by Lexi Scott
The waves crash, the early morning gulls scream, and, thankfully, a tent flap rips open and Kona leaps out, screaming to wake up the others.
I decide to ignore Maren’s last request.
“Let me check with Deo to see if Whit can come by and chaperone,” I say.
“Cohen, I need you to promise—”
“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep,” I cut in, my words coming out with more of an edge than I intended. I watch her swallow hard, taken aback. Good. I want her to understand this isn’t up for debate. I’m not going to watch someone I care about suffer, no matter what boundaries she claims she wants. “I’ll have my cousin’s car service bring you back. But this isn’t over, Maren. I’m not about to sit by and watch you drown in all this, so don’t ask me to. I’m not giving up on you, and nothing you say will change that.”
Before she can answer I take a deep breath and stalk away from where she stands, alone, vulnerable, not ready to accept my help.
Yet.
She has no clue just how stubborn a Rodriguez man can be.
Chapter Fifteen
Cohen
“Are Deo and Whit going to make it to dinner tonight, bubbala?” my mother asks, her wavy brown hair pulled back in the tight bun that means she’s cooking some serious Jewish/Mexican culinary masterpiece.
“I think they’ll be a little late, but, yeah, they’re planning on showing up.” I hand her the potatoes I just peeled for the fiesta latkes. You wouldn’t believe how some corn flour, cilantro, and lime can spice up your average potato pancake.
My youngest sister, Genevieve, comes in with the almonds Mom got from a neighbor, shelled and hand slivered, ready for the chocolate nut torte.
“So, is the wedding in the works for those two?” my mother asks, and I watch Gen’s face. She doesn’t seem bothered, but I’m not sure if she’s just hiding it well.
My little sister has had the world’s biggest crush on Deo since she was in second grade. I’m pretty sure she had a scary altar set up in her closet where she lit candles and tried to cast Santería love spells based on the misinformation of her unhinged best friend, Charity.
“They’re not in any hurry,” I say. “Well, Whit isn’t. Deo would kill me if he knew I told you, but he’s been talking to florists and looked into getting this big, like, coach to show up with white horses…whatever. I think it’s so damn weird.”
I can hear the hostess in my brain announcing, Bitter, table for one.
So maybe the mushy, lovey-dovey behavior that I used to find pretty sweet is now driving me out of my skull. And maybe that has to do with the fact that every time I see Deo curl up with Whit or laugh at one of her acerbic jokes or get excited to talk about reception venues, my mind goes right back to Maren and what I’m missing— What we’re both missing.
But the other day at the beach I realized something important. The Maren I thought I knew was just a figment of Cohen Rodriguez’s intensely overactive imagination peppered with a liberal spicing of rebound desperation, and garnished with some good old-fashioned drunkenness. I thought she was a fun, confident, intelligent, sexy woman as into me as I was into her.
I was picturing hot dates and amazing conversations, long days surfing, and awkward family dinners I could laugh with her over later. I had no idea her life was swirling out of control, and that helps me understand why she isn’t eager to dive into anything serious. How could she be? She needs to get herself on solid ground first.
I think she knows that. And knows how nearly impossible it is. Which is why she needs help. Too bad she’s so damn stubborn.
The problem is how the hell do I convince Maren that I respect her completely, that I get what a complicated thing her father’s situation is, and that what she’s doing now just isn’t working, without getting a door slammed permanently in my face?
As for her offer that we keep things strictly sexual? Oh, it’s tempting as all hell. I’m no angel. But I want it all when it comes to Maren, and I’m not settling for anything less.
“I think a horse-drawn carriage sounds very romantic,” Mom says, one hip braced on the counter, wooden spoon twirled dreamily between her fingers. “But Deo was always a romantic like that.”
“I know.” Genevieve sighs, her eyes all soft and dewy. “I’ve always known that.”
My older sister, Lydia, busts in and rolls her eyes at Genevieve before she even knows why she’s doing it. “What have you ‘always known’?” she demands.
Lydia’s been bossy as hell since we were little kids, and she still thinks it’s up to her to know everything about every one of us. It’s pretty damn irritating sometimes.
