Then she pulls back. “You should be ashamed, Alejandro,” she says to Zan while looking me over. “Your description of her beauty was mierda.”
That word I know…and man, is every inch of my skin on fire.
Zan’s is too. “Rico, this is my grandma—”
“Ay with the grandma thing.” She waves the word away like some foul odor.
It unearths a smile from the deepest depths of my being, and she returns a matching one. I’ve never had a grandmother, but if Lita is the prototype, I can see what the fuss is about. Her presence is like a blanket with arms.
“Thank you so much for coming, mi’ja,” she says, squeezing both of my hands. “You will visit our home for dinner and we will talk much more, okay?”
She kisses me again and returns to her seat before I can respond.
“Wow. She’s like a celebrity,” I say to Zan once we’re out of earshot. I hear Lady Consuela multiple times from behind me.
Zan laughs. “Definitely the Macklin Matriarch,” he says. “Kind of a sore spot for my mom, but it is what it is.”
I really want to ask what country she’s from, but if the answer is this one, I’ll feel like an assho—
“Mexico.”
“Huh?”
“My dad’s half Mexican. That’s where the Spanish comes from. Lita insisted we all be fluent.”
“Ah.”
“You’d be surprised how weird people get when they find out.”
“Really?”
“Yep. It’s like their prejudice boils up and cooks their brains. Come meet my parents.”
Over the next ten minutes, I meet Mr. and Mrs. Macklin, the bride, the groom, four aunts, three uncles, seven cousins, Zan’s brother Joaquín—big hug from Anna-Maria (who Zan tells me is also Mexican and came to America for school; stirs that choices thing right back up)—and a next-door neighbor girl who, despite my presence, gapes at Zan like he powers the spinning of the earth.
We don’t spend any more than a few seconds with each person, but I definitely get a feel for Zan-the-Man’s origins. There are a lot of huggers.
After the fancy passed hors d’oeuvres and expensive champagne (that I dutifully skip), we sit for a five-course dinner. I have quite the cheap palate, so the beluga caviar, foie gras, steak tartare, and veal Oscar aren’t really my speed, but despite feeling like I’m in some kind of fairy-tale land, not once do I ever feel as out of place as I anticipated.
If I had to guess, I’d say it’s because the baby brother of the bride rarely lets go of my hand.
I got a lot of play after that wedding. Once Alexander was back alone in his “bedroom” (which is almost the size of Rico’s apartment, not that it matters), he couldn’t sleep. He worked me for hours—staring up at the ceiling, rocking in his desk chair, pacing the oak floor.
Thinking.
About her.
How good she is to Jax. How hard she works.
How much better a person she is than he. He wishes he had her courage. Her resilience.
He thought about how soft and warm her skin is. Her perfect hands and beautiful eyes. Her question from all those weeks ago—Is that what you want?—spun inside his head at the same velocity I spun between his fingers.
He thought about the company and how he doesn’t want to work there, let alone take it over.
But does he have a choice?
How would Dad react if he went to college instead? And what would Alexander do for money? Yeah, he’d been “working” for years…but being employed by your family’s half-a-billion-dollar company was probably different from having a job with a real boss and all that.
Then there was the ticket. The search for Ethel Streeter. His growing suspicion they were headed for a dead end—no pun intended.
Should he just tell her? Come right out with it?
And then what?
He flicked me again.
Spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin…
I don’t even get time to process the evening and put my feet back on the ground because it turns out Lita is serious about the dinner thing: halfway through my shift the next day, I get a call at work from Zan telling me she wants me at this family dinner for the newlyweds before they head off on their monthlong honeymoon.
That dinner is tonight.
(Also: monthlong? Where the hell are they even going?!)
After calling to clear it with Mama—who sounds reluctant but eventually caves—I spend the next four hours stocking and restocking everything in sight—working on candy right now—in a futile attempt to keep my nerves in check.
The thirty-second intro-plus-hugs with Zan’s whole fam in the thick of a wonderland wedding were one thing. I was all dolled up and actually kinda looked like I belonged there.
Today, though? I’m in ripped, bleach-spotted jeans, a faded—though nicely fitted—Batman T-shirt, a pair of glittery flats Mama scrounged from a thrift store near a ballet studio, and her Brazen Bitches biker jacket. My hair looks like a fist protruding from the crown of my head, and the only thing on my face is a series of dark spots from my last breakout—
“Ricoooo!”
“Oh my God!” I startle, and the box I’m carrying goes into the air.
Guess I can say I make it rain Skittles now.
“Sorry, honey. Didn’t mean to startle ya.” Hypershiny black shoes and navy dress pants appear in my peripheral. “Just wanted to say hello. Lovin’ the Batman shirt!”
My eyes climb the suit and land on a smiling face.
Mr. Fifty hasn’t shaved since the last time he was in here.
It’s actually not a bad look. “Nice beard.”
“Ya like it?” He runs a hand over it. “Thought I’d try something new.”
In his other hand, he’s got a Slim Jim, a Vitaminwater Zero, and a bag of salt ’n’ vinegar pork rinds (yuck).
I smile. Like a real smile. It’s kinda weird, but seeing Mr. Fifty today is…settling.
I gather the scattered Skittles bags and stand. “Come on up front and I’ll ring those up for you.”
($41.86 in change.)
The jitter reprieve lasts exactly thirty-eight minutes. Because at 3:54 p.m., when Zan saunters in looking every bit the son-of-a-millionaire he is, my angst rockets through the fluorescent-lighted ceiling again. He winks at me in passing as he goes to greet Mr. Z, and after getting a full report on the Macklin paper products he supplied, he waits until I finish clocking out, takes my hand (the rest of me whips into hurricane frenzy), and pulls me outside.