“Yes? Right?” She looks up at me, squeezing my hand tight enough to cut off the blood flow.
“You’re sure you don’t want to look anywhere else before making a decision?”
She shrugs. “I mean, we can if you want to, but I’ve always loved this neighborhood. I can’t imagine anything better. It’s in the right school district for Ellie and really a blank canvas. We can do anything.” She trails a hand along the bathroom vanity. “I’ve got so many ideas already.”
I turn to Angela. “Is it too late to have the larger bedroom upstairs—the one with the window nook—painted pink for our little girl?” I really want her room to be magical the minute she walks into it. I don’t want her to have to wait on us to paint it.
“Listen, if all it takes to sell this house is custom paint, I don’t think that will be a problem.”
“Hear that, honey?” I give Nya’s shoulder a bump. “Why don’t you go ahead and choose a color to have them paint the nursery too? One less thing we’ll have to do for the new baby.”
“I was thinking blue…” She taps a manicured finger against her lower lip. My heart skips a beat.
“Really?”
“Or pink.” She flips both hands palm up and seesaws them up and down like a scale. “Pink or blue. Definitely.”
Angela looks on curiously.
I consider explaining that she’s aware of the gender and keeping it from me, but quickly realize that means bringing up the why of it and decide it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. I’m not ever opening that can of worms again if I can help it. It won’t kill me to wait and be surprised. “Why don’t we just leave it light gray for now?” I suggest instead.
“Perfect.”
Before we leave to head home, we’ve already signed a purchase agreement and handed over the earnest money so our realtor can get things rolling.
We spend the remainder of the day closed up in the office. While I busy myself with getting things together to sell the club, Nya spends her time on her design software, plotting out how she wants to furnish the new house.
At 3:15 p.m., the familiar sound of screeching breaks alerts us to our daughter’s return.
She creeps around the corner quietly then releases a relieved sigh when she sees us. “Oh, good. You’re both here.”
“Of course we are. Why wouldn’t we be?” I try to downplay how bad yesterday was, because for a while there I wasn’t quite sure I’d still be here today either.
She shrugs off her backpack, dropping it near the door. “Mom was really upset yesterday… and then she sent me to Hannah’s… I just—well, I was worried.”
“Mija…” Nya gets up and crosses the room, hugging our little girl to her chest. “I’m very sorry for scaring you. It was just a misunderstanding. This pregnancy has my hormones all out of whack, but you have nothing to worry about.”
“Yep.” I roll my desk chair out and join the girls across the room. “Y’all are stuck with me, like it or not,” I joke.
Ellie giggles. “I like it a lot.”
“Phew.” I swipe the back of a hand over my forehead, demonstrating my relief. “Cuz we sort of took your advice today.”
“My advice?” Her forehead crinkles with confusion.
“Didn’t you say we needed a bigger house?”
“We’re moving?” Her little face is filled with nervous energy. So many questions all sitting on the tip of her tongue. “To where? Will I have to change schools? I don’t want to be the new kid.”
“Slow down, mija.” Nya combs her fingers through Ellie’s hair. “We would never do that to you. The house we’re buying is down the road from the Larsons.”
Her jaw drops. “Did we win the lottery?”
I snort. “No.”
“Come have a look.” Nya retrieves the floor plan from her desk and leads El over to the window seat to go over it, pointing out her room and attached bathroom, and the baby’s room. Then she scrolls through the pictures on her phone, and Ellie all but loses her mind over the swimming pool.
“I’m not sure she likes it,” I tease when she runs off to call Kennedi and tell her the news. “Maybe we should just stay here.”
Nya
Ass dimples
“Nieta, stop playing and mix! We haven’t got all day.” My mother has taken complete control over my kitchen, insistent upon making tamales for the baby shower tomorrow. I have so many memories doing this with Mami and Bisabuela growing up. Sharing the experience with my little girl, Hannah, and my mother in law, in our new home, has me feeling a little emotional.
Hell, when am I anything but emotional lately?
“But it feels like Play-Doh.” Ellie has the coveted task of mixing the masa and lard together. My cousins and I used to fight over who would get to dip their hands into the doughy mix. “It’s fun.” She squeezes it in her fists, giggling as the corn mixture oozes through her fingers.
While Mami grumbles at my daughter beneath her breath and carries on with seasoning the meat, Nadine and I remove the soaked corn husks from the sink and dry the excess water.
“I never realized how involved the process is,” Nadine says before wiping her hands off on the front of her apron. She’s enjoying herself immensely. The woman knows her way around a kitchen, something she and my mother have in common. I love seeing them together, bonding like this.
Liam’s parents have been by for a visit every month since Christmas. With a new baby on the way, I don’t anticipate that stopping any time soon. Sometimes I still want to kick myself when I consider all of the moments like this we missed out on over the years. It’s hard not to feel guilt-ridden and foolish—hard to stop wishing there was some way to recoup that lost time.
Once the masa is properly mixed, we all post up around the large island and begin smearing a thin layer of the creamy substance on the smooth side of the husks.
“Don’t be so stingy with the meat, Hannah,” my mother orders. “We have plenty.”
Justly chastised, my friend scrunches her shoulders. “Sorry.” She piles on the pork, looking to me to be sure she’s doing it correctly.
I offer a discreet nod, trying not to laugh. It took me years to reach a level of tamale mastery that did not have my mother breathing down my neck. I have no doubt if there weren’t less-skilled helpers than me present, she would still find fault with my technique.
After nearly two hours of rolling, my back is on fire. This extra twenty pounds in the front is no joke.
“Why don’t you go relax?” Liam appears out of nowhere, his warm hands landing on my shoulders as he begins to knead the tension away. “I’ll take over your station.”
Damn, but my baby daddy is mouthwateringly delicious. He’s dressed in a pair of navy board shorts and loose-fitting muscle shirt. His backward cap and sun-kissed cheeks, courtesy of all the time he’s spent landscaping around the pool the past few weeks, reminds me of our visit to Bora Bora. The trip down memory lane sends heat flooding to my core.
“You sure?” I ask, rolling my head back. “I might find the strength to go on if you keep doing that.”