“Nothing,” Genevieve snaps.
“Lydia! You made it! You’ve been so busy at work I didn’t think you’d be able to get time off,” Mom cries, opening her arms and pulling Lydia in for a hug. Other than being five inches taller than our mother, Lydia is her spitting image. Mom also loves her bossiness and take-charge attitude. She is kind of our parents’ favorite, so it’s no surprise when Mom spills the beans before Genevieve and I can make our escape. “We were just talking about how romantic Deo is.”
“Deo?” Lydia scoffs, patting her French twist and raising one over-tweezed eyebrow. “I guess if you think sharing a hand-rolled joint on the beach is big-time romance, he’s the winner.” She holds up her hand and twirls her finger around.
“Hey, Lyd, do you have to try to be such an asshole, or does it just come naturally?” I ask.
Mom clucks her tongue, and Lydia shakes her head, eyeing my sister and me with a condescending little smile. “Sooo sorry,” she says with saccharine sweetness. “I forgot I’m in the midst of the Deo Beckett fan-club.” She narrows her eyes at Genevieve. “What do you look so pissed about? I thought you got over your big crush back in high school. Please don’t tell me you still hold a candle for that slacker.”
Genevieve slams down the knife she was using to cut up cilantro on the counter and glares at Lydia, her eyes brimming with tears and her voice hoarse and choked. “I bet it feels so damn good to be perfect all the time, right? No wonder you can’t keep a damn boyfriend. You can’t see past your own huge ego to notice if anyone else would meet your ridiculous standards.”
My baby sister trembles with fury, but my older sister just crosses her arms coolly and shakes her head from side to side, pursing her dark red lips.
“Better to be picky than totally pathetic. I’d rather have ‘ridiculous standards’ than make do with any beach bum in Silver Strand, all while waiting for the one I’m never going to be with.”
My mother’s wooden spoon clatters to the counter, and I reach for Genevieve, who pushes past me and tears down the hall, her sobs already spilling out.
“Damn it, Lydia,” I yell. “You’re home for thirty seconds and you have Gen crying? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Lydia.” Mom, who almost always takes Lydia’s side, is using all her control to get her words out in a level voice. “You never speak to any of your siblings the way you just spoke, do you hear me? Look at me!”
Mom’s controlled fury is a thing to cower over.
Lydia raises her hands in defeat and huffs, but Mom’s ferocious look stops her in her tracks, and she back-pedals.
“I was just playing with her,” she whines, smoothing out her suit and jacket like she’s trying to reassure herself that, yes, she knows better than everyone else. Always. “I love how she can dish it, but she can never take it. So typical of Genevieve! You think it doesn’t hurt to have her throw it in my face that I’ve been single for so long?”
Now it’s Lydia’s turn to get all choked up, and Mom sighs and opens her arms again.
I don’t doubt that Lydia is actually all that upset, but it’s just like my sister to manipulate any situation and turn it into something about her. She’s got her cheek leaned on our mother’s shoulder and is blubbering about her “biological clock ticking” and her “inability to find a man who can accept a s
trong woman” while Mom clucks and comforts her, forgetting Genevieve completely.
I leave the kitchen and hesitate outside Genevieve’s door, wanting to go in to tell her things will be all right, but not really wanting to get bogged down in my sister’s drama.
The smell of smoke from across the hall is a huge relief, because it means the sanest of all my siblings, Cece, is home.
It’s no surprise she chose to stay holed up in her room while all hell broke loose in the kitchen. I’m serious when I say she’s the sanest of us all— She’s pretty much the only one who got none of the Rodriguez temper or stubbornness.
I cross to the door that used to be mine, and knock lightly. “It’s me, Cece.”
I hear her stop fumbling to hide her cigs on the other side. The mattress creaks and her footsteps run across the floor. The door opens and she jumps into my arms.
“Cohen! Please tell me you already peeled all the potatoes?”
“Done, slacker. How do you always manage to wiggle out of every damn chore?” I demand, coming in and flopping on her bed.
I hold out my hand, and she reaches out the window, then pulls in her ashtray with the smoldering cigarette and hands them to me. I take a drag and blow out a long, lazy stream of smoke.
