Page 12 of Axes and Ohs

[Photo of a salad that looks suspiciously fancy] Lunch meeting with my sister. She’s trying to talk me out of leaving the family business. She says Dad regrets his decision and wants me to come back to work for the Nelson Group. She said I “won” so I can stop my “childish rebellion” now and come back to the fold. Can you believe it?

My stomach clenches at this.

I thought Ariel was a lawyer? I didn’t think she worked for your dad.

Erick

She’s really good at arguing, so I guess he tagged her in. She brought SLIDES, Carlos. Financial projections from now through my retirement. Life satisfaction studies for various jobs that show educators burn out quickly.

Yeah. You tempted to go back?

Erick

Not really?

You know I was miserable all the time, working for my dad. Preschool’s no bed of roses and the pay sucks, but it’s satisfying on a different level. I don’t know if that’s the smart choice or the impulsive one, though.

I really hate that I don’t have a permanent job, too. I know I sound like a prima donna, but hustling to find new substitute teaching gigs so I can pay rent is already getting old.

Stick to your guns and trust yourself. You have one life, Erick. Live it in the way that feels right, even if it’s hard.

You’ll get an offer for something permanent soon. And in the meantime, you’re doing exactly what you said you would. You’re finding things you’re passionate about. Like teaching kids. And learning Spanish.

Erick

And texting sexy, ax-wielding lumberjacks?

I nearly choke on my sandwich.

Lumberjacks, plural?

Erick

Lol. Just one.

That little heart emoji socks me right in the chest.

It’s easy for me to tell Erick stick to your guns and trust yourself and live life in a way that feels right, even if it’s hard. But am I taking my own advice?

When I get home that evening, Mamá is in the kitchen making dinner. Her short hair is freshly washed and curled, and she’s wearing her favorite dress and sandals, despite the cold.

She moves more slowly than she used to, but she’s freaking stubborn about doing as much as she can on her own, and she’s been going stir-crazy since her surgery. The physical therapy has helped, and she’s regained most of her mobility, but I still worry. I’m her late-in-life “oops” baby, and she raised me pretty much by herself since my dad died when I was ten. I love her to pieces, but she sucks at asking for help when she needs it.

“Mijo,” she says without looking up from the stove. “We need to talk.”

I freeze in the doorway. “About what?”

She turns, wooden spoon in hand, and fixes me with a stern look. “You tell me the truth, Carlito. ¿Oyes? Are you back with that Rosangela?”

I let out a breath. “No, Mamá. That’s over. Has been since last summer.”

“Ay, thank god.” She sets a lid on the rice pot. “So, then, who have you been texting, hmm? And don’t you tell me there’s no one. I’m not an idiot. If there’s a woman⁠—”

“There isn’t.” I wipe my hands on my jeans. “I… it’s… it’s a guy.”

She waits for me to continue, but… fuck, how do I explain Erick? How do I tell her I’ve been texting nonstop with someone I’ve only known for a matter of hours, in person? That I might or might not have feelings for a man? That I’ve gone and done another impulsive thing?

“He’s a good person,” I say finally, not quite meeting her eyes. “I like him a lot, Mamá. I think you’d like him too.”