Plus, he knows all these excellent cheap places to eat. Yeah, yeah, I know I can afford to eat anywhere, but I don’t want to be that girl, you know? It’s super cool that I can just be regular here, too. Anonymous. I’m not the famous Tibby Lee’s daughter, despite the driver / bodyguard aspect. I’m simply Caressa Thibodoux—boring old regular chick, and I love it.
Don’t misunderstand, I adore my family and I appreciate everything Dad provides. But it’s cool to experience how different people live, too, and Joaquin’s home is so filled with warmth and laughter. I feel one hundred percent comfortable enveloped in the Esquibels’ tightly knit circle.
This evening in Park Slope, Joaquin’s mom encouraged Thomas to take a few hours off, swearing she’d watch me like only a Puerto Rican mami (or a vulture) can. Okay, actually, she practically shoved him out the door, but not before he gave me The Look. You know, the one that conveys, “Behave, no sex, no getting in trouble, no leaving Mrs. Esquibel’s sight (as if she’d allow that—please), no anything that can get me in trouble with Tibby.”
I smiled to encourage him, and frankly? I think he was relieved to have some time to himself. Plus, I adore Thomas. He’s like the non-annoying big brother I never had, and I wouldn’t do anything to get him busted by my dad.
So, he left, and here I stood in the small Esquibel kitchen while Joaquin’s mami taught me how to make asopao, which is a lot like the gumbo I’m used to from my New Orleans background. I felt utterly at home. I don’t know how else to explain it. The scents of salt pork, garlic, and chili peppers permeated the room, and Mrs. Esquibel’s favorite Narciso Figueroa CD played in the background. She danced around in her apron and sang off-tune as sunlight streamed through the narrow window at the end of the kitchen.
Joaquin stood shoulder to shoulder with me chopping papaya into cubes to be cooked in sugar and cinnamon for the dessert, tembleque. When his mom stepped out of the kitchen for a moment, he jostled me from the side. “Sorry Mami roped you into cooking.”
“Are you kidding?” I popped a cube of papaya in my mouth. “I love this.”
His eyes brightened. “Really?”
“And truly. I’m having the best time.” Overcome by the perfection of the moment, by the way our gazes tangled and locked, I impulsively leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn’t a tongue-down-the-throat kiss, just an I want to be here with you and nowhere else kiss.
But the fireworks inside me? Mindblowing.
Apparantly, the explosions were mutual.
After one frozen moment, Joaquin set down his chef’s knife and pulled me into his arms, then kissed me as though he’d been wanting to do it for his whole life. I know all the stupid romance novels describe the feeling as “melting into each other,” but maybe they’re not so stupid after all, because that’s exactly what we did. I’d never felt so amazingly wanted in my life, and there was none of that high school awkwardness you’d expect.
We broke apart in an instant as we heard Mrs. Esquibel returning, but from that moment on, a subtle change came over our relationship. I was Joaquin’s, and he was mine. Unspoken, true, but there just the same.
After dinner, we went to Joaquin’s room to watch a movie, and for the first few minutes, we actually did. Side by side on our tummies, eyes fixated on the screen. My mind reeled, though, and pretty soon I couldn’t stand it. I had to know.
I swallowed. “’Quin?”
“Yeah?”
“What was that? In the kitchen?”
A smile teased the corners of his lips. “I guess you’re not talking about the asopao? ’Cuz that’s a Puerto Rican dish.”
I nailed him with a droll stare.
He rolled onto his side, facing me, our bodies touching, then he ran the back of his fingers down my cheekbone. “The truth? I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time. Just didn’t seem like you’d be down with it.”
I sighed, pressing my face against his hand and closing my eyes. “I swore I was going to focus on my job and not on guys this summer after the whole—”
“Bobby thing?”
I cringed, peering at him. “Yeah.”
“And now?”
I bit my lip. “Now I’m confused.”
“You’re doing a great job with the show, chulin. I’m not going to jeopardize that.”
