by Erin Zak
“Ah, okay. I gotcha.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Francesca,” I say with a laugh. “My father was a pastor.”
“Seriously?” Her tone is coated with shock but also understanding.
“As a heart attack.” I sit up and mess with my hair, tying it up with the hair tie around my wrist. “Believe me. It’s part of why I didn’t leave my husband when I was in middle of everything with—” I stop. I don’t know why, but saying Willow’s name while with Francesca makes my skin crawl. “Her.”
“So we’re both sort of closet cases, hmm?”
I laugh. “I guess so.”
“Maybe that’s why we found each other?”
“Maybe.” I refuse to believe it’s the only reason I’ve managed to find this woman in one of the most ridiculous cities ever. She laughs and shakes her head as she looks away. “What’s so funny?”
“Gives a whole other meaning to the name Sin City, doesn’t it?” She’s chuckling, and I can’t help but join in. “I mean, right?”
“You are absolutely right.” And she is. She is right in so many ways. I just hope I don’t find out if she’s wrong.
Francesca
I don’t know why I want my mom and abuela to meet Cecily. I never want them to meet anyone I’m seeing. Man or woman. Something about Cecily has a calming effect on me that I want my family to see. I’m laid-back about twenty percent of the time. The other eighty, I’m nonstop. I live a fast-paced life with little time for anyone else. I only ever make time for my family. Could be why most of my relationships do not work.
I took a chance and invited Willow once. She bailed on me twenty minutes before we were supposed to leave. Maybe the idea of meeting people important to me scared her. Or maybe I scared her. All I know is, two weeks later, she was telling me she was in love with someone else, and I was no longer in the competition. A competition I never knew existed or that I was participating in. Talk about a blow to my self-esteem. I was a loser in a game I didn’t even know I was playing.
When Cecily and I get out of my car and walk to the door, I look at her. Jeans, basic white cotton T-shirt, and sandals, and she still looks gorgeous. She even has her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Everything about her is laid-back and chill. The exact opposite of how Willow would have dressed to meet them. Her power was in her ability to intimidate everyone with her choices. Dressing for success never looked so menacing.
Why am I still heartbroken over someone who literally cared about no one but herself? Well, her and the woman she broke me for.
“You good?”
Cecily nods. “You bet. Slightly nervous, but hey, I’ve stepped far out of my comfort zone for this entire trip. What’s one more experience?”
I link my arm into the crook of hers. “I promise you, they will love you.” Just like I do. I hear those words roll around my brain and swallow the desire to say them. “Plus, today is tamale day.” I open the door to my childhood home and am attacked by Taquito, my mom’s eight-year-old Chihuahua. He’s a jumper and has jumping-beaned himself into my arms within two easy leaps. He’s licking my face like a maniac. “Taquito! Oh my God, calm down.” I grab him as I try to settle him. He starts to breathe funny, which is completely normal, but Cecily’s concern is written all over her face.
“Is he okay?” Her voice sounds as stressed as she must be.
I laugh. “He has asthma. He’ll be okay.” I hold him out, and she takes him, cradling him. He leans his head against her chest. “Well, you won’t be able to get rid of him now. He’ll be on your lap the entire time.”
“I’ll never want to leave.” She is swaying with him in her arms, and I find myself completely enamored with her. She looks at peace as she pets my mom’s asthmatic dog.
“Frankie, mi amor,” my mom shouts from the kitchen. “Get in here and help your abuela. These tamales don’t make themselves.”
I glance back at Cecily as we move toward the kitchen. “You okay?” I whisper, and she nods, still holding Taquito. I’m positive he’s a good buffer for meeting my mom and abuela. He will calm her. Before we pulled into the driveway, she looked like she was going to vomit. “Mami,” I say as I rush toward her. She pulls me into a hug, then pushes me away.
“You look too thin. Are you eating?” She turns me around. “Even your rear end looks smaller. Frankie, you need to eat. You know that.”
I brush off her worry. “Stop, Mami. I’m okay.”
