“And she works in a coffee shop while she goes to school.”
Her eyes widen with what can only be described as dismay. “High school?”
“No,” I laugh. “She’s in her last semester of college.”
Her relief quickly becomes interest. “Really? What does she study?”
My shrug has us both frowning. Why don’t I know that? In fact, as my grandmother quizzes me about the only woman I’ve felt a connection with since Lolita, I don’t know a lot of the answers to her questions, not even her birthday, or exactly how old she is or where she grew up.
“I don’t understand, mijo. If you’re not sure about so much, how do you know she’s not right for you?”
“She’s not Latina.”
The surprise on my grandmother’s face is unnerving. “So? What does that have to do with anything?”
My mouth opens and then closes as I try to come up with a reasonable explanation for the one person I’d never thought would need one.
“You want her to be Catholic?” she supplies.
“What?” I scoff. “No. Not that. She just wouldn’t fit in around here.”
Her head rears back. “You think we wouldn’t accept her?”
“No, I . . . I just don’t see it happening.”
I squirm under her scrutiny, wishing she wasn’t so obviously searching for more specific information, information that I can’t seem to come up with. “Have you told her about the girls?”
Picking at the tattered edge of the placemat, I avoid her gaze. “Yeah, she knows.”
“And she didn’t receive the news well?”
“Oh, no. I don’t know why, but she isn’t put off by the idea.”
After a moment of consideration, her next words take on a very adult to child tone. “Listen to me, Scotty. If there’s one thing that life has taught me over the years it’s that race is meaningless. There are good and bad people in all walks of life.”
I nod because of course she’s right. But I can’t quite shake the unease my grandmother’s unexpected liberal attitude has sparked in me. If Latin heritage is not important to her, why is it so important to me? “It’s not only that though,” I say, feeling like I need to defend myself. “She has problems . . .”
“We all have problems.”
“No, she has problems with alcohol.”
My grandmother’s demeanor instantly shifts, as if the word alcohol changes everything. Almost as quickly, I’m jumping to defend Ellie before she can say a word against her.
“It’s not like that. She’s not . . . She doesn’t . . . I don’t even know what I want to say.”
“But you wish to shield her?” She’s surprised, shocked even. Probably because we both loathe the impact alcohol and drugs have had on our lives.
The word shield resonates with me. “Yes, exactly. I already want to shield her, but I can’t. I can’t take care of a single other person, Abuela. I’ve hit my limit on people being dependent on me.”
Her brow puckers as she absorbs my words. “Dependent? You mean financially? I thought you said she has a job.”
I huff impatiently. “Yes, she has a job. But I don’t want to have to be responsible for her.”
Her frown deepens. “You don’t see her as an equal then?”
I recoil. There’s so much wrong with that sentence that I don’t even know where to begin with my denials.
“Scotty,” she says sternly before I can get a word out. “You said something similar the other day. Do you think women in general are incompetent? Or just her?”
“What?! No, I don’t think that at all!”
“Then I don’t –”
“– don’t understand. Yeah, I don’t think I do either.” Scrubbing at my face, I haul in a deep breath, trying to collect my thoughts. “I think the only thing I do know is that I miss her like crazy,” I finally say.
“Then go to her, mijo. Tell her that.”
“I can’t,” I say miserably. “She doesn’t want to see me.”
She reaches for my hand. “I don’t want to know why this is so, but if you feel this much for her, you must apologize and put some effort into getting to know her.”
“But . . .”
“No buts.”
Even though I can feel my resolve crumbling, I grunt with frustration. “I told you she doesn’t want me anywhere near her.”
“Regardless, you must try. Use your charm,” she jokes. “Convince her that your intentions are good.”
When I don’t answer, she squeezes my hand. “They are good, aren’t they, mijo?”
And here we have the million dollar question. What do I want from Ellie Summers? The answer comes to me with startling clarity. I want it all.
Ellie
My attempts to dodge my sister’s calls finally fail on Friday morning. Her pre-emptive strike comes in the form of a text.
Sophie: I know it’s your day off. If you don’t answer your phone, I’m calling Dad to tell him you’re partying again.
My phone rings ten seconds later.
“Soph!” I exclaim indignantly.
“So you’re still alive.”
I throw her sarcasm right back at her. “And what would make you think otherwise?”
“Because I haven’t talked to you in a week,” she retorts. Then she goes on more gently. “I assume your cooking date didn’t go well.”
“You assume correctly.” Great. All the effort I’ve put into not thinking about that asshole begins to slough away with her words. Exactly why I haven’t wanted to talk to her. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course you do. You’re going to tell me every single detail because I’m your sister and your best friend and you value my input above anyone else’s.”
Despite her light-hearted tone, a knot of emotion starts forming in my throat. “That’s true,” I say softly.
“Oh, Els. What happened?”
I sigh. “He blew me off.”
Mortification rising, I tell her the story and I’m hit with an awful sense of familiarity. Why am I always telling my sister the same story? The details may be different, but at its core, the scenario is depressingly similar. Poor Ellie/Piper likes a man more than he likes her. Or poor Ellie/Piper wants more from a man than he’s willing to give. Ugh. So pathetic.
And worse, by the time I finish my sad, woe-is-me tale, I have tears running down my cheeks again after a week of trying to keep a stiff upper lip. The only bright spot is that Sophie proves once again why I can always count on her. She doesn’t feed me pitiful platitudes, she gives me, “You want me to come up there and give him a shot to the balls for you?”
Around my sniffling, something approximating a chuckle slips from my lips.
“I’d do it, you know? I have a class to TA this afternoon, but I could drive up and be there before midnight. Do you know where he lives?”
I laugh, outright this time. “Thanks, sis, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I’m already moving on. I spent the week applying for paid internships for when I graduate.”