Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
But getting him out of the house to do what he’s supposed to is a small miracle that Mama isn’t always up for conjuring. Really, what Papa needs is a daily swift kick in the ass because he won’t do it willingly.
“How much did he do today?” I ask, instead of asking if he sat on his ass all day because I’m afraid of the answer.
“Twenty minutes,” Mama finally concedes, and I can hear it in her voice. She’ll take the win, and I sort of get it. Twenty minutes is better than nothing. “We walked to the 7-11 for a Diet Coke.”
She’s doing her best, that’s obvious because Papa doesn’t drink Diet Coke, Mama does. I can imagine her telling him that she’s walking to the store for a drink, alone. No matter how tired Papa was, he would’ve rallied to go with her, which is exactly what he did.
“Good work,” I tell her, and she winks, knowing I understand her tricks.
“Gracias. And thank you for dinner too, but you’ve got to get ready,” Mama says, changing the subject faster than I can blink. “Nick is coming over to take you out.”
“Mama!” I hiss, outraged. “You did not arrange a date for me!”
“I did, and you’re going to go because you’re a good daughter,” Mama says firmly, and while she’ll always back down in front of Papa, that doesn’t work with me. Instead, she stares at me with an iron hard will that I’ve at least somewhat inherited, but years of habit make me reluctantly give in. She smiles and pats my hand. “That’s a good girl. Trust me, Nick will be a good match for you.”
I ignore that because I don’t need a good match. I don’t need a man period, but Mama won’t ever understand that.
I can do this. I’ve done it before. Meet the guy, make sure he understands that I’m not what he wants, and tell Mama it didn’t work out. Done. Over.
“How do you know him?” I ask instead of yelling at her the way I want to.
“He’s Yvonne’s oldest son,” Mama says, “from the church. He goes to Mass every Sunday.” She says it like that’s a big plus and then brings out the big guns. “And handsome! So good-looking, he’ll make pretty babies. And did I mention he has a management job? He’ll be able to take good care of you.” She nods sagely, her eyes alight with excitement over all of Nick’s attributes.
Take care of me.
When push comes to shove, that’s all Mama really worries about. In that regard, she’s a lot like Xavier, although she’s at least willing to consider someone who doesn’t work in an office behind a computer for my potential mates. For her, she wants me to marry a ‘good boy’ who has a ‘good job’, which to her generally means above the average income level.
And I get it. Mama and Papa have struggled their whole lives, and like all parents, they want something better for me. In their mind, having someone at my side would make every day easier, especially financially, but also emotionally. I just don’t have the time, space, or inclination to be that person for someone else or let them be that for me.
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” I try to tell her, even though it’s like talking to a brick wall. I keep hoping she’ll hear me one day, though. “And I’m not dressed for a date.”
She looks me up and down. My jeans are fine—they’re clean and show off my best asset—but my T-shirt has seen better days and my hair is still up in my bun from today, just freshly retied. “I told you to clean up.”
I huff. She’s clearly not getting the point. Intentionally. “I did. To bring you dinner, not to go out.”
She shoos me into the bathroom. “Do something with your hair, and I’ve got that top you bought me for Christmas last year. You can wear that.”
Damn it, I should’ve known she’d have an answer for anything. Reluctantly, I stare at myself in the mirror, not liking what I see.
Why can’t I just tell her no? I don’t want to do this, don’t want a date, don’t want to hurt some guy’s feelings when he’s as messed up in this as I am.
But as I poke at my hair, stuffing loose strands back into the ponytailer at the center of the bun, I already know I won’t be able to say no. As fucked up as it is, going out on an unwanted date is the easy route because everything else will cause drama with my parents, and neither of them is in good enough health for me to do something that will send their blood pressure through the roof.
“Here you go, mija,” Mama says on the other side of the door. I crack it open, and she hands me a blue scoop-neck shirt.