sebastian’s charm, but the question needs to be asked: Is The Final Rose done? Are the contestants going to let this betrayal slide?”
Alison Mack has a little more to say. None of it is flattering. From there, it all comes down in flames. The internet explodes. The magazines wouldn’t dare printing anything else for the days to come.
They don't have my name, but it doesn’t really matter. I know it’s me. I understand the joke more than the rest of Los Angeles.
So now I watch Friends reruns and drink wine from a straw. I refuse to pretend I can do anything to stop this. It’s out there. The world is on fire, so why not sit back and enjoy it?
And that’s what I’ve been doing. Accepting things. One can even think I am growing from it. I’ll come out of it better or whatever. But for now, I drink from my straw and avoid the first three episodes released to the streaming service.
Anytime I feel like I should have a look on the magazines, I just drink more wine and watch one more episode of Friends .
And right when I’m floating in self-pity (since I refuse to drown) my doorbell rings.
I don’t care. One, because I’m half dressed. My old T-shirt has a stain I’m not sure from what, and there’s definitely Doritos dust on my hair. But also, it’s raining.
“It’s raining, go away,” I murmur to myself.
It’s a storm out there and whoever had the indecency to knock at my door needs to move on. I wouldn’t open the door anyway, but the fact it’s in the middle of a storm should be reason enough for people not to come visit.
I flick through the channels tired of Friends and unfortunately find The Big Bang Theory . I watch it because laugh tracks are my new best friends. Whoever is downstairs rings the doorbell twice. I ignore it. I don’t have a working intercom, anyway. When they suddenly go quiet, I celebrate the small victory and I sink further into my stained riddled life.
That’s when the knocks on my door start. Startled, eyes wide, I just stare at the door while it jumps from its hinges.
They knock again, and this time, accompanied by a familiar voice. The last voice I wanted to hear right now.
“Open up, Callie!”
I close my eyes in a prayer.
Dear God, if you make this a bad dream, I promise to be extra good. I’ll light candles with Mami and Abuelita for Abuelo’s soul. And I’ll do other things good Colombian girls ought to do.
But the door jumps again with the force of his fist and with a groan, I go over, opening in one painless move.
He brushes the wet hair off his face, looking me up and down with the sort of mockery I hate so much.
“You look like shit, Callie.”
“Thank you for your visit. You can go now.”
My brother simply arches an eyebrow at me and comes inside, wet and all, his work boots dragging water all over my floors. He goes to find a towel for himself, as I stay there holding the door open. After all, where is Dario, so is Ben.
“He’s parking the truck,” Dario informs me while drying his hair.
“Where?” I shake my head.
“Away from this horrible neighborhood, Callie. We are not stupid. You live in a place we don’t even trust to park the truck.”
“How dramatic of you.” I let the door go, and it closes at once.
Dario stands there, watching me. He was a lanky kid growing up, always skinny and getting himself into trouble. It was only when he started working with Ben that he got the muscles he shows off now. The eyes are the same though, of a bold kid waiting his turn to cause mayhem.
I love my brothers, but I don’t want them here to watch me swim in self-pity.
“Is it you?”
I ignore the question, burying myself on the couch and turning the volume up for a queued laugh track.
“Callie, come on.”
“Don’t sit anywhere. You’re all wet.” I say, my nose upright like I’m the queen of England.
“Oh sure, in this palace? No way. You should live with Mom. It’s safer.”
“Mom already has you and Ben mooching off her. I’m the good kid.”
Dario laughs. “Ben is the good kid.”
I lift my shoulder. “At least I left.”
He opens his mouth to reply something ridiculous, I’m sure, but that is the time Ben chooses to arrive, without knocking, just coming inside like he owns the damn place.
“I parked ten minutes away because you live in a hellhole, Calliope.”
“Fuck you,” I reply, looking at the TV and ignoring my big brother.
Ben doesn’t pay attention to my words and turns to Dario. He’s wet too, but he doesn’t seem to mind that much.
“Is it her?”
“She won’t tell,” Dario informs. “But she looks like shit. It’s probably her.”
“I’ll be very grateful if you two would stop talking about me like I’m not sitting right here.”
Ben takes a chair from my improvised kitchen set and drags it to sit beside me on the couch. With one simple move, he maneuvers himself over it, open legs resting on his elbows on his knees.
“How come he’s allowed to sit?” Dario whines.
“I didn’t invite him to it,” I growl.
Ben raises his palm to end the argument, and my tongue gets stuck in the roof of my mouth. Damn, I hate it when he does that. It’s an old move of his to finish with our endless arguments. One flick of his wrist and the words die on the tip of my tongue.
“Callie. The news. Are they telling the truth?”
“I wouldn’t know what you are talking about.”
Ben sighs, and helpfully, Dario turns my TV off.
“I’m going to ask again, Callie,” Ben explains calmly, “and I need you to think well about what answer you’re going to give me.”
Before he has a chance to ask, I whip my head toward him, fury in my eyes. “Why does that even matter?”
“It matters because we are going to kill Sebastian Riggs, aren’t we?” Dario replies, searching Ben for confirmation like murder is a current discussion topic in the Sosa household.
