With a snort, I call back, “It’s just FaceTime, abuela. And you’re doing it right. Just give me a minute to get dressed.” Quickly drying myself off from my shower, I pull on some briefs and throw on the first T-shirt I grab, then walk back to the bed, pick up my phone, flip it over so the screen is facing me, and wave to my grandmother, who beams back.
“Ah! There you are,” she coos. “Now, I can see you.”
“Hi, abuelita.”
The smile slips from her face, and she lifts a wry, disapproving brow at me. “Why weren’t you dressed? You’re not still in bed, are you?”
“It’s Sunday,” I retort, my tone defensive, as I turn and plop back down on my mattress. “There’s literally nothing else to do in this town.”
That, and I need to be on my best behavior right now if I’m to avoid my dear papi’s wrath, which means no more public displays of drunkenness or weekend hangovers. So much for a fun senior year.
My abuela clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Los jóvenes de hoy en día,” she mutters under her breath, then waves a dismissive hand at me. “Anyway, how are you, mi cielo? I miss you.”
“I’m okay.” Well, that’s not entirely true, but I don’t elaborate any further, instead saying, “I miss you, too,” which is a fact. So, at least I’m being fifty percent honest with her. “How are things?”
She tosses what looks to be a kitchen towel over her shoulder, and I realize she must have taken a break from her daily baking session to call me. As a Roman Catholic, her Sunday mornings are typically spent at church, but she doesn’t publicly observe the religion as often as she used to since my abuelo passed away,opting instead to pass that time at home, embracing her own quiet form of reflection. Still, she must’ve missed the memo that Sunday is supposed to be for rest. One of these days, I should really order her Uber Eats.
Despite our family being literal billionaires, my abuela has always refused to hire a cook, insisting the kitchen is her domain and she will not tolerate any strangers there. And she’s the best there is—her food is second to none. Her tres leches cake in particular could seriously win awards. Just thinking about it now has me salivating.
And to top it all off, she’s a freaking saint. Since my abuelo died and she’s been living on her own, my abuela spends her time cooking for local shelters and food banks to help those less fortunate, as if the millions she already donates to charity every single year isn’t enough. Truth be told, I idolize her just as much as I idolized my grandfather, and yet…I know I can never live up to either of them. They both always had hearts of gold whereas mine is shriveled and dry, like an old prune. Sometimes, I wonder how my abuela can love me—dumbass, disappointing shit that I am.
“Oh, you know, same old, same old,” she answers. “But you don’t want to hear about a boring old lady. Tell me what’s new with you. How’s school? Have you found yourself a girlfriend? Or”—she pauses, flashing curious eyes at me—“a boyfriend, perhaps? I don’t mind either way, you know. I’m very—what do the kids call it? Awake?”
I bark out a laugh. She really is the best. Somehow, I doubt Lenore and Hector would be quite so accepting. “The term you’re looking for is woke. And no, I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Yet.
“And school?”
That arching eyebrow that always informs me she can see through my bullshit is back.
Not in the mood for a second lecture in the span of two days, I slap on my most deceptive smile. “School is fine. Honestly, it’s the same old here for me, too.”
No need to go into detail or inform her that her son is an asshole. I’m sure, deep down, she already knows.
“¡Ay, dios mío!” she cries dramatically, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead.“I cannot believe you’re in your last year of college. Time goes by so fast.”
Too fast.
The thought springs to the front of my mind unbidden and hits me like a punch to the gut. I deepen my smile to hide my wince.
“Yeah, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing,” I say to soothe her, even though I don’t mean it. Such a sentiment might be true for most people, but not me.Idon’t want time to keep ticking forward. If anything, I want to turn back the clock, to rewind and try to prevent the event that veered my life so far off course. Or at the very least, just have a few extra days?—
I clench my jaw and shake that silent wish away before it can form. Daydreaming about rewriting the past or even reliving part of it won’t change a damn thing. Besides, I have plenty to worry about in the present.
“And just think,” I continue, easing the pain in my chest with a thought that actually brings me joy, “I can come visit you more often once I graduate.”
The handful of times a year I do manage to get down to Mexico really aren’t enough. Not when I know how finite our lives truly are. And my abuela isn’t exactly getting any younger. I should probably make it a point to go see her more frequently.
“Pfft, sure,” my abuela says, rolling her eyes. “Assuming your father doesn’t work you to the bone the moment you start at Hallazgo.”
For the first time since lunch with my parents on Friday, I feel the sharp, unrelenting sting of fear. Doubt was already setting in, but hearing my abuela speak so casually about my future at the very company she helped my grandfather build has the reality of my situation crashing down on my skull like an anvil. But unlike in the cartoons I watched growing up, there are no little yellow birdies looping over my head. For me, that anvil is a killing blow.
Was my dad being serious? Would he really cut me off from the family?
Worse still…would my abuela let him?
“Damian?” my abuela prompts when I’ve been quiet too long.
