Claiming Carlos

by Rachelle Ayala

  “Yes! And she’s down!” Carlos chuckles as the announcers replay the epic fall in slow motion, adding their annoying comments. He does a victory dance, wiggling his tight ass in front of my face. “I beat you again. Is there any sport I can’t beat you at?”

  Arrogant prick. There goes my theory about women having better hand-eye coordination than men.

  “I want a rematch on the go carts.” It’s my best chance to win since I’m lighter in weight than he is.

  “I’m so awesome and you know it, so so awesome, oh yes I am.” Carlos takes a bow.

  I smack him upside the head with the Wii controller. “Winner owes loser dessert and a drink.”

  “I come prepared.” Carlos struts to the kitchen and lifts the ice chest onto the counter. “Buko pie and San Miguel beer.”

  Buko is young coconut meat, soft and jelly-like with a light sweet creaminess. Carlos layers the tender strips with condensed milk in a flaky, homemade crust.

  “Thanks, you didn’t have to bring anything.” I accept the pie, my stomach churning while pinpoints of sweat prickle my face. I invited Carlos over to clear the air and pave the way for Julia, not to play video games and be dazzled by his baking prowess.

  “You know you love my pie.” Carlos cuts me a slice and hands me an open bottle of beer. “Want to stream a movie or something? I’ll even watch a romantic comedy.”

  Uh, why is he being so agreeable? Usually, we’re fighting over movie choices the same way we fight over video games, internet radio stations, and playlists. Heck, we fight about everything.

  Might as well get things out in the open.

  I take a swig of beer to fortify myself. “Carlos, we’ve been friends for a long time.”

  He freezes and stares at me, suddenly wary. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, except you wanted to talk about that kiss.”

  “Thought you didn’t want to talk about it.” He sets his pie plate on the coffee table.

  “I don’t. But you seem to think you have some claim over me because it happened. I was drunk and got carried away. That’s all.”

  “Sure.” He wipes his lips. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you. Maybe I should take that beer away from you too.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You don’t have to get snippy. I’d like to stay friends with you, so I didn’t want you getting any ideas, that’s all.”

  “Is that what you told Johnny also?” His eyes have that guarded look.

  “Johnny isn’t your concern.” I stand, my hands on my hips. “Frankly, I’m getting tired of you butting into my business and hovering around acting as if you’re my bodyguard and snitching to my parents. I don’t care if you work for my father and he told you to watch over me. I’m an adult and I don’t need your monitoring.”

  “Whoa.” He raises his hand. “I thought we were friends.”

  “Stop hiding behind this ‘friend’ thing.” I stamp my foot. “Sometimes I think you use it as an excuse to boss me around or control me.”

  His face turns to stone. “Your father, who happens to be my boss, asked me to escort you to and from work.”

  “I don’t need you to. Now that your mother’s here, don’t you think you should pay her more attention?”

  He wipes his hand across his forehead. “Why did you invite me over?”

  Oops. This isn’t going well. I’m supposed to subtly suggest he ask Julia for a date, not back him into a corner.

  “Sorry, sorry. Actually, I wanted to let you know that it’s okay if you date other women, like Julia, for example. She might like you. What I mean is she’s looking for a responsible, dependable man. You know, she was jilted, right? So your mother talked to me and we think she might like to go out with you.”

  Carlos set his beer bottle on the table and rises from the couch. “Is that what you really want?”

  I swallow, my throat tight and achy. “Yes, you’ll be good for her.”

  He wipes his hand slowly over his mouth and glares at me. “You might be right. Maybe she’ll be good for me too.”

  Chapter 6

  Since our family owns a restaurant, we never get to have a regular family dinner, but Mama insists because Tita Gloria is in town. I’m sweating in our restaurant-grade kitchen over a huge wok on the high powered BTU burner gas stove.

  “I hate cooking. Why couldn’t we bring food home from the restaurant? Ow!” A hot bubble of oil splats my forearm when I turn the fried sea bass.

  Mama grabs the spatula from me. “Careful, you’ll break the fish in half. A home-cooked meal is more special, especially if you own a restaurant.”

  I stick my arm under the water faucet. “Maybe, except the fish never tastes as good as when Carlos makes it.”