“Mm-hmm. Tell your abuela hello.”
“I will. Jeez.” I take the couple steps across the kitchen to my abuela, who is a large woman with deep wrinkles etched into her skin. She is seventy-five, and every year, I worry we won’t have much time left with her. “Abuela, you look beautiful.”
She turns and tosses her long, mostly salt and some pepper braid over her shoulder. “Mi amor.”
I laugh when she places her greasy hands on my cheeks. “Abuela, you’re getting me all dirty.”
She tells me to wash my hands in Spanish, but she stops as she peers over my shoulder at Cecily and asks, “Who is this white woman?” in a mixture of Tzeltal and Spanish. “She’s very pretty.” I can feel my eyes bugging out. She looks at me with a large smile. I shake my head and try not to laugh. She always mixes languages when she is trying to be secretive.
“Abuela, Mami, this is my friend, Cecily.” I move toward her while I wipe the grease from my cheeks with a dish towel. “She’s here to help with the tamales.”
Cecily sets Taquito on the floor, and he immediately wants back in her arms—can’t say I blame him. She takes a couple steps closer to Abuela and holds out her hand. “It is so nice to meet you both.”
Abuela doesn’t shake hands, which I know, so I’m equal parts worried and excited to see how this unfolds. Abuela shakes her head before she moves gracefully toward Cecily. She somehow manages to grab her without getting grease everywhere, then wraps her arms around her and hugs her. “So nice to meet a new amiga of Francesca’s.” Her accent is thick, but after fifty years and no formal lessons, her English is decent. She lets go. “You get to learn old family recipe. Very old. Older than me.” Abuela smiles. “My ancestors’.”
Cecily looks touched. “I am very honored to be here to learn and help.”
My mom moves to where Abuela is standing and places her hand on Cecily’s shoulder. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m impressed you let Frankie drag you here to help us.” Mami smiles. “Or did she not tell you you’d be helping?”
“She did not tell me, but I am very excited.” Cecily smiles the most perfect smile. “I really love cooking.”
“We will make sure you’re a professional tamale maker by the time you leave.” Mami laughs. “Of course, if you get bored, it looks like Taquito would be more than happy to sit in your lap.” Mami motions to Taquito, who is begging at Cecily’s feet. “Wash your hands, Frankie and Cecily. We’ll get started.”
Cecily
We made a hundred and fifty tamales. I can now say I know exactly what to do to make the masa or cornmeal dough, the pork and beef filling—according to Francesca, Abuela’s barbacoa is the best in the world—and how to roll it all together in a soaked corn husk. Aside from my being nervous, everything about the process is very relaxing. And Abuela was very kind to me when I couldn’t figure out how to transfer the beef-filled masa to the corn husk without it tearing.
I ate about five of the ones Abuela and Francesca’s mom, Claudia, made. They were absolutely delicious. I was shocked speechless at how much I loved them. Of course, getting to help with the process made me feel very proud.
I’m in the living room now, where every square inch of wall is covered with pictures. I’m waiting for Francesca as she helps with the cleanup. Taquito is snoozing beside me on the worn couch. I spot a few pictures of who I’m assuming is Francesca. I stand, Taquito instantly jumping down and following me to the wall.
There she is. A teenage Francesca holding a basketball under one arm, a gym bag flung over
her shoulder. Her hair is dark brown and much shorter, falling just below her shoulders. She is wearing a uniform with the number fourteen on it. I smile at her dorky grin, complete with braces, which answers my earlier question about her perfect smile.
Another picture next to that has her standing awkwardly with three boys. These must be her brothers. They all look related, and of course, they’re all beautiful. The genes in this family are amazing. Even Abuela, with all her years, is still filled with beauty. And Claudia is gorgeous. Francesca gets everything from her. Her mannerisms. Her slender frame. Her hair. Her jawline and cheekbones. Everything. Except her eyes. I imagine her father gave her those striking eyes.