I leaned my forehead against his. “But?” I whispered.
“But I’m attracted to you big time. Can’t lie about that. If we were more than friends, that’d be cool with me.”
Beautiful, magical Joaquin Esquibel was into me. So many emotions swirled around inside me right then, I started to think it might’ve been a mistake for us to lie on the bed together, even though we’d been doing so as friends for what seemed like forever. Right now, though, it felt like I couldn’t get close enough, like I couldn’t breathe. I tried to express all that in a simple kiss that turned more complicated and intense. When we finally broke apart, both of us were short of breath. “I want that, too,” I said.
“You sure?”
I nodded.
Joaquin rolled onto his back and pulled me close so I could nestle my head on his shoulder. I curled my body against his, inhaled the spicy scent of his skin and watched his muscular chest rise and fall, rapidly at first and then slower as we both recovered from the explosion of passion that, I suspect, had taken us both by surprise. We stayed there, just like that, for the longest time. Frankly, I could’ve stayed there forever. The movie had completely slipped off our radar, and neither of us cared.
“Ay, mamita,” ’Quin said, on a sigh. “You’re something else.”
I closed my eyes and drank in the bliss of the moment. My world in White Peaks seemed a million miles away, like a different universe, and I’d never felt more special in my life.
*
Lila
After the powwow with Chloe and Jennifer at Mountain Lion, I found myself spending a lot of free time lying on my bed in the yoga corpse pose, staring at the ceiling. I tried to call it meditation. Or a workout. All rationalization attempts failed, though. I finally conceded that this particular (non)activity didn’t count as a hobby. But I couldn’t stop doing it nonetheless, because my life had turned weird.
It was Tuesday afternoon. The infamous birthday sleepover hung above my neck like a guillotine with a weak rope, or whatever the hell they used to hold up the deadly blade. Not only that, but I felt as if I were teetering barefoot on the business edge of a machete. Anxious. Restless. Distracted.
Blades everywhere, if you hadn’t noticed.
Exhaustion enveloped me from the effort of trying not to get sliced or beheaded by all the unexpected sharpness in my life. I knew why, too, but I was having a hard time facing it.
So I pouted.
I flailed.
I memorized every inch of my ceiling (which needed a paint job, incidentally, but who wants to paint a ceiling? Hello, neck pain?).
Then, all of a sudden and with no particular prompt, I decided to grow the hell up. Screw it. No time like the present, right? I’d learned through experience that dreading something is a million times worse than just getting it over with.
Hence, having finally dragged my father out of the dark ages of technology, I rolled onto my side, grabbed my cell phone, and sent him a text message: Have to talk 2U alone. Can I treat U2 dinner 2nite after work? Text back. Love, L.
Moments later, my cell wailed out some kickin’ Bob Marley, indicating, yes, a freakin’ phone call—not a text. Incoming text messages played a Santana riff. So, okay, apparently Dad still has one toe in the dark ages.
I rolled my eyes as I answered. “Hi, Dad.”
“What’s up, m’ija? Is everything all right?”
“You were supposed to text back,” I teased in a groany tone. “I taught you how to do it.”
“Too much work, all that button pushing,” he said. “It’s easier to just dial.”
I shook my head in pity at his ineptitude. “Ev
erything’s fine. I just need to talk to you. It’s important.”
A pause. “Okay.”
“In person. Alone.”
Silence from the other end. “But nothing’s wrong?”
“Nope. I need a favor, is all. An easy favor.”
“A favor, huh?” he said, sounding relieved. Ever since Jennifer’s mom-to-be dilemma, dads all over White Peaks were running scared that their daughters would wind up in the same boat, as if pregnancy were an airborne virus. One wayward inhale and blammo! Pregnant. “Dinner it is,” Dad said. “Burger Wonder, I assume?”
“Of course. Only the best when I’m treating.”
He chuckled. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
“’Kay.”
Fast forward to the moment when some poor, minimum-wage slave thrust our paper-lined tray of artery-clogging chow forward with a forced smile and the requisite, socially crippling, “Have a Burger Wonderful evening.”
