Chapter Twenty Summer Love
“Don’t be nervous.”
“Why would I be nervous? I love Mama Flores,” Hugo beams and bounces in his sneakers.
“I was talking to your brother, the boyfriend who is about to get the third-degree,” I chuckle and pat Gordon’s hair into place. The fateful weekend has arrived. My parents are in town, texting blow-by-blow driving drama as they try to find Gordon’s house.
My mother is texting Hugo as much as she’s texting me.
She met him on a video call last week, and he has been her adopted baby boy ever since.
Dad, on the other hand, is now texting Gordon daily, mainly to send him mechanic bloopers and sports failures.
Gordon is mystified as to why my father thinks people getting hit with wrenches and splatting into their teammates is funny, but he responds with a carefully curated bunch of GIFs, and Dad approves.
My parents arrive, hug me, and then act like I’m not there. The mission is clear. Inspect the boyfriend and potential brother-in-law. Fatten them up. Ask them questions.
Gordon, who was so nervous he paced most of the night, is now in a state of almost catatonic calm. He’s decided to cut to the chase of my parents’ grilling.
“Flowers, Mrs. Flores.” He hands my mother a bouquet of roses.
“Mr. Flores? This is your favorite brand of bourbon. Here is my savings account statement, my checking account statement, my credit score, the mortgage... Oh, and yes, I have the truck title. The roof was replaced six years ago and has a twenty-year warranty. Would you like to inspect the cat tree I have for Chopin?”
I elbow him, and Gordon’s face creaks into a smile like a rusty gate. “I am pleased to meet you,” he says, and almost bows.
“Holy cow,” I whisper.
Hugo’s mouth drops open. “Gordon must really want to marry you, Andrea. He’s trying to impress Mama and Papa Flores.”
“Inside thought, Hugo,” I mouth, and cover my eyes for a few seconds to see if I can will the rapidly forming stress headache away.
“This is totally unnecessary,” Dad says, taking the bottle Gordon handed him. “But completely amazing.”
“Is it a thirty-year mortgage?” Mom asks.
“Moooom,” I moan.
“What? He offered. I admire that. I like a man who is upfront.”
“Thank you. It’s twenty at this point. I’ve been making extra payments. Also, this is where Andrea’s piano will go.” Gordon begins a tour, and my parents follow like sheep.
“Welp. I’m going to give my blessing.” Dad stops looking at the papers Gordon has presented. “Anyone who comes prepared like that and puts in a cat tree and piano for my baby girl?” Dad beams at me. “I approve.”
“He approves!” Hugo gushes. “Mama Flores, give me the shopping bags. Are we going to make the arroz caldo today?”
“Yes, sweetie.” Mom all but pinches his cheek. She smiles, too. “What do you think, darling? Danica?”
I shake my head frantically. Hugo does not need a man-eater like my bestie, even if he might like it. He needs someone calm and steady. High energy, yet patient. Very, very patient.
Mom shrugs, unconvinced.
You know what? That’s a problem for later. Right now, after a week of struggles, grief, and adjustment, I’m going to celebrate the victories.
Right after I find Chopin. “Chopin? Chopin? Mom, Dad, did he sneak out past you?”
“Are you kidding? After the cruise incident, we were extra careful.”
“Shriiiimp!” Mom shouts, and like magic, my cat comes prancing in from the guest bedroom. As soon as Mom gives him a piece, he’s off, back to the bedroom.
“Chopin honors me with his presence by sitting on my bed and catching small animals for me,” Hugo announces. “Cats do that. It is a sign of friendship.” He nods to my mother, the picture of sage wisdom.
“What?” Gordon demands sharply. “Chopin is an indoor cat. I told you not to let the cat outside.”
“I don’t. He lets himself out, catches small creatures like chipmunks, and brings them to me. I let them go before he can hurt them. I give him treats for his efforts, so he knows that I appreciate them, but that I can hunt for myself.”
“You are training my cat to catch woodland creatures, Hugo! No! Give him treats when he catches a toy instead, okay?” I cry, slapping a hand to my head.
“What do you mean, he lets himself out?” Gordon asks.
Chopin doesn’t seem to care that Andrea and I are watching from the doorway of the guest bedroom, just peeking through a space wide enough for him to slide into Hugo’s room.
As I watch, Chopin bats, bats, and bats again, his little paw tirelessly swatting the lock on the window until it unlatches.
Andrea gasps, but the cat is undeterred.
He pushes the window now, working the slender white grip meant for fingers with his forehead.
It slides open a fraction of an inch, and the paw goes to work.
Tap, tap, tap, a centimeter at a time until it opens.
