She sat down on one of the log benches with a sigh when it was clear this fire would actually burn and not just sputter out. I hovered awkwardly, wondering if she wanted me to leave.
“You can sit,” she said.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted company.”
She squinted at me.
“I don’t. I never do,” she said shortly. The confusion must have shown on my face because hers softened again and she gestured to the empty log beside her. “But you keep everyone away, so we can probably safely co-exist alone together for a little while. Your feet must be tired from all the loops you’ve been doing.”
I blushed, grateful for the dark. I hadn’t realized anyone outside of my cabin counselor had noticed my excessive walking at night. I took a seat on the log and the cue to not continue the conversation that night. Eventually, we did get around to talking. Then we’d just never stopped.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Heath
Atzi concentrates on the board when her abuelita calls out, “La comida esta lista. Vengan pronto o se va a enfriar.”
I’m guessing she’s calling us to have supper, but I’m not sure if that’s right.
Atzi turns to look at me. “Dinner is ready.”
“There was more than suppertime. What else did she say?”
“Food is ready. Come downstairs before it gets cold.”
I have my doubts, and as I put the book I’ve been holding down, I say, “You’re trying to confuse me.”
That was a bad move on my part because her grandfather scoffs. “Maybe you should start learning more Spanish, Mr. Heathcliff.”
“And French,” Atzi adds all cutesy.
“I plan on doing so, but you can call me Heath, sir.” I use my most polite voice. This man is about to kick my ass and maybe have me arrested for dating his granddaughter.
“I don’t think we’re that familiar yet.”
Atzi rises from her seat and hugs the man. “Tranquilo, Abuelito. He’s a nice guy.”
Mr. Rivera glares at me as he stands up. Then, he kisses his granddaughter on top of her head and leaves.
“Your grandfather hates me.”
She chuckles. “Not really. He’s just not thrilled about your existence.”
I shrug innocently. “What the fuck did I do?”
She winks at me. “If you recall, you’re the guy who’s doing his only granddaughter.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “And I plan on doing her tonight too. If I were you, I’d save some energy because I plan to keep you up all night.”
She giggles and jets out of the office. I follow behind. When we arrive at the dining table, Atzi gasps. There are at least seven bridal magazines and a white binder. I pull out her chair so she can sit before she has a nervous breakdown.
I should be concerned about the wedding hints, but I’m laughing. Her grandmother is on a mission. If we aren’t careful, she might call a minister and marry us now.
“It’s not funny, Heathcliff,” Atzi growls.
“Oh, but it is.” I kiss her cheek before sitting next to her.
But all is fun and games until I’m staring at a meatball soup. Now, this is when things begin to take a turn for the worst. Next to it, there’s a plate with rice, salad, and broccoli. I’m all about trying new food, but Atzi is going to hate the food.
“This is different. I usually eat meatballs with spaghetti.” I point at my bowl, hoping not to sound petulant or ungrateful.
“Those are albondigas in a chipotle broth.” Atzi frowns and picks up her spoon. “They have either olives or boiled eggs inside. Did you use my chipotle? I was saving it to make truffles.”
“Chiles are not for candy. Also, you might want to stock your pantry. I couldn’t find tortillas in this house,” Mrs. Rivera complains. “How do you eat without them?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to explain to her that if it doesn’t contain chocolate or sugar, or I cooked it, her granddaughter doesn’t eat it.
“You make it sound like we eat tortillas with every meal, Adelaida.” Mr. Rivera glances at us and shakes his head as if saying, don’t listen to her rants.
“We ran out of tortillas yesterday when we made quesadillas for lunch,” Atzi answers promptly.
I tap the tip of her nose, which is beginning to grow. How she can manage to come up with lies so fast is surprising. Her ability to weave them comes to her as easily as molding chocolate.
“This penthouse is beautiful. I like the view, but where is your studio?” Her grandma carefully cuts the meatball with the spoon and takes a spoonful of the broth before eating it. Mr. Rivera follows suit.
“I don’t have it here. It’s at the shop,” Atzi mentions and starts to eat.
I decide to do the same and begin with some of the albondiga’s broth. I’m expecting it to burn my tongue. It doesn’t. The tangy, spicy mix is delicious without the heat. I guess spaghetti isn’t a requirement for meatballs then.
“But sometimes you say you’re working at home, in your studio,” her grandmother points out.
And we’re going to get caught by a technicality.
The irony!
Atzi tilts her head toward the kitchen. “Yes, that is my studio.”
Her grandmother bobs her head. “That explains all the weird tools I found.”
I almost sigh with relief. Atzi chuckles and continues eating her food.
“So, are you two moving to your parents’ house when you get married?” Mr. Rivera asks. “Or is he buying you a house?”
I stop mid-bite and ask, “My parents’ house?”
Mr. Rivera points at Atzi. “No, hers. You still have the house, don’t you?”
“Sí, Abuelito, but I’m renting it. And no, we wouldn’t move there. I don’t think I can live in that place. It’s too painful.”
“Such a shame. It’s perfect for children. Maybe you’ll be lucky and have more than one.” Her grandmother looks at me. “The women in my family have trouble getting pregnant. That’s why we only had Lydia and why she only had Atzi.”
“Well, and Atzi’s sister,” I correct her.
Her grandmother leans forward. “She was adopted,” she whispers conspiratorially.
Atzi groans. “Can we not talk about this, please?”
“He’s family.”
“I am too, but discussing the past makes me anxious.”
Grandma waves a hand. “Fine, let’s talk about the wedding. I found several dresses that might be to your liking.”
I can’t help but laugh. This conversation is like walking through a minefield. No matter where we go, something is going to explode.
“We’re not ready to get married,” Atzi states.
“Why not?” Her inquisitive grandmother is not going to let this go.
Mr. Rivera taps the table. “Are you just using my granddaughter for the sex?”
“It’s sex, not the sex,” Atzi corrects him. “And it’s a perfectly normal thing to do when you’re in love. I don’t know why you’re trying to make it sound like a sin. We like sex and have it as often as we can.”