“When you’re writing your thesis paper on fourth wave feminist poetry, you’ll be able to forgo potato peeling duties, too.” She grins at me, and I raise my eyebrows at the ashtray, full of butts.
“So, I guess Spirit cigarettes are pretty poetic and all, but how is the actual paper coming? Haven’t you been working on it for, like, two years now?” I hand the cig over, and she takes a drag, brushing the tangle of chin-length curls away from her face.
“Shut up, please. Not everyone majored in finance. You have no idea how much I wish I’d just chosen something I didn’t have to…think about so much.” She takes another drag and grins, smoke coming through her teeth. “No offense. You know I think you’re brilliant.”
“None taken. Sorry the fourth wave is kicking your ass and all.” I look around her room and try to ignore the morose faces of Virginia Woolf, Audre Lorde, and Maya Angelou glowering at me from the posters on her wall. I can remember when there were only surfing posters and a few Sports Illustrated hotties gracing these humble walls. I’m sure Gloria Steinem would have a heart attack from her spot on the bookshelf if she knew how many centerfolds used to occupy wall space in here. “So, I feel like I haven’t talked to you in weeks.”
“I know.” She sighs and pulls her boney knees up to her chest. “I feel like I haven’t even really been home, ya’ know? I’ve just been trapped in my own head. But enough about me. How is everything going with you?”
“Same old,” I lie.
“You’re lying to me, little brother.” She pokes me with her toe. “Still stuck on Kensley?”
The thing I love about Cece is that she can push away her own feelings when it comes to helping me out. Because she pretty much hated Kensley with an open ferocity that made it hard for them to be in the same room together. But, since we broke up, Cece hasn’t uttered even one shitty word about her. Even though I know she’s got an entire arsenal hidden behind her cheerful smiles.
“Not at all.” I lean back on her bed, arms behind my head, and stare at the ceiling like I did so many nights growing up in this house. “There’s this girl…”
“The girl in the band?” she asks, her voice low and gentle.
Now I feel like an even bigger asshole for attempting to bring Maren up. Cece and I have barely talked in the last few weeks, but I already cried about Kensley and Tracey to her.
“Never mind,” I grumble.
She stubs the cigarette out and pushes up the sleeves of her hideous alpaca wool sweater. “Oh, Co, did you fall in love again? Don’t look all embarrassed. You’ve got a good heart.”
It would be bad enough to have Cece realize what an asshole I am when it comes to love. It would be even worse having her imagine that I was thinking with my “heart” when everything first got intense with Maren.
“Have you ever been into someone, and you’re pretty sure the feeling is mutual, but circumstances are just crazy as hell?” I ask.
Cece nods slowly. “Oh, yeah. There’s been someone… It feels like it’s been a good five years of mutual crushing, but the timing is always off. One of us is always about to go on a year-long study abroad or is maybe in a kind of relationship or just accepted an internship three hours away.” She looks pretty bummed. “I actually thought things might work out finally, this summer…”
“That sucks, Cece,” I say. My sister always seems so damn cheerful. I forget she has crap to deal with just like we all do.
“It does,” she agrees. “I don’t know what your situation is, but I definitely regret not trying harder to make a connection. I mean, sometimes I think I used the circumstances as a stupid excuse to pull back. Because it’s kind of scary to let go of the possibility.” “How’s that?” I ask, though I think I have a pretty good handle on what she’s saying.
“Oh, you know, you can sort of bump back and forth with someone you have a thing for, and there’s that electricity. That chemistry. But you can’t be sure if it’s enough to base a relationship on. And if you hide behind excuse after excuse— Well you never have to find out definitively. It’s scary to think of missing your chance. But it’s just as scary to think of taking your chance and finding out it wasn’t what you hoped it would be.”
“Yup, that’s pretty much where I am right now,” I tell Cece. “We met through the store, and talking to her was pretty much the highlight of my day for months. When we met, it was instant chemistry, and we had this incredible night. But her situation is kind of complicated, and she’s not into the idea of the two of us having anything serious.”
