Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

DANI

" M ama, are you sure?" I ask, the phone cradled on my shoulder while I scrub dishes.

" Si, mija . You can come tonight?"

I sigh, glancing at the clock, but I already know my answer. If Mama wants me to come over and is asking me to bring them dinner, I'm going. There's no other option.

"Yes, I'll be by around six after I get the kitchen cleaned up."

She tuts and adds, "Clean yourself up too. Don't come over smelling like you've been working all day. It makes your father worry."

I roll my eyes. "Six thirty, then."

We hang up, and I dry my hands for the next thing I have to do. I pull up the new contact in my phone for Kyle and start a text, my thumbs hovering as I try to figure out what to say.

"We're friends," I remind myself. "This is no big deal. Friends have to cancel sometimes. Especially me. I warned him."

This is one of the reasons I'm a bad friend. Family always comes first, no matter what.

Hey! Can I raincheck for tonight? I unexpectedly need to take dinner to my parents.

I wait, staring at the screen even though I know he might not see the message for a while if he's working.

But I quickly get back… Everything ok?

With them? Yeah, Mama said she was tired, but fine.

As soon as Mama said she was tired, I'd been struck by worry. She's not the type to admit to exhaustion, ever. She could go days without sleep, working sunup to sundown and taking care of everyone and everything before she'd admit to a weakness like that, so I'm afraid she's sick or is doing too much. She's not old, but she's had a hard life, and that takes a toll.

Good. How about with you? You okay?

Am I? I don't know. I've been replaying last night in my head, feeling the way my whole body is looser and more relaxed today. I've also been thinking about the teasing Kyle did this morning and what he promised tonight, and I'm disappointed to cancel on him. But maybe a little breathing room is good for us both. I mean, friends don't see each other every day, right?

Well, I see Nessa every day, but that's different because she's dropping off my groceries, but an actual hang out? Definitely not a daily thing.

So yeah, this might be a good thing. It's not like I won't see Kyle tomorrow, anyway.

Yeah, I'm good. I'll see you tomorrow?

I hit send and then freak out and add… I mean, when you're working at Kathy's. Not because I'm assuming you're coming over.

There, that's better. But wait… Unless you want to come over, because that's okay too.

I'll see you tomorrow, Dani. He sends a grinning emoji too, and I can virtually imagine his cocky smile at my triple-text.

A second later, he sends… Save me that sweet rollito.

And then… Oh, shit, I had to Google how to spell that and am only now realizing it's not exactly what I thought. In my head, I pictured a cinnamon roll and was imagining licking the frosting from all the nooks and crannies. I'm seeing now that a rollito is more…" After the dots, there's an eggplant emoji.

I laugh at Kyle trying to sound out the word that rolls off my tongue and resorting to Googling it just to send me a flirty text, then his imagery of what he wants to do to me makes my clit throb in time to my heartbeat, but that eggplant has me grinning again.

I hold up the cinnamon-sugar treat I already set aside for him, stick my tongue out sideways like I'm gonna lick it, and snap a selfie. Before I can second-guess myself, I hit Send and then put my phone down.

I've got to get back to work because I've got to finish these dishes, close up my kitchen, and apparently, shower before I take dinner to Mama and Papa.

"Mama! Papa! Estoy aqui!" I call out as I use my hip to nudge open the side door to my parents' house. I'd use my hands, but they're full with a baking tray of enchiladas. I don't think they'll notice the difference in the sauce from the usual recipe, but I whipped it up in a special batch after Mama called. It's got a dash less salt because Papa's doctor told him that his blood pressure was high last time he went in. It's not a big change, but every little bit helps.

"Daniela!" Mama greets me, coming out of the living room. Seeing my tray, she takes it from me and gives me a hug. "Shh, your father's sleeping. You know how it is."

I do, unfortunately. Since the cancer, my father's developed COPD, and even with oxygen supplementation, he's struggling. Naps have become a daily thing for him, sometimes fifteen minutes, sometimes more. It all depends on what his lungs allow him to do that day.

"Physio?" I ask Mama as she sets the tray on the counter. "The doctor says he needs to get out every day." She's well aware, of course, but the reminders feel like the only way we can support one another sometimes. By using the language of the caregivers, we show we're on the same team.

"I know, I know, but you know how he gets," she says dismissively, and I bite back a comment. Yes, I know how my father's gotten. Too proud to admit that he's not the virile man he was a few years ago, he'd rather slowly rot, sitting in front of the television and barely moving except around the house, than get himself better.

I get it, I read all the data on his cancer-related COPD. Even if he goes out and does an hour of cardio a day, he's not going to have the same stamina as he once had. What the cancer didn't affect, the surgeries and the chemotherapy did. He'll always have a raspy voice, and he'll always get tired more easily than a man his age should.

But getting him out of the house to do what he's supposed to is a small miracle that Mama isn't always up for conjuring. Really, what Papa needs is a daily swift kick in the ass because he won't do it willingly.

"How much did he do today?" I ask, instead of asking if he sat on his ass all day because I'm afraid of the answer.

"Twenty minutes," Mama finally concedes, and I can hear it in her voice. She'll take the win, and I sort of get it. Twenty minutes is better than nothing. "We walked to the 7-11 for a Diet Coke."

She's doing her best, that's obvious because Papa doesn't drink Diet Coke, Mama does. I can imