Big Chicas Don't Cry(5)
“I don’t know how you have the time to make so many gifts every year. I’m just warning you all that I took the easy road and got everyone gift cards,” I admitted.
Selena clapped. Shopping was her favorite—and only—hobby. Always had been. Even as a teenager, she was always into the latest styles. The only difference now was that at twenty-seven, Selena could finally afford to feed her addiction.
“I can’t wait to give you my gifts too,” she added. “Although, now that I’m thinking about it, the vibrator I got for Gracie might get better use for you, Erica, since you’re single again.”
Gracie spit out the menudo she’d just slurped and began coughing up a storm. From the kitchen, Welita called out to ask if she was okay.
I slapped Gracie on the back and told our great-grandmother in Spanish that a piece of hominy had just gone down the wrong pipe. That satisfied her, and Welita walked out of the kitchen and into the patio, her arms full of boxes of raisins for the sweet tamales.
As soon as the door closed, Gracie reached over and pulled on her sister’s ear. “You’re awful, Selena. Please tell me you’re just joking and that you didn’t really buy that,” she begged.
Selena threw up her arms. “Of course I am. Oh my God, could you imagine the look on Dad’s face if you ever whipped one of those things out?”
That made her roar with laughter, and I couldn’t help but join in. Although she fought it for a few more minutes, eventually even Gracie cracked a smile. When the giggles died down, I looked at an empty chair across the table and sighed.
“Anyone know if she’s coming this morning?” I asked, then immediately regretted it. I hadn’t had enough coffee yet to bring up the sore subject that Mari had become.
Gracie shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Selena shrugged hopefully. “Maybe she’ll show up tonight for dinner?”
“Yeah, right,” I said with a bitter laugh. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good excuse that she’ll text us . . . eventually. Shall we take bets now on what it is?”
“Erica . . . ,” Gracie warned. But I ignored her.
Starting with the one made under the lemon tree all those years ago, Mari had broken so many promises that I had begun making a list.
“Let’s see. Is she flying to Hawaii? Oh no, that was last Easter. I bet she got a last-minute appointment with that Beverly Hills stylist. Nope, wait, that was on Abuela’s birthday. Hmm, maybe she pulled a muscle doing yoga and needs to stay off her feet. Oh, wrong again. That was on my fucking twenty-first birthday.”
The waves inside my stomach thrashed wildly again at the thought of that memory. I’d never been so pissed and so hurt. We all were—even if Gracie had acted like it hadn’t been a big deal. A sour taste invaded my mouth, and it wasn’t just because of the hangover. I pushed away the bowl of menudo and my coffee.
“Okay, Erica. You don’t have to remind us,” said Gracie, in her usual don’t-make-a-scene tone. “You’re not the only one who’s upset about how she’s been lately.”
“Lately? Lately? Gracie, she’s been ditching us—ditching this family—since she was sixteen. I don’t understand why everyone is still so afraid to call her out on it. She’s not a little girl anymore. Jesus Christ, she’s not going to break if someone actually gets upset with her!”
I yelled that last sentence, surprising all of us. Even Gracie, who would normally scold me for the JC comment, seemed shocked into silence.
Our eyes turned to the kitchen door in expectation that someone—our abuela or one of our tías—would come running through it to find out what was going on. When no one came after a few seconds, I let out a big sigh. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m just on edge. You guys aren’t the ones I’m mad at. I’m sorry, mis amores.”
They mumbled back that they loved me, too, and went back to eating while I rubbed my stomach. It still wasn’t right. Maybe it had to do with the new heaviness in the air. I hated it. This was Christmas Eve. We were all supposed to be jolly, for Christ’s sake.
Literally.
“So guess who’s coming to LA in January?” Selena teased in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood.
“Adele?” Gracie asked. My cousin was obsessed with Adele. Anytime we mentioned we had big news of any sort, she immediately assumed it had something to do with the singer. I mean, I loved Adele as much as anyone. But there were other things in life to get excited about.
Things like . . .
“Nathan!” I squealed.
Selena smiled, and I could’ve sworn an unnatural shade of pink colored her cheeks. Nathan Tennant was a professional recruiter from New York. They’d met last year at a conference in Denver and hooked up every time he was in town for client meetings. Unlike me, my cousin believed the only kinds of relationships she needed with men were the ones that came without strings. She’d told me they had a sex-only arrangement, and it worked so well because he happened to live on the other side of the country.
“Yep,” she answered. “He’s only going to be here for three days, so don’t expect me to be around those three nights.”
“Don’t you ever want more than three days here or a weekend there?” Gracie asked for the millionth time. She still couldn’t grasp the concept of a fuck buddy.