And I mean it. There’s a path here that includes us being friends, and, now, I think it’d be nice to try seeing what that looks like. I’ve gotten to the point where I can admit that what I once felt for her isn’t there anymore. I can admit that she looks good and is still that same pretty girl I saw months ago, but my heart doesn’t go wild for her the second I see her like it used to. Because it belongs to someone else now. I can remember the happiness I felt with her without being either resentful or still head over heels for her.
And I think there could be something here. A dynamic that’s lessformer fuck buddiesand morebest friend and best friend’s boyfriend.
“If— Maybe we could go on a run again sometime?Justa run.”
Her lips go into another smile and her shoulders relax. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Leana starts walking toward her car, her back to me. And as I’m closing in on my front door, I hear her call out for me one more time, turning my head at“Pineapple.”
“Yeah?”
“You look really good,” she says. “Happy. Whoever’s responsible for that, I—I’m glad you’ve got them.”
I smile back at her, nodding. “I am too.”
“And, if I know you at all, I’m sure you make them really happy too.”
“I’m trying my best to.”
“Since when do you want to learn how to cook?” Mom asks, looking at me all confused as I stand nearby in the kitchen while she starts churning out fresh corn tortillas and, every once in a while, checks on the carne guisada heating up on the stove. “What? You’re tired of me cooking for you?”
“No.It’s just, like, say I’m not feeling like going to the University Center for dinner one day—”
“Then you come here, and I’ll make you food. And don’t you eat for free at your cafeteria?”
“Depends on how you define free.”
“Your scholarships cover it.”
“Then, yeah, I guess so. Still, though. I’m an adult now.”
She lets out a lowhuhlaugh at that one, taking tortillas off the hot comal with her bare hands and replacing them with uncooked ones, putting the done ones in a tortillero my bisabuela gave her, and goes back to focusing on the food in front of her. I get a lot of things from Pops, but my Mom’s confidence, the way she seems so natural in a kitchen, doing a thing she loves (and is absolutely okay voicing how good she is at), I bet it’s not so different from when I’m in front of my goalpost and stop a shot.
“Okay, Gabi,” Mom says as she wipes her hands with a dish towel.
“Shouldn’t you want me to learn how to fend for myself?”
“No. I want you to want me to make you food.”
“Maybe he’s trying to impress a girl,” Pops says, walking in, opening the fridge, and heading straight for his beer. “Got a pretty girl coming over, wants to make her a nice meal, really charm her.”
“She’d be more impressed by a boy who doesn’t mind washing dishes.”
I slowly swipe my hand down my face, covering the groan with my palm. Pops isn’t far off here; I did come over thinkingmaybe Mom could teach me something that Vale and I could cook together the next time we’re getting allyes, chefin the kitchen. And coming home, Mom’s carne guisada on the stove, I knew that was a perfect idea. He’d love that.
But Mom’s over here holding on to the recipe like it’s a nice ring and she’s Gollum or something.
“Now sit down. And you too,” she tells Pops, making his eyes perk up, afraid he’s about to catch some strays. “Food’s ready. Time for you two to do what you do best and eat.”
Pops throws an arm over my shoulders and pulls me with him to our table, wooden and circular, with three chairs that have been there all my life, and I sit in the same place I’ve sat since the day I was too big for a high chair. Surrounded by faded yellow walls that Pops and I painted the summer before I started high school covered with photos and saints and a big Last Supper painting. I watch Mom fill up plates as she hums to Norteños that used to come from an old radio and now play out of a Bluetooth speaker next to that tripod she uses to FaceTime.
Pops reaches out and massages the back of my neck. His voice, next to me, says, “Find a girl like that, and you’ll never go hungry a day in your life. No en tu estómago ni en tu corazón.”
My lips go into a smile, thinking about Vale. I bring a fist to my mouth, trying to hide it, to be cool around my parents. But when Pops lets out this hum, I know I’ve been caught.
“Or maybe you have,” he continues, his voice teasing, bringing me back from my memories. “But watch out for the short ones like your mom. Fiery, those.”
“I— Nah. There’s no girl, Pops.”