  “He has assistants.” Mama sniffs. “Oh, no, I hope the calamansi cake isn’t burnt.”

  She rushes to the oven and pulls out a smoking cake pan. Meanwhile the fish explodes with a loud hissing pop. I rush to put the splat guard over the wok.

  “No, no. we want it crispy.” Mama shoos me away. “Why don’t you help Genie wrap the lumpia or something safe?”

  My eighteen-year-old sister Genie sits at the table with a deep scowl. She pushes the meat mixture at me. “Here, I hate touching this yucky raw pork.”

  A handful of lumpy looking lumpia, or Filipino eggrolls, are splayed on the platter dusted with flour.

  Mama steps over. “That’s all you’ve made? You overstuffed them. They’ll fall apart when we fry them.”

  “I glued them with the egg white like you said.” Genie wipes her hands on a towel. “Can I go now? I have a date.”

  “No, you can’t go.” Mama unrolls the lumpia, breaking the wrappers. “Papa let you off from hostess duty to help with dinner. Besides, Tita Gloria hasn’t seen you since last year.”

  Genie rolls her big, beautiful green eyes. “She’s your friend, not mine. Greg’s picking me up in half an hour. I have to shower.”

  “You didn’t get our permission to go out. Back to the lumpia. You’re supposed to shape the meat into a long cigar shape before rolling, not stuff them and try to flatten them later.” She demonstrates with a clump of ground pork mixture on a new lumpia skin. “The trick is not to overfill each wrapper. See? Now I start rolling—”

  An acrid smell emanates from the sizzling wok and the smoke alarms scream overhead.

  “Oh, no. The fish is burning. Choco, do something.” Mama snags the back of my blouse. “Genie, get back here. You’re not going out. Genie!”

  My sister ignores her and stomps out of the kitchen while I turn off the burner under the smoking wok. Mama slides open the kitchen window, coughing and sputtering. “What are we going to do now? Gloria’s coming in half an hour.”

  “We still have the salads and kinilaw I prepared earlier.” I pull out the saran wrapped dish filled with the raw fish salad which is “cooked” with a vinegar and lime juice marinade. “I even added chopped persimmons since you said Gloria loves them.”

  Mama rushes around the kitchen fanning the smoke with a dishtowel. “Where did you get them this time of year?”

  “Julia brought them from Australia.”

  After she was jilted, Julia went on her honeymoon alone. It was much easier to be out among strangers than face concerned and pitying relatives.

  Mama strips the saran wrap from the salad bowl and stirs the fish mixture. “Gloria will love the kinilaw and the persimmons will be a big surprise.”

  “There’s also chicken adobo and rice.” I raise the pot lid and stir the bubbly chicken which looks strangely pale. “Looks like you didn’t put soy sauce in.”

  “The rice, the rice,” Mama says. “We forgot to put on the rice.”

  She scrambles to the cabinet and throws rice into the cooker. Meanwhile, I flip to her hand scrawled recipe card which is dotted with stains and water drops. “How much?”

  “Whatever it says there.” Mama waves at me impatiently while measuring the water with her fingers.

  I
dump in two cups of dark soy sauce and stir it. Nice and dark, the way adobo should look.

  “What’s for dinner?” My sixteen-year-old brother, Brian, stumbles into the kitchen. He picks up the carcass of the fish from the cooling oil. “What happened here?”

  “Nothing!” Mama yells. “Set the table. Tita Gloria’s going to be here in fifteen minutes and she’s never late.”

  Ding-dong. The doorbell rings.

  “Ahhh!” Mama slips and a plate shatters on the floor, splattering the green beans fried in ground pork and oyster sauce, our only vegetable dish.

  I grab a mop, but she pushes me out of the kitchen. “Go, answer the door. Distract Tita Gloria. You, Brian, set the table. Put out the Wedgwood Vera Wangs and the Spanish silver.”

  Mama’s freaking out. She’s acting like Gloria is the first lady or someone famous. You’d think she was trying her hand at matchmaking, but then Genie, the most likely candidate, just left. I dig out the crystal glasses and follow Brian to the dining room.

  “Aren’t you getting the door?” he asks.

  “Sure. Put the kinilaw in a glass bowl and the adobo in a heavy crock.” I wipe my hands on my apron and stride to the front door.

