Page 48 of Mixed Signals
“Since he did my taxes for me last year,” my grandmother offers from the stove. She’s already cooking something else. Honestly, it’s a miracle that Charlie is the only one who’s walked in the door so far. Usually it’s a constant stream of my cousins in and out. I think my Tio Benjamín still has a room here. “He is a good boy.”
Charlie spears a tomato on his fork and brandishes it at me like a weapon. “Yeah, bear cub. I’m a good boy.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Too late. It’s already imprinted on my mind. You are nowbear cubforever.”
I sigh and take another bite of my late lunch. Nevermind that chilaquiles are a breakfast dish and my grandmother told me this was all she had left. What a little liar. “Did you really drive all the way down here to have lunch with my grandmother?”
“Of course I did.” I watch as my grandmother hands him a glass of lemonade and he whispers something to her in Spanish. She cackles, loud and bright, the sound bouncing off the walls and windows. A smile tugs at my lips before I can remind myself that I’m irritated. I’ve always loved her laugh.
“I had to bring some paperwork for Nova, too,” he continues. “She’s trying to expand her tattoo studio.”
“That’s right. She wants to buy that space behind the flower shop, right?”
“That’s her plan.” Charlie pops open another lid and lets out a deep, rumbling groan of appreciation. That bastard. My abuela made him tres leches.
“Abuela,” I groan. “You told me you didn’t have any left.”
She only turns halfway from the stove, her face in profile. “I didn’t.”
“Then why does Charlie have half a cake?”
“Because he got what was left.” She pulls her spoon from the massive pot on the stovetop and drags her finger along the edge. She tastes the sauce, makes a face, sprinkles in some chili powder, and goes back to stirring. “Now, are you a man or a child? Why are you sitting there whining?”
“Tu postre es mi favorito,” I grumble. “You know I love tres leches.”
“I was not talking about the dessert. I was talking about the woman.”
Charlie props his chin in his hand and wiggles in his chair. A man of his size should look ridiculous doing that. But of course, he doesn’t. He just looks eager and amused, his fork dangling from his hand and his cheeks bulging with whipped cream, cinnamon, and sponge cake. Asshole. That was my cake.
With his dark hair and bright blue eyes—he looks just like his half-sister, Stella.
They share a lack of subtlety, too.
“Let’s talk more about this woman,” Charlie says.
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, relax.” Charlie opens his third container and rolls out another string of compliments to my grandmother in Spanish. I didn’t even know he could speak Spanish. “I know you and Layla have a thing.”
“A thing?”
“A thing. I’ll hand it to you, though. I think this is the first time I’ve seen the phone tree stumped. No one knows what’s actually going on with the two of you. Gus had some ideas after the escape room incident, but—”
“What?”
“—but no one knows for sure.”
Well, I suppose that makes two of us. Or … however many people are on the phone tree at this point in time.
I deflect. “How did you get on the phone tree?”
Charlie makes a face. “Why wouldn’t I be on the phone tree?”
“Because you don’t live here.”
He taps his fist over his chest twice. “My heart is here. That’s what matters to the phone tree. Now stop stalling and explain what’s going on with you and Layla.”
