What the fuck am I doing? Celibacy clearly does not agree with me if I’m this worked up over a kiss. A fuckingamazingkiss, yeah, but still…it was only a kiss. I should not be this close to blowing my load like I’m some fifteen-year-old virgin getting his first handy.
My phone vibrates again, more insistent this time, and with a snarl of annoyance, I roll over and grab the device off the table. My erection instantly deflates when I see the name on the screen.
Swallowing, I swipe to answer.
“Greetings, Father,” I say, my voice husky.
He scoffs. “About time. Do you always sleep in this late, hijo?”
I pull the phone away from my ear and glance at the screen again. What the fuck? It’s not even eight o’clock. I don’t know what kind of stimulants he puts in his morning horchata, but I’d hardly consider this sleeping in. Besides, my first class isn’t until ten, which I quickly open my mouth to point out, except…that isn’t what I end up saying. “Sorry, I was in the shower,” I lie because, honestly, it’s easier than enduring another second of his judgment.
He grunts (as much of an acknowledgment as I’m likely to get), then finally reveals why he bothered to call. “You do remember what this weekend is, don’t you?”
It isn’t a question. It’s a test. And if my distant father calling me before I’m even out of bed hadn’t already killed my erection, that comment and the doubt in his tone would certainly have done the trick.
An uncomfortable tightness grips my throat, and my voice goes hoarse for an entirely different reason when I rasp, “Of course, I do.”
“Good.” He sounds insultingly surprised. As if I’d ever forget. “I’ll expect to see you tomorrow, then. As for Saturday, we fly out first thing, so don’t be late. I’ll text you the details.”
“Okay.” That’s all I can find the strength to say. In our culture, this is supposed to be a time of celebration—ofjoy—but the truth is, I dread this holiday every year. And every year, I consider asking to skip it. I never do. Not because I don’t have the balls to say it, but because I hate myself for even thinking of asking in the first place.
You’re a coward,my conscience spits. I don’t disagree.
“One last thing,” my father adds.
I’m acutely aware of the silence on the other end of the line. It hums in my ears, stretching between us like static, prickling under my skin, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing?—
“Your mother and I want you to bring that girl you’re seeing with us to Guadalajara.”
I go very still, convinced I didn’t hear him correctly. Surely, I couldn’t have. He and my mother haven’t spoken a word to me in nearly two months, and haven’t deigned themselves to even acknowledge my relationship with Blondie. And now…they want me to bring her with us to Mexico for Día de los Muertos? Excuse the fuck out of me?
“W-what?” I stammer, trying to wrap my head around what he’s asking of me.
“Is there a problem?” he seems to growl, and I hear it again—the doubt in his tone. The disappointment.
He’s onto you. Fucking say something.
“No,” I answer quickly, squeezing my free hand into a fist to keep from slapping myself silly.
What are you going to do now, genius?
I scramble for words, for a suitable lie…and pray my dickhead father doesn’t notice it in my voice. “I just…need to check with her to make sure her passport is up to date.”
And try to convince her that this is a totally normal, sane request.
“Good,” is all my father says in response. “Your abuela will want to meet her. As do I.”
Without another word, the line goes dead.
Grimacing, I pull the phone from my ear.
Welp, this is it. This is the day I die. Because the second I tell Blondie about this, I have zero doubt that she’s going to kill me.
The late October air is biting as I exit my building and cross the quad at a brisk pace, my phone call with my dad this morning still playing through my head like a bad song stuck on repeat. If today wasn’t Halloween, I might be tempted to skip my planned outing with Blondie, not only to escape her wrath once I actually figure out how to ask her about Guadalajara, but also because—aside from a brief text exchange confirming we’re still on for tonight—I haven’t seen or talked to her since yesterday, and I don’t want things to be awkward between us.
It’ll only be awkward if you make it awkward,my conscience unhelpfully reminds me.
I roll my eyes.Please, like I don’t know how to make out with a girl and pretend it never happened.