  Tita Gloria stands there with Carlos. What the heck is he doing here? Doesn’t he have to be cooking at Barrio XO? Or setting up the karaoke machine?

  They’re both dressed for dinner, no jeans, no sandals, but not Sunday best, although they might have just come from Mass since Carlos is wearing a black barong shirt trimmed in silver, looking like a gwapo movie star.

  “Oh, hi, come in, come in.” I wave them in with a spatula.

  “You’re not ready,” Tita Gloria says. “We’ll wait outside.”

  “Of course not, Tita. We’ve been waiting for you.” I take her hand and press her knuckles to my forehead for a blessing.

  I don’t know why my parents insist on such formalities, but it’s been burned into me since babyhood. Tita must not feel like giving me a blessing because she barely touches me before yanking her hand back.

  “Carlos, let’s give them time. They’re not ready.”

  He shrugs and gives me a half-rolled eye.

  “How was Mass?” I say sweetly to him. “Did you go to confession?”

  “Not sure you’d want me to spill our secrets.” His smirk is more like a squint, and he turns to his mother. “Ma, you said your feet are killing you. Let’s sit in the living room or something.”

  Mama’s hurried footsteps clatter over the Saltillo tiles. “Manang Gloria. Come in, come in. Didn’t Choco give you slippers?”

  “Choco.” She snaps her fingers at me. “Slippers, tea. What’s the matter with you?”

  Tita Gloria stops in front of the wooden fork and spoon decoration near the entry. “This is real teak wood, waterproof. Gives you good luck, means you’ll never go hungry again.”

  Mama hugs her again. “Yes, I remember you giving it to us when we started the restaurant. Sit down. Have some coffee, tea. We prepared a feast.”

  Carlos’s nostrils expand and contract and his eyebrows crease. He takes the slippers from me. “Do you need any help in the kitchen?”

  “We have it covered. Don’t we, Brian?” I give my brother a shove. “Did you turn off the adobo?”

  His eyes pop wide. “Oh no. I thought something was burning.”

  “The adobo?” Mama screams and runs back to the kitchen. I stumble after her.

  She yanks the pot off the stove and opens the lid. A whoosh of steam fogs her glasses. “Quick, put some water in it. It’s not that bad. Not yet.”

  I pour water from the teapot. “Maybe Tita Gloria likes it blackened. I always like my adobo stronger and thicker.”

  “Ma, should I serve the rice?” Brian says. “There’s no way we can mess that up.”

  Mama sweeps the broken plate and green bean fragments into a corner. The teakettle screams, and the kitchen door swings open. Hilda, our Great Dane puppy, bounds in.

  “Woof! Woof!”

  “Who let the dog in?” Mama yells.

  Hilda’s all over the ground pork with oyster sauce. Her large tongue scrapes the food off the floor into her mouth.

  Behind us, Brian holds his belly, laughing. “Brought in the cleanup crew.”

  “Stop her,” Mama says. “She’s going to cut her tongue. Choco, serve the rice.”

  Get the slippers. Pour the tea. Serve the rice. Sheesh. Mama treats me like a servant. I grab a bowl and open the rice cooker.

  “Crap. The rice is uncooked.”

  “Stupid. You didn’t plug it in.” Mama thumps my head.

  “Ow!” I plug in the electric rice cooker and grab the tea tray to escape the kitchen. Fortunately Carlos and his mother are sitting quietly on the sofa. There’s no way they could have missed hearing the pandemonium in the kitchen.

  Tita Gloria accepts a teacup from me with no comment. But when I bend to pour for Carlos, he cups my hand and whispers in my ear. “Sure you don’t need help in there?”

  “You’re not the only one who knows how to cook.” I grit my teeth. “Don’t make my mom lose face by insinuating she needs help.”

  “I didn’t mean that.” He flinches, his nostrils flaring as if he smells something burning.

  What’s his problem? Always criticizing me and finding fault. I shoot him eye daggers and turn back to the kitchen.

  # # #

  Dinner was a complete and utter failure—instant rice with overly salted, blackened adobo and fish salad that made Tita Gloria’s mouth pucker tighter than Ebenezer Scrooge’s purse.