“You’re not killing Sebastian,” I say before I can stop myself.
“HA!” Dario jumps, his finger pointed at me. “So, it is you!”
“I think you both should go. I have things to do.”
“Can we be serious for a second?” Ben starts again. “How much trouble are you in? Were you fired?”
And there’s so much concern in his voice that I can’t fight anymore. I’m embarrassed, but some things are more important than that.
I shake my head. “Anya just asked me to step away until they finish shooting this season. Do Mom and Dad know?”
Ben shakes his head quickly. “She’s dying to call to see if you can blab the name.”
I let out an angst breath. “God bless her.”
“Can you tell us what happened now?” Dario asks, finally getting a chair too and sitting on my other side.
I wish the TV was still on so I could fix my eyes there. It’s not, so I just let my eyes wander as they gather tears.
“I thought you heard the news.”
“We heard the shit version of it.”
“That Sebastian is so handsome not even the hussy field producer could resist?” I can’t stop the pathetic sniffle.
“Yes, those were the exact words,” Ben says dryly. “What happened?”
I turn and give him a watery smile. “I liked him, and he liked me. We lied to ourselves that there was a way out of the mess and then… there wasn’t.”
“Did he do anything he shouldn’t?” Ben needs to know.
I shake my head. “Sebastian Riggs never does things he shouldn’t do. Until me, I guess.”
Dario gags theatrically. “Let’s try not to talk about him doing you, please.”
“That wasn’t what I meant!”
“Sure.” He grimaces. “But he likes you, too? So, why are you dressed like a homeless woman with a lifetime supply of Doritos?” He points at me up and down.
“I’m not–” I can’t even defend my attire. “It’s hopeless, alright? Sebastian has a contract with the network, which means he’ll need to choose one of the girls. Until the season is over, he can’t announce or be seen with anyone. And after…”
“It will look like you sabotaged your own show.” Ben gets it, nodding and gazing at me with pity.
“Well, that’s bullshit!” Of course, Dario rages. “He went to the damn show, and he fell in love, didn’t he? That’s literally the premise!”
I ignore the word love floating above us. I can’t think about it right now and I know it doesn’t matter. If I sit here and accept that I love Sebastian Riggs, it will make things much worse.
And just because I can’t, and because it makes everything harder, this is the moment when I realize how much I love Sebastian Riggs.
Colorful cursing streams from my mouth, making Dario hoot and Ben watch me with wariness.
“He needs to choose between the twelve,” I finally say.
“Can’t you date in secret for a while?” Dario wants to know and Ben slices him with a look. My younger brother lifts his hands up under Ben’s frown. “Hey, it’s not like I’m suggesting for her to be a dirty little–”
“Callie won’t be anyone’s secret.” Ben decrees.
A faint start of a smile comes to my lips. “Not for all the honorable reasons that Ben is thinking about. But that wouldn’t work.” I sigh. “The press will be on top of Sebastian for the months to come. All they want to know is if he’s still with the winner. It’s asking to be caught.”
For a couple of minutes, the Sosa children stare at nothing. I hate how well I explained this predicament. I wait for Dario to shout another silly suggestion or for Ben to give me an honorable solution. I stay there, wrapped in hope, waiting for my brothers to come up with a way out, but they never do.
It’s not that I haven’t thought of leaving it all behind and setting my career on fire. In the days since I saw Sebastian last, it was all I thought about. I could give everything up because at the end of the day, what I really want is to be happy.
Sebastian became an important part of my happiness, that much I can’t deny. But I’m a whole person. I need my family, my friends, my hobbies, my silly ways to entertain myself and I need my career, too. I can’t leave it all behind and expect it to work between us.
We need to be two distinct people who want to be together, but if I self-destruct, what’s left of me to love him?
“Come home with us,” Ben pleas.
I’m already shaking my head, but he interrupts me. “You’re hurt. Your place is home.”
And he’s right. I’m not doing myself any favors by staying away. I need my family right now, more than I ever did.
The storm outside has passed finally, and I go to my room to pack a bag. Dario suggests for me to take a shower and while I flip him off, I know he’s right. Mom is going to skin me alive if she sees me in this state.
They drive me home afterwards. I sit between them on the truck’s bench, feeling small as Ben negotiates the streets to our old and reliable neighborhood.
The sun is shining when Ben parks in front of our house, erasing any memories of the storm we left behind. I leave my bag for them to bring and open the small gate at the front. Mom’s flowers are to my left. Dad is a gardener. He insists on pristine flowers but says they are all for Mom.
Instead of going through the house, I keep to the little pathway to the backyard. As I turn the corner, I see big colorful sheets hung to dry in the unexpected sun. They dance with the breeze, and I hear mom’s humming.
She has a basket of wet clothes beside her knees, a bunch of pegs secured to an apron as she takes one by one to fix the clothes on the washing line.
I smile when she sees me. Dad’s shirt on her hands never makes it to the line. A huge smile splits her face. Age lines in the corner of her eyes are the only proof the years have passed.
“ Mija ,” she sighs. “You’re home.”
And I go to her. Thank God I’m home.