Vote Then Read: Volume I

by Carly Phillips

  The man was insufferable.

  11

  Andre

  Inhaling a deep breath, Andre made his way through the grass towards his sister and Mikel’s house with a gift under his arm. He searched the driveway. She’s not here. Would she still come after their blowup? It had been a long time since he’d taken Spanish in high school, but he caught “stubborn” and “mule.” Just remembering how feisty she’d been made his own blood heat with arousal. Damn. They had some sizzling chemistry between them. Too bad it couldn’t ever happen.

  Andre didn’t bother with the doorbell, and he went right in.

  “Uncle Andre!” Lyra said, running up to him with her arms wide open. Children were so trusting and pure. Then we grow up and life teaches us not to trust. Andre’s brow creased as he pushed the thought away.

  “Hey, birthday girl.”

  “Is that for me?” she asked as she jumped up and down in excitement.

  “Sure is, sweet pea.” He handed over the present.

  “After cake you can open it, right, Lyra?” Remy said as she approached them.

  “Awww alright. I’ll put it with the others.” His niece skipped off.

  Andre followed Remy to the backyard where his parents were chatting with Mikel, and a few other little kids ran around with Lyra. Jasmine sat while Zoey lay on a blanket, with the sun shining on their small gathering.

  “Where’s my nephew?” Andre asked.

  “Napping.” Remy motioned to the baby monitor on her hip. “Food’s ready. Everyone help yourselves,” Remy called.

  Andre grabbed a plate and filled it up. He was never one to pass up a home-cooked meal.

  A large hand slapped his back roughly. Andre turned as Bently smiled.

  “Hey, buddy, save some for the rest of us.” Bently chuckled.

  “Nah, you look like you could use a diet,” Andre joked.

  Bently feigned a hurt expression as he clutched his heart. “Hit a guy where it counts. I’m as in shape as I’ve ever been.”

  Images of Bently at the end of his battle with cancer filtered through Andre’s mind. His best friend had been through a lot and came out stronger.

  “I just mean you look healthy, bro.”

  Bently sighed and looked away. “I’m healthy as a horse.” Something was bothering him, but he’d been so private about the whole ordeal, Andre didn’t even know what kind of cancer his friend had had.

  “You know I’m here if you ever need to talk. Right, man?” Andre offered.

  “I’m fit as a fucking fiddle. Promise.” Bently winked.

  “I’m just saying. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

  “Can’t believe our niece is seven. Can you?” Bently asked, changing the subject.

  “Seems like just yesterday we were helping Remy with her as a baby,” Andre admitted.

  “Thankfully Mikel knew what was good for him and came back,” Andre said.

  Remy approached them as Bently said, “If my brother hadn’t gotten his head on straight, who knows? Maybe I would have married your sister.”

  Remy laughed. “You think I’d want the town man-whore?”

  “Hey, now! Baby, you’re the type of woman who could make a man like me settle down.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her into his lap as she squealed.

  “You just like my cooking,” she argued.

  “Well . . . that too,” Bently conceded.

  “She’s taken,” Mikel growled as he walked towards them, extending a hand to his wife.

  Remy stood back up, her husband possessively wrapping his arms around her.

  “Come on, bro. Maybe we could share. We could be brother-husbands.” Bently smirked.

  Andre shook his head. Bently never stopped. “It’s a good thing your brother knows you’re full of shit.”

  “I don’t share.” Mikel smiled and kissed Remy hard on the lips, his hands wandering to her backside as he lifted her against him.

  “Come on, now. This is a kids’ party—your kid. Keep it PG, man. No matter how long you two are together, she’s still my sister.”

  Mikel turned to face him as his grin widened. “If I had listened to you the first time you told me that, we wouldn’t have the birthday girl herself.”

  Bently erupted in laughter as Andre shook his head, trying to hide his smile. Seeing his best friend and his sister so happy brought the familiar pang of pain, knowing he’d never have that. He could never trust another woman like that again, and a union without trust was no relationship at all.

  The cake was cut and the birthday girl opened all her gifts. Where was Mia? Guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders. He’d kept her away from this, and she was all alone. Maybe it was for the best if they stayed apart from each other. They were like fire and gasoline, and the only thing that could come from that combination were ashes of destruction.

  Lyra ran up to him with the Katherine Johnson Barbie doll he’d gotten her. “Uncle Andre! Thank you so much for my present. I love it!” she squealed, holding the doll close to her chest with a yoga mat decorated with the solar system in the other hand.

  “Did I get the right one?” he asked.

  “Yes. Did you know Katherine was the woman who used math to help the astronauts get home safely from their trip to the moon? She was like a human computer she was so good at math. Mommy says if I want to be an astronaut, then I have to learn a lot of math too.” Her words came in rapid succession.

  “Well, I guess you better get to it, then, huh?” He tugged on one of her long braids. “Who gave you the yoga mat?” Andre asked, searching the small crowd once more.

  “Mia!” Lyra yelled as she ran back to her grandparents.

  Mia is here? Where?

  “She came this morning before the party started to drop off the gift,” Remy said from behind him.

  Andre turned to face her. Phoenix nursed from the carrier tied around his sister.