  I escape as soon as the plates are cleared and don my jogging outfit. Mama and Gloria are sitting on lounge chairs watching the sunset, and Carlos is shooting hoops with Brian. Genie’s long gone on her unauthorized date, but Mama was too busy and Papa’s still at the restaurant. I say good for her. My parents are strict on the surface, but loopholes abound.

  After lacing my running shoes, I stretch and jog down the path in back of our house to the nature preserve. California is in the middle of a drought, so the fingers of the lagoon near our house are dried bone white. I jog down the path and cross over a small bridge made of pallets spanning the dried, cracked mud.

  Footsteps pound behind me.

  “Choco, wait up.” Carlos catches up to me. I notice he’s unbuttoned the top half of his barong. Wonder who he’s trying to impress out in this godforsaken wilderness?

  “Let me jog in peace.” I pump my arms to speed up, knowing it’s useless. Carlos works out every morning and has a lean, tight frame. On his days off, he goes long distance running. He claims he’s training for a marathon, so who am I to try to outrun him?

  Carlos taps my shoulder. “I enjoyed dinner.”

  “Liar!” I flail my fists harder, unable to lengthen my pathetically short stride.

  “Don’t feel bad about it, Choke.” He glues himself to my side, his stride barely faster than a power walk.

  “Who says I feel bad?” I flip my hair and cut down the path toward the outer part of the lagoon where there’s still water.

  “Okay, feel good then. It was great. Our mothers are enjoying themselves, talking about old boyfriends.”

  “Sure they weren’t reminiscing over failed recipes? It wasn’t my fault I mistook half a cup of soy sauce for two. And how was I to know Julia’s persimmons were Hachiya instead of Fuyu?”

  I’m running at a faster than normal pace because of Carlos’s long strides. He doesn’t say anything, probably because he can’t think of any more lies.

  “Don’t you have to get back to the restaurant?” I huff and puff, but can’t blow him away.

  “Not tonight, Johnny Dee’s there interviewing the customers, and your father let me have the evening off.”

  My legs are starting to burn, so I slow my pace. “What does Johnny have to do with you getting time off? Shouldn’t you be there to take the feedback?”

  He gets in front of me so he’s jogging backwards. “Nope. This Johnny thi
ng is a waste of time. I know exactly what our customers crave and I serve it to them.”

  “So you’re not on board with the expansion plans?”

  “I was the one who suggested it in the first place. I don’t see why your father has to bring in some fancy suit to give his blessing.” He stumbles, flailing his arms and falls backwards.

  I sidestep to avoid him, but the trail’s too narrow, and I tumble right into his arms.

  Carlos lies on his back and groans, shaking his head. “Sorry about that. Are you hurt?”

  I don’t know about hurt, but my breathing’s fast and shallow, and I hope he can’t feel my galloping heartbeat. Ever since that darn kiss at Genie’s prom, the kiss that shouldn’t have meant anything, I’ve been having a hard time focusing whenever I’m around him. It’s like I have to keep him at arm’s length, which he isn’t right now, as he circles his hand around my neck and positions me so I’m face to face with him. He’s giving me that meaningful stare, his dark brown eyes intent and soft, friendly, inviting.

  Oh, no. Not happening again. No way. We’re friends, best buds, and he’s supposed to court Julia, that’s what his mother wants him to do. I can’t. I want to. No, this is crazy.

  My mouth touches his soft lips and I close my eyes, the better to pretend it’s not happening. Mmmm … He tilts my head gently to angle in closer as his other hand caresses the small of my back.

  He doesn’t smush my mouth against his, but gently tugs my lower lip. I settle into his kiss. It’s lazy, easy-going, not demanding, friendly. Only, his fingers curling into my hair isn’t mild, no, and neither are the tiny moans he makes at the back of his throat, or the spear rising hard against my belly. Yikes! What am I doing?

  We’re lying on a sandy trail in a nature preserve near dusk. Coyotes could be lurking in the sage bushes, and mountain lions prowling the dry riverbeds. Oh, but his lips taste spicy, and oh, so enticing. A slow burn roils between my legs. He’s so freaking sexy for being a chef. But I didn’t sign up to be his kissing partner. I mean, I could use the practice. I seriously suck at kissing. Oops, my teeth just bumped his. That’s what I get for biting my lips when I should be sucking, or smacking, or nibbling, or whatever it is professional kissers do.