I’ve lost myself in another picture of Francesca from maybe a few years ago, as her hair is longer, and her body is, well, more filled in and defined. I hear a throat clear, so I turn, expecting it to be Francesca. A young man is standing there, perfect hair, adorable, with the same eyes as Francesca.
“Who are you?” he asks as he leans into the door frame. He’s dressed in dark blue skinny jeans and black boots. He has the sleeves of his red and blue plaid button-down rolled above his elbows. “Certainly don’t look like one of Frankie’s normal ladies.”
I’m sure he’s only acting standoffish and territorial because she’s his sister, and it’s how brothers are supposed to act, but as much as his comment has me intrigued, I’m slightly offended more than anything. “I’m sorry?”
He smiles. Yep, he’s most definitely her brother. “I’m just saying you look a bit older than her norm.”
His explanation isn’t helping. “I’m just a friend,” I say and hope it doesn’t come out as crappy as I intended. “Cecily.”
“Armando. Frankie’s brother.”
“Nice to meet you.” He’s not impressing me. At all.
“You, too.” He pushes from the doorjamb and walks toward me. He stands next to me in silence for what feels like a few minutes, but it has to be a few seconds. “I’m really glad to see she’s moving on.”
I glance at him. Maybe I’m more impressed than I originally thought. “I’m sorry?”
“Broken heart and all that.” He touches a picture of a man. “This was our father. He was killed in a car accident.” He places his entire palm on the picture, then moves his hand to his mouth, which he kisses and looks up to heaven. “Frankie saw it happen.”
“What?” I turn to him. “What?”
He continues to stare at the photo. “She’s why we’re as close as we are. She’s amazing. My favorite sibling. Please don’t hurt her.”
“Armando!”
Both of our heads snap toward the voice. Francesca is standing there, her arms spread wide. She looks so different when she’s dressed down like she is now in skinny jeans and a gray scoop-neck T-shirt. Different yet still hot as hell. “Little bro, what are you doing here?”
He snaps out of his reverie. “I came for the tamales, hermana.” He rushes to her, and they hug.
“Are you still okay?” she asks, and he laughs.
“I am.” He pulls away, tugs two envelopes out of his back pocket, and hands her one. “The money I owed you.”
“Armando, you don’t have—”
“Sí. I do.” He presses it back into her hand after she tries to give it back. “You saved me.”
I am intruding on a family moment I should not be seeing. I am not intimate enough with either of them to be this close to whatever is happening.
“Did you meet Cecily?” she asks and motions to me. He nods, a smile springing to his lips.
“I did.” He leans in and whispers something, and the way her eyes fill with tears causes a wave of trepidation to cascade through me. She hugs him, and I can only hope whatever he said was nice.
“What are you and Maxwell doing tonight?” she asks after their hug. “He said he had the night off.”
“Dinner, I think. Why? Should we all hang out? A double date?” He glances over his shoulder at me. “You cool with that, Miss Cecily?”
Okay, he’s growing on me. “I am if Francesca is.”
“Sounds good to me. We’ll meet you wherever.”
“I’ll have Max add two to our reservation at Sinatra. Eight o’clock.” He gently taps the other envelope he’s holding on Francesca’s shoulder. “I have to give this to Madre. She’s gonna think I robbed a bank.”
“Don’t tell her it’s gambling money. She won’t take it. The Holy Spirit and all that jazz.”
He laughs. “Dirty gambling money.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll see you later, Frankie.” He turns to me. “Cecily. It’s been a pleasure.”
I smile. Yes, my mind has been made up about him. I’m a fan. “The pleasure was all mine.”
He winks before he moves past Francesca to the kitchen. I hear Claudia’s squeal of delight and then her gasp as he no doubt hands over the envelope. Francesca laughs as she grabs my hand and pulls me out of the living room to the front door.
“Thank you for doing this with me today. They loved you.”
I smile before I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you for bringing me. Thank you…” I pause. I want to say “for everything,” but all of the feelings swirling inside me are not possible to be having right now. I can’t be falling for her. I can’t be. I barely know her. Even still…and yet…
“Yes?”