Then, he headbutts the screen in the same fashion, sliding it open only a few inches before wiggling through, sliding through a gap that I would have said was far too small for him to utilize for his escape.
“Chopin! Chopin, stop!” Andrea hisses, rushing in.
Chopin doesn’t stop. He gives a graceful leap and ascends the red maple tree outside Hugo’s window.
“You little devil,” Andrea groans. “Come back. Shrimp!”
Chopin looks at her. Looks at me. Climbs higher.
Clearly only Mama Flores can wield the power of shellfish.
“I have an idea,” I say, and I grab her hand and lead her outside.
Outside, under the red maple tree, which is not that tall, I look at Chopin. “I see your game.”
“Oh, God, he doesn’t have a squirrel, does he?” Andrea whimpers, hands over her eyes. “I’m so going to give Hugo a lecture...”
I can easily reach Chopin if I want to. Instead, we lock eyes. “You don’t have to do this anymore,” I address the cat as my esteemed furry friend and practice child. “I love Andrea. I will keep coming back. She will stay with me. Come down.” I stick out my hand.
Chopin ignores it and licks a paw.
“You think he’s trying to... Do what? Make sure we keep seeing each other?” Andrea whispers, joining me in staring at the stubborn feline.
“You haven’t been back to your apartment all week, and I pulled a double shift. Perhaps he’s worried about all the changes.”
“Could be. We could fix that.” Andrea giggles and her lids lower as her arms wrap around my waist. “Kiss me?”
I kiss her—and then I sink to one knee. “I think we can fix it a little better. Andrea Bernila Flores.”
Andrea’s eyes are comically wide, and her mouth forms a little O of surprise.
I try again, “Andrea Bernila Flores...” The words... The words are not coming.
They’re in my head, but not out of my mouth.
She wants a pretty proposal and a ring. I have the ring, which I pull out of my hip pocket, holding it out like a shield between her smile and myself, between her love and what will surely be her disappointment in my failure to speak.
Your smile is the only sunshine I’ve ever felt inside my heart, not on my skin.
You gave me a family.
You make me happy.
I love you—and the cat.
I don’t deserve you, but you love me for some reason.
I would give anything in the world to be your husband, your chosen one, to know that I may claim you as my wife and lover forever.
“Marry me?” I croak, ring extended higher. I wait for her to tell me I need to do a better job, make it elegant, make it musical, a song that is spoken.
“Oh, Gordon! Oh, yes. Yes, sweetheart, absolutely yes!” Andrea cries, flinging herself into me so hard I almost drop the ring. She knocks me sideways and sprawls on my chest, kissing me, laughing and crying.
“It wasn’t pretty,” I say, like the idiot I am.
“It was beautiful. Sometimes the most beautiful songs aren’t the complicated ones, you know?”
“That’s true.” I wrangle her hand from my cheek and slide the ring on her finger. “There. You are my bride-to-be. Officially.”
“And you are the husband-to-be. Officially.” Andrea kisses me one more time, then sits up and lets out a happy screech that brings Hugo hurtling out the front door, wearing one of Mrs. Flores’ aprons and waving a dishtowel.
“What is it? What is wrong?” Hugo demands.
“We’re getting married!” Andrea shrieks, giggling and waving her hand.
“I knew that,” Hugo says, looking confused. “So did you.”
“This is a special moment,” I explain with a warning note in my voice. “A big deal.”
“With cake?” Hugo asks, eyes childishly wide.
My poor brother has quite the sweet tooth after years of subsisting on raw or cooked meat and not much else.
“Oh, there will definitely be cake. My mother will insist on making it herself.” Andrea slowly rises, and I stand with her. This time when I reach for Chopin, the cat walks right into my grasp and lets me bring him down. “You furry little Cupid,” she praises, kissing his head.
Chopin looks up at me and purrs, paws kneading my arm contentedly.
I pull Andrea to me, and to my shock, a deep, rumbling happy laugh comes rippling out of me.
“You’re purring. Like father, like son,” Andrea teases.
“Father! Son?” Hugo flings the dishtowel into the heavens and races back into the house. “Mama Flores! Papa Flores! Andrea and Gordon are having a son!”
“No! No, we’re not! Not yet!” Andrea calls, running after him. “Oh, my God. You don’t have a shotgun, do you, Gordon? Never mind. Daddy! I’m not pregnant!”
“This is my life now,” I tell Chopin.
“Mrp?” Chopin looks at me and rubs his nose against my chest.
I sigh, smile, and follow my brother and my future bride into the chaos that is now my cabin. “Yes, you’re right. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
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