  “Oh.” He nodded.

  “Look at you trying to pretend your eyes haven’t wandered to my back door every five minutes since you got here.” She laughed.

  “I have not.” Had he?

  “What is stopping you? Mia and I have hung out a few times, and I think she’s a genuinely good person. She’s been through a lot. She lost both her parents.” Remy continued, but Andre got caught on that one detail. She’d lost her parents? He’d called her a spoiled princess that day, making some stupid comment about her mother and father spoiling her before she’d run off on the verge of tears. What a fucking idiot!

  “You were right. I was mean to her. I apologized already. But, Remy, I’m not looking for a relationship.” Ever.

  “Say that first part again, please?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You were right.”

  She smiled. “Wow, Andre Stone. I never thought I would hear those words from you.”

  “Don’t get used to it.”

  “You know you could have saved a lot of heartache if you’d listened to me and Bently about Tiffany. We told you the woman wasn’t good for you,” she said.

  It was like he’d been addicted to Tiffany—the highs, the lows—a ride he couldn’t get off. They’d burned hot and then it just fizzled. But he’d stayed with her out of obligation and because of the chemistry when things did happen to go right.

  “The heart wants what the heart wants.” And that was precisely why he needed to stay away from Mia. His heart and body wanted her, but his mind knew better. If he gave into the chemistry again, he’d probably end up at the same dead end he had with Tiffany.

  “I’m just saying, all your friends like Mia. She’s nothing like Tiffany. You should open up and give her a chance,” Remy argued.

  “Can we stop bringing up my ex?”

  “Fine.”

  “I gotta go anyways. Got some stuff to catch up on,” Andre said.

  “You should bring a piece of cake to Mia,” Remy said.

  Yeah, right.

  Later that afternoon, Andre shut the mower off, the smell of fresh-c
ut grass mixing with the gasoline from the machine. He parked it in his shed before walking back to his house, glancing over to Mia’s before he entered. That kiss they’d shared was seared on his brain, and no amount of running or lawn mowing could shake it.

  He ran up the stairs for a shower. Heading out to his balcony, he took a few moments as the warm breeze filtered past him. His eyes wandered to Mia’s backyard. She too was outside on her back porch, white curtains billowing from the wind behind her. Her tan body shimmered in the sunlight. Her hair was slicked back from what he assumed was a swim. A light purple towel wrapped around her, showing off her beautiful toned legs. Andre stood unmoving, enraptured by the sight before him. She sat right at the edge of the back porch. Mia held a picture frame in her hands as her shoulders began to quake and she wiped her eyes. She was crying. His lust quickly turned into a mix of curiosity and guilt. Was it his fault? Was she lonely because of his stupidity?

  As much as he wanted to comfort her—craved it, really—he couldn’t do that because there were only two possible outcomes with Mia: fighting or fucking—with her, probably both. Andre couldn’t afford to get close to Mia. He needed to protect himself. He walked inside and got in the shower, ignoring the pull towards the last woman in the world he should want.

  12

  Mia’s letter

  Life in America was so different to life in Mexico. My mother found work cleaning for fourteen hours a day while I was enrolled in school. I didn’t speak a word of English, but thankfully our neighbors at the motel we lived in quickly became friends. Mateo and Carmen helped me learn the language and navigate the education system. They are still my best friends to this day. Their mother would check on me from time to time. They didn’t have much either, but she always offered me food when I was in their room.

  One day, I came home from school after a particularly bad day of being bullied for my accent. My mother was in between shifts at one of her many jobs that paid her well below minimum wage. She took one look at me and suggested we make her polvorones. We searched the almost bare cupboards for the ingredients and chatted in Spanish about good times in the past with my father—memories that brought laughter. She dropped a powdered cookie in my hand with her calloused fingers and said, “These are best when made with love and laughter. Don’t believe what anyone says that’s negative about your heritage, because you’re not anything less than beautiful.”

  I remember the day we received the letter from the government denying us asylum. Because the cartel had demanded money from us that we couldn’t pay, the U.S. government considered our plight 50 percent economic hardship, which made us ineligible for asylum.

  It was the first time my mother didn’t cry when bad news came. It was as if she had been through so much trauma that she’d run out of tears to grieve. I had wondered if there was a set amount of tears a person could cry in their lifetime. When would my mamá get a break, and be able to be free and happy again like we were with Papi on the ranch? I wished she would get that peace, prayed to all the saints who would listen, even mother Mary herself. If only I’d known that death would be the only form of peace for her—I’d take back all my prayers. I’d do so much differently.

  Living as an undocumented person in the United States was difficult to say the least. My mother made yearly trips to check in with Immigration and Customs Enforcement facilities. To go back to Mexico was a death sentence. We’d received letters from the cartel. They knew where we lived and sent detailed threats on how they would end our lives. The U.S. government had copies and they still denied us refuge, even though we followed the legal route towards asylum.

  I applied for DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) and because of that was granted a social security number so I could work and go to college, and get a license.