Dad took the tray and turned to scan for an open table. Meanwhile, feeling like I dodged a huge employment bullet, I leaned toward the poor French fry–hat wearing kid and lowered my tone. “I’m sorry you have to say that. Do you ever fantasize about beating the owner to a pulp?”
The mandatory cheery expression never slipped from the poor kid’s oily face, since big brother apparently watched them constantly. But he managed to answer through clenched teeth that resembled a smile. “Every minute I’m sentenced to this godforsaken hellhole.”
“Hang in there.”
He sagged into his hideous polyester uniform. “I’m a pacifist by nature, but this place is turning me evil, I swear.” He allowed a small eye roll. “I’ve never wanted school break to end so badly.”
“That’s totally bunk.”
“Tell me about it. Next year, I’m going to start looking for a summer job in January.”
I laughed, then turned to find my dad. He’d scored a booth on the left side of the dining area and had already arranged his meal neatly on the spread-flat wrapper of his burger and dug into his fries.
I slid into the molded plastic seat across from him and retrieved my own super yummy junk food, paper wrappers crunching with promise. “How was work?” I stuffed a fry into my mouth.
He bit into his burger. “Eh, same old. Nothing to report.”
I nodded, ate a few more fries. Finally, I cleared my throat. “You’re probably wondering why I called this meeting,” I said, in a movie voice. “And at Burger Wonder, of all places.”
His eyes twinkled. “Here I thought you just wanted to have dinner with your dear old dad.”
“We’ve gone over this,” I said with ultra-patience. “You’re not old.”
He huffed. “I’ll remind you of that when you’re my age.”
As if. “Plus,” I said in a droll tone. “I told you I needed to talk to you.”
“Okay, lay it on me.”
I sucked down some of my Diet Pepsi because my throat had gone instantly dry. After I swallowed, I knocked on my chest with the side of my fist. That Pepsi burn, you know. Afraid I’d chicken out, I dove right in. “The thing is, Dad, I invited a couple friends for a sleepover on Friday night.”
His brows arched. “A couple friends?”
My skin heated. That’s the problem, see? Dad knows my only sleepover friends are Meryl and Caressa, because a girl can’t be too careful about who she invites into her private sanctuary. And Caressa was across the country. “Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “I’m, um, not sure if you know Jennifer Hamilton? Actually, she was my hugest enemy ever last year. She sort of hates me. Well, we sort of hate each other.” I sighed. The explaining thing? Not going so well. “Um, not anymore, though. At least I don’t think so.” I sighed again, more dramatically. “It’s a long confusing story that even I don’t understand completely, but—”
“I’ve heard all about Jennifer.”
Chloe must’ve filled him in. I gulped. “Even the part about her being pregnant?”
He lowered his chin. “How’s she handling everything?”
“Better than I ever expected her to, especially since her family isn’t the least bit supportive.” I hiked a shoulder. “But anyway, in a weak moment, I invited her to come over. With Meryl. We’re just trying to be nice.”
Silent, he watched me. It was this danged cop technique that worked like a charm. Stay quiet, and eventually the other person will start singing like a bird. I think priests use it in the confession booth, too. And even though I knew about it, I still cracked. “See, it’s her eighteenth birthday, her old friends have dumped her—totally rude, but no great loss, believe me, even though one of them was Miffany—”
“I’m well aware how you feel about your brother’s girlfriend.”
“Not sure you know the extent of it. My hate has grown exponentially since she dumped her supposed best friend. I mean, who does that?” Miffany, O she of the ridiculous name and vapid personality, is proof positive of my stupid brother’s questionable taste. “Anyway, Jennifer’s parents aren’t in the party-throwing mood, as you might imagine.”
He nodded, all calm-like.
I exhaled my frustration. “Okay, fine. I don’t know why I invited her over, Dad, but I did. Done deal. And I can’t take it back. It just seems wrong to have your eighteenth pass with no fanfare whatsoever, even if you are a former total hag who only changed into a halfway decent person because of an unplanned pregnancy that probably happened when you were drunk.”
“Agreed.”
“I’m not even sure I trust her,” I said, my tone plaintive. “But, there you have it.” I flailed my arms. “Party at the Morenos’, Friday. Woot woot! I’m an idiot, right?”
“No. You’re a good, kind person,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “You make me proud. But what does this have to do with the favor you need from me?”
My blood pressure shot up as though I was one of those ring-the-bell carnival games and someone had just smacked the thingie with a sledgehammer. Ding! But I had to go there. I held both palms out. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, okay?”
A beat passed, and he stilled. “Okay.”
“Because it’s going to sound bad. And it’s not because I’m trying to be a jerk or act like I don’t approve of—”
“Spit it out, m’ija. You can say anything to me.”
I sighed, then cringed. Then I felt disloyal to my boss, a woman I’d come to like and respect, totally separate of her relationship to either my father or my boyfriend. Total mental flailing, people. I blinked at Dad. “Can you…not have Chloe spend the night on Friday?” To my surprise, my eyes got all misty. “I’m sorry. It’s just because, who knows what kind of person Jennifer’s going to transform back into once she has the baby, and I don’t want people gossiping about me and my home life at school.”
Dad studied me for several long moments, then reached out and covered my hand with his. He sucked in one side of his cheek with some kind of emotion. Regret? Sadness? I couldn’t tell. “I never even asked you how you felt about my relationship with Chloe. I’m sorry for that.”
Ugh!
“You don’t have to ask me, Dad. You’re the adult.”
“We’re a family. If something makes you uncomfortable—”
“It doesn’t,” I said.
He looked skeptical.
My skin flamed. “I mean, it did at first. I won’t lie. I was sort of…mortified by the whole thing. But not because of Chloe herself,” I rushed to add. “Just because of the whole me dating Dylan issue.”
His face fell, and guilt washed over me.
“I don’t feel that way anymore. I really like Chloe,” I said. “I’ve gotten to know her at work and she’s so cool. I totally understand why you like her, too.”
He smiled then.
“Can I ask you something, though?”
“Of course.”
My chin quivered, but I searched his eyes. “Why my boyfriend’s mom, of
all the women in White Peaks? You’re not exactly unpopular with the badge bunny set, so desperation couldn’t have been the issue.”
Dad grimaced at the mention of badge bunnies.
“It’s just, the fact that you have a thing with Dylan’s mom sort of puts me in a really awkward position with everyone at school.” I twisted my mouth to the side. “You know how evil high school is.”
Dad sat back with a sigh, stretching his arm across the back of the booth. “Ay, m’ija. That amorphous attraction to another person, it’s hard to explain. When it happens, it simply happens.”
I nodded. Boy, did I understand that. I used to think Dylan was the Antichrist, what with his Junior Narc (oh, pardon me—Police Explorer) wannabe cop status. You have to understand, growing up in a family of five guys, all cops or future cops, put me off the whole notion of dating one. But Dylan had turned out to be so much more than just an Explorer.
“I never meant to make your life more difficult. Chloe and I, we just click. She has her life and interests, I have mine. She’s independent. I’m busy. No clinging. It works.” He paused, pinning me with his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t be sorry.” I took a moment to wallow in the utter weirdness of the fact that I was having this conversation with my father, and in a rather mature way, I might add. “I want you to be happy.” I paused so long, I could almost hear the rhythm of my pounding heartbeat. “Mom’s been gone for a long, long time, Dad.”
“She has.” His mouth curved downward in this melancholy way that made my tummy ache. “Sometimes it seems like forever, and other times I can still smell her perfume in the house or hear her singing to herself off-tune as she cooked dinner.”
I gulped back the giant lump in my throat. If only I had more genuine memories of Mom. Sometimes I can’t even picture her anymore without looking at an actual photograph. “She sang while she cooked?”
Father Knows Best Page 15