“For just being you,” I finish when we get to her car. And as we climb into her BMW, I try my hardest to remind myself I’m leaving, I’m not even divorced, and I’m still in love with Willow.
Aren’t I?
Shouldn’t I be?
My phone has seventeen unread texts when I get back to my room. I decided not to bring it for a couple reasons, but the main reason is that I really do not want to talk to Willow.
Of the seventeen messages, fifteen are from her. One is from Jeff, my boss, asking how it’s going. I type back, telling him it’s going very well. Even though I haven’t done a lick of work, or recon, since I’ve been here. It’s not a big deal. I knew I wasn’t going to get much done, aside from the sleuthing Jeff asked me to do. Of which I have done none. I don’t know what he expected. Or if it was his way of saying he knew what was going on between Willow and me. I have no idea, and I’m not sure I want to know.
The remaining text is from Luke. He wants to know how my trip is going. How do I tell him it’s going well without him assuming it’s because of Willow?
The worst part about the entire affair is he’s never once questioned me. Even though he should and was given ample opportunities, he never did. I even asked him once if he was worried and he sat there, looking at me stupidly, and asked me if he should be.
Yes. You should be worried, Luke.
I was too awful and too confused to answer him honestly. So I sat there across from him at dinner one night and lied to his face. “Of course not. You have nothing to worry about.”
He chuckled and said, “She’s a woman, anyway.” And we had a great laugh about it.
A great, great laugh.
That was two years ago. And here we are, two years later, and even though we’re separated, I’m still not able to tell him the truth.
Everything’s going very well. The work project will be a great feather in my cap. I roll my eyes as I press Send.
He’s texting back, so I wait for his response. Did you get a chance to see Willow?
I freeze. What do I say? Be honest, Cecily. Just be honest. Yes, she and I had dinner on Thursday night. She’s well.
She messaged me, said she was in town, and asked me if I’d like to have dinner with her tonight. I wondered if you minded.
What the hell is she doing? I take a deep breath and tap over to Willow’s string of messages: Cecily, I am sorry for everything. I shouldn’t have strayed. I love you, and I want you back. Please come back to me.
I know I messed up. I know it.
Please text me back.
Look, I know I said I’d wait for you. I
don’t know what I was doing.
Are you really not going to respond?
Wow, Cecily. Wow.
Please respond.
Seriously?
Come on, please. I am so very sorry. I miss you. I need you.
Did I really ruin us?
You know what? Fuck that. I did not ruin us. You ruined us. And our chance at happiness when you wouldn’t leave. And now you’re leaving and won’t even text me back?
I shouldn’t have said it like that. Cecily, please respond to me. Please. I’m begging you.
You are being ridiculous.
I can’t believe you’re throwing us away.
I’m having dinner with Luke. I’m going to tell him everything.
My heart is lodged in my throat. I drop my phone, then fall to the floor and scramble to pick it up. I fumble with it, trying to unlock it, but the stupid face recognition sensor must not recognize my look of panic. I tap out my pin and wait for the phone to unlock. I tap back to Luke’s message.
I don’t want to go with her, Cecily. I just want to leave her in the past. She ruined so much of my life.
My heart falls. He knows. He knows. He knows.
I click on the phone icon to call him. The phone rings once, twice, three times before he finally picks up.
“Cecily?” he asks, as if his phone doesn’t alert him it’s me.
“I’m sorry.”
His sigh sounds as if he’s been holding it for the past two years. “I know you are, Cecily. I know.”
My eyes fill with tears. I’m trying hard to not let loose, but there’s a sob stuck in my throat, and if it doesn’t dislodge soon, who knows what will happen?
“She wants to tell me. You know that, right?”
I nod even though he can’t hear me. “I know,” I squeeze out around the sob.
“You know I would have stayed with you regardless of this?”
“Luke—”
“No,” he says with more passion than I’ve heard in a while. “You were all I ever wanted.”