Cece crooks an eyebrow. “Does she know you at all?” she asks with a laugh. “You’re kind of chronically serious. Like I’m trying to imagine you even having a fling, and I just can’t.”
“Hey, I tried,” I say. “I swear I gave it a shot. But I know this girl’s the one, and I do have a hard time doing anything by half once I decide it’s what I want.”
Cece gives me one of those worried sisterly looks. “See. There’s your good heart again.”
“You’re trying to tell me I’m being an idiot,” I say, flopping back on her bed with a groan.
“No!” She laughs. “What you want to do for this girl? It’s loyal. It’s noble. And if she doesn’t recognize what an incredible guy you are for wanting to be a stand-up guy for her… She doesn’t deserve you or your help. Or your good heart.”
“It’s definitely not my good heart. It’s my crazy, stupid heart, and it’s getting my ass in trouble left and right. If I was smart, I’d probably back off girls for a while.”
She snorts and hides her pack of cigarettes under her mattress, then leans over me to put her ashtray on the huge window ledge and tosses a Lifesaver in her mouth before she throws me the roll.
I bite into the minty ring and ask, “What? You don’t think I can swear off girls?”
“You swearing off girls is as likely as Gen swearing off sex. Or Lydia swearing off being an asshole. By the way, I heard Gen’s door slam. I assume Lydia said something douchey?” Cece sighs when I nod.
“Nail on the head. And Mom was pissed for all of two seconds before Lydia managed to turn it all around and make it about her shitty life.” I pop another Lifesaver in my mouth and crunch down. “Is Enzo making it for dinner?”
“Enzo is, I think, at some film festival with that girl… What’s her name again?” Cece scrunches up her nose like she can’t remember our brother’s girlfriend’s name. “Bambi? Is that it?”
“Just because you think she should be dancing on a pole doesn’t mean you can rename her,” I say, but I can’t help laughing. Cece has always been protective over Enzo, Genevieve, and me when it comes to dating, and she’s driven away more boyfriends and girlfriends than we can count. “Her name is Fawn.”<
br />
“Ah. Fawn. I remember now.” She holds out her hand, and I pull her to her feet. “Spicy latkes?” she asks.
“Yup. Not that you should get any, lazy ass.” I start toward the kitchen, but Cece stops short and points to Genevieve’s door.
“I’ll take one for the team,” she whispers. “Consider yourself lucky that you got to peel potatoes instead.” She turns her curly head to the door and puts a hand on the knob.
I book it down the hall, leaving my sisters to deal with all that emotional craziness together. I may get a little down, but a few beers on Deo’s couch is as far as it goes. I don’t envy Cece right now. Genevieve takes things hard, and I bet she’s a crying, snotty, broken mess at the moment.
Damn Lydia.
“Cohen, I was just going to call you,” Mom cries when I get back to the kitchen. “Deo and Whit are on the back porch with Lydia. How is Genevieve?” Her eyes go soft, and I almost feel bad about snapping at her. But this always happens in my family.
“She’s okay. But you could have gone to check on her instead of letting Lydia steal the show as usual.”
She turns and clangs the pots on the stove. “I swear to God, you kids will be the death of me. I never had all this trouble when you were younger. You turned into adults, and you all went into your second infanthood. I’m done. Go on the porch with your friends, Cohen. I want to be alone for a minute.”
I don’t say another word. The hilarious irony of the entire situation is that Mom is just as emotional and frail as Genevieve. I don’t get why they can’t understand each other more, but maybe the answer is obvious: if they’re so similar, they probably don’t see their own ridiculousness.
I’m glad to get to leave my sister’s tears and my mother’s moodiness in the house. Outside, the sun is just about to set, the breeze is sweet and cool, and Whit holds out a beer for me with a smile as Deo and Lydia discuss the tenants of the new apartments downtown.
“….and they were supposed to be for the grad students in the law school, but they don’t have the money for them, so it’s all these coke-head, rich-brat drop-outs whose parents use the address to pretend their little losers are still in school.” Lydia takes a tiny sip of her white wine and gestures with the glass angrily. “It just pisses me off.”