  Everything was going okay. I was determined to get my degree and make a better life for my mother so she wouldn’t have to be in so much pain from working herself to death. But then the elections came, and the new president who’d promised to only deport criminals was tearing families apart. I lived in terror that when I came home from school, my mother would be taken from me without a word. That ICE officers would invade my classroom and take me out in handcuffs. Anxiety and nightmares made it hard to sleep and function as a freshman in college.

  This is what my life as a Dreamer (an undocumented person permitted to live in the U.S. since they were brought in as a minor) was like. This is why I don’t share about myself, because I could be turned in at any moment and sent back to Mexico. This is life or death for me.

  I tell you this not to make an excuse for my lack of openness, but to give you an explanation that this rift is me, not you. It is my fault, all of it. Both my parents’ deaths, and the way things ended between us.

  13

  Mia

  Hot tears ran down Mia’s cheeks as she stared at the picture of her mother.

  “Feliz cumpleaños, Mamá.” Mia brought the glass of tequila to her lips. This was her mother’s second birthday since she’d been ripped from this world. It didn’t seem any easier than the last.

  “You wouldn’t want me to be sad on your birthday. I’m the only one left to honor you, and I’ll do it right. I’ll make a feast and we’ll have a party.” Mia sniffled as she carried the picture frame inside with her glass in the other hand.

  After setting it on the counter, she played one of her mother’s favorite songs—“La poller colorá” by Carmen Rivero y su Conjunto. As the familiar sound wound around her, it took her back to the many times she’d danced in the kitchen while her mother made tamales. Her neighbor and best friend, Lucia Lopez, together with Carmen and Mateo, had always helped in preparation for Christmas. The red pomegranate on the counter caught her attention as an idea struck.

  Mia pulled out poblano peppers from the fridge, along with all the other ingredients she would need. Luckily, she had some leftover slow-cooked pork that would do just fine. She got to work preparing chile en nogada—one of her mother’s favorites.

  Sometime later, her phone rang, silencing the music. Mia washed her hands quickly before answering. “Hello?”

  “Hola, mija. Cómo estás?” Lucia asked.

  Mia answered her in her native tongue as they continued in Spanish. “I am doing well, Señora Lopez. How are you?”

  “I miss my other daughter. When can I come and see the new place you have for yourself?” she asked.

  “Give me another month or two and you guys can fly out to see it when it’s all finished,” Mia said.

  “Alright. How are you doing? I know this day is hard for you. Your mother was a strong and courageous woman,” Lucia said, pride mixed with her own grief apparent in her voice.

  Mia’s eyes stung as more tears gathered. She picked up her glass and downed the rest of her tequila before pouring herself some more. “It’s still hard, but I will honor her and celebrate her life. I’m making chile en nogada.”

  “Her favorite!” Lucia said.

  “Yes.”

  “She would be so proud of you, mija,” Lucia said.

  Mia swiped the tear that fell down her cheek, the open wounds of her grief bleeding out with slices of regret. Every heartbeat pained her as guilt weighed heavily on her shoulders.

  “I won’t let her and Papi’s sacrifices be for nothing.” Mia swallowed the ball of emotion rising in her throat.

  “Ahhh, cariño, your life and your freedom is all they cared about. You live and be happy. That’s the only thing your mother wanted. She reminded you all the time,” Lucia said, her voice comforting. The woman was the closest thing she’d ever have to family.

  “I remember.” Mia’s lips curved into a watery smile.

  “Now, go make that delicious food, and don’t forget to have a glass of tequila for her. You know how much she loved celebrations.” Lucia chuckled.

  “I will.”

  “Invite your neighbors and friends you’ve made there. I’m sure you can find someone to share this day wi
th,” Lucia said.

  A pang of hurt added to the turmoil in her chest. She couldn’t invite her neighbor—he’d made it perfectly clear he wanted nothing to do with her. And with no desire for more drama with Andre, she didn’t want to invite his friends who were quickly becoming hers. Besides, today was Lyra’s birthday as well, and she wouldn’t interrupt their family plans. No, she’d do this alone—like everything else.

  “Sure,” Mia answered to appease her second mother.

  “Well, I’ll let you get to it. Buenas tardes, mi amor,” Lucia said.

  “Adíos,” Mia said before hanging up.

  She sighed as the music automatically started again, the song far more cheerful than she felt. She took another sip of the tequila. “Salud, Mamá.”

  14

  Andre

  Later that night, Andre pulled the car into his driveway. The festive music blaring from his neighbor’s house immediately made him tense. All the lights were on in her house and the windows open, only making it that much more obnoxious. There was no way he would be able to sleep with that noise blaring. He checked his watch—ten thirty. There was a noise ordinance in their neighborhood, and in sixty seconds she’d be breaking it.

  “Fuck it,” he said, heading straight over to her door. There was no way she’d hear a polite knock over the loud music, so he pounded his fist against the door. He waited and waited. Pounding the wood again, his impatience grew. Did she have company?

  Finally, the door opened, the music growing louder as it bled out into the night. Her dark hair spilled over her naked shoulders. The red dress she wore glittered in the moonlight—her long tan legs and curvy thighs on display for his viewing pleasure. She was barefoot, and for some reason it made him smile.

  “This is the very opposite of space!” she yelled over the music as she hiccupped.