Big Chicas Don't Cry(10)

“I’m glad you like them—the bu?uelos, I mean. And eat as many as you want. Take some home too. I think I made way too much this year.”

“?Basta! There’s no such thing as too many bu?uelos. Especially yours.” Chris leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms over his chest. His usual three-piece suit was replaced today by a deep-red collared shirt, pullover black sweater, and dark-colored jeans. Jeans that fit so perfectly it was hard not to notice. So hard.

Twist. Knot. Flip.

“Well, I guess we better go join everyone else before they start opening gifts without us,” I said and got to my feet.

Ever since Chris’s divorce three years ago, he’d joined us on Christmas morning for brunch and presents. Truth be told, I was happier than usual to have him this year. He was a good buffer between me and Blanca. And I desperately needed it after last night. We’d hosted a Christmas Eve dinner for about forty of Esteban’s coworkers, clients, and their spouses. Letty, our cook/housekeeper, and I had made all the food and had done all the setup. Blanca, who’d arrived from Sacramento two days ago, didn’t lift one finger to help the entire time.

I don’t even know why I expected her to. She was used to being waited on hand and foot. The only time she ever cooked was for her precious Esteban.

She adored Chris too. And although she only saw him on Christmas, she considered him like a second son. Which meant she was usually too busy fawning over her two favorite men to worry about what I was doing. Or rather, what I was doing wrong.

As if reading my mind, Chris stopped me just before I walked past him. “Don’t worry,” he whispered as he squeezed my hand. “I’m not going to let her ruin your Christmas.”

Unexpected tears wet my eyes. I laughed them away, embarrassed at how much his words meant to me and how disappointed I was that Esteban hadn’t told me the same thing this morning. “Ah, Chris,” I whispered back. “We need to find you a wife. You are too good of a man to be all alone.”

He smiled softly and then reached out and pushed a strand of my hair behind my ear. “But I’m not alone. I’m here with you . . . and Esteban.” He paused, took a deep breath, and said, “Merry Christmas, Marisol.”

And before I could stop him, or even decide if I should stop him, Chris leaned down and brushed a light kiss near the corner of my lips. My heart beat wildly as I met his determined eyes. He seemed to search mine for a response, but I didn’t dare give away the tumbling routine going on in my gut.

Chris was my friend. He was my husband’s best friend. He had no right to stir up these kinds of feelings inside me.

So what if I occasionally allowed myself to wonder what would’ve happened if I’d met Chris first at their firm’s dinner party five years ago? And what harm was there in sometimes wishing that Esteban was more thoughtful and more attentive like Chris?

They were just thoughts. Innocent what-ifs. I never expected anything to come from them.

Maybe nothing had.

That’s when I remembered. I looked up, and relief washed over me when I saw the spray of green leaves and red berries still hanging from the doorway. I poked Chris in the chest. “You know, it’s not really a rule that you have to kiss someone under the mistletoe.”

If I had expected him to sheepishly laugh or turn red with embarrassment, I would have been wrong. Instead, he shrugged and said matter-of-factly, “What mistletoe?”

He walked away then, leaving me too shaken to move just yet. And even though I knew she was sixty miles away, I could hear Welita’s voice in Spanish telling me one more time, “Be careful what you wish for.”





Chapter Five


GRACIE


Dear God, thank you for all of your blessings on this beautiful Christmas Day. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to spend this morning together at home so we could open our gifts to each other and then come here to Mass as a family again. Please forgive me for any trespasses, including wishing that Erica’s ex-boyfriend would break his leg or get the stomach flu. I’m also sorry for wanting to take back the jacket I got for my little sister Rachel after she told me that my hair wasn’t its usual crazy mess. I realize now that she was just trying to be nice . . . in her own bratty kind of way. And please continue to keep . . .

An elbow to my side interrupted my after-Communion prayer. I looked over to Selena, who was kneeling next to me on my left. She was trying not to laugh as she slyly motioned to the little boy in the pew in front of us. He looked to be about two years old, and he was wearing the cutest reindeer sweater and red knit cap. He also kept lifting his mother’s skirt up and down, causing her to flash her flowered underwear at Selena.

I wanted to laugh, too, but then remembered I wasn’t finished praying.

Please continue to keep our family safe and healthy. Amen.

Oh, and happy birthday, Jesus.

“That poor woman. I’d probably never show my face in this church again,” Selena declared after Mass was over.

“Her name is Mrs. Hardwick. She has four kids who go to the school, so I’m pretty sure she’s coming back,” I explained as we waited for our parents near the church entrance. They had wandered off to greet some friends and hand over a container of tamales for Father Emilio.

As Selena and Rachel busied themselves on their phones, I waved to familiar faces. They were mostly parents and students in my first-grade class here at St. Christopher’s. Others were teachers and staff whom I hadn’t seen since Christmas break started four days ago. It was definitely a close-knit school and church community—one I’d been a part of ever since I was a little girl.