Page 47 of Mixed Signals
“I don’t know,” I mumble around a mouthful of food. “She said she wanted to pick where we go this time.”
Probably a good idea considering how the last two went. My black eye has faded to a muted yellow and the swelling is almost non-existent. I can walk without a limp now. Best not to tempt fate.
Even if it feels like I’ve messed up.
My grandmother nods in approval. “Good. A man who can take direction from a woman is a man worth keeping.”
“Gracias, abuela.”
“I was complimenting her, not you.”
I roll my eyes to the ceiling. “Gracias, abuela.”
“Cómete tus chilaquiles,” she tells me, fussing with the dishwasher. I’d offer to help, but she’ll probably smack me with her spoon again if I get up from this table before this whole container is empty. She has a thing about food. “You should have kissed her,” she tells me again, in English this time.
I poke my fork around in my bowl. “I’m not so sure.”
“Why?” My grandmother turns and arches an eyebrow at me, her hair piled in a loose bun. She’s wearing the earrings my abuelo got her for their fiftieth wedding anniversary, two studs made to look like seashells, glowing in the light of the kitchen. Her bright red dress swings back and forth around her ankles, her face softened by age and gentle amusement. “Was I not married for almost seventy years? Do I not have sound advice?”
“Por supuesto que sí, abuela. I just—I think I made her uncomfortable,” I mumble. I think I took it too far. I had wanted to tease her a little bit, but then it tumbled out of control.
I tumbled out of control.
I could smell sugar on her skin. Fresh strawberries and shortbread and her shampoo—something light and floral like rose petals. I slid my palm down her back and felt every ridge of her spine, the deep shuddering breath that she let out when her nose brushed against my neck. When I dipped my head, and she made a sound in the back of her throat, I almost picked her up and spread her out against the kitchen island.
“Who did you make uncomfortable?”
The screen door on the back of my grandmother’s house creaks open and Charlie strolls into the kitchen like he’s supposed to be here—like he does this every day—a bouquet of flowers in his hand and his suit jacket over one arm. He ignores my stupefied look and presents the flowers to my grandmother, a kiss on both of her cheeks.
“Hermosa como siempre, Mariana,” he tells her.
She beams at him.
I frown, beyond confused. “What are you doing here?”
My grandmother makes atschsound and taps me between the shoulder blades with her spoon. A warning shot. “No seas grosero, osezno.”
“Yeah, bear cub.” Charlie raises both of his eyebrows, delighted and smug. “Don’t be rude.”
Charlie lives in New York. Charlie works in New York. I don’t understand why he’s standing in my grandmother’s kitchen on a weekday afternoon. I ignore my grandmother’s use of my childhood nickname in front of Charlie and instead focus on the more important thing. Like why she has three Tupperware dishes for him when I only have one.
“Eres un ángel,” Charlie croons, tossing what I assume is thousands of dollars in custom tailoring over the chair opposite of me. The guy is a study in contradictions. The last time I saw him, he was making my brother’s coat closet his new home. I’m happy to see he’s recovered. “Un tesoro. Una reina.”
My grandmother flushes a brilliant shade of red. I guess that’s where I got my blushing from. I stare at both of them, still dumbfounded.
“What is going on?”
Charlie collapses in his chair and folds his tie over his shoulder. He rearranges the bowl in front of him. “What does it look like? I’m having my monthly lunch with your grandma.”
“Monthly lunch.”
“Yes.”
“With my grandma.”
“Yes, Caleb. That is exactly what I just said. Very good.”
“Since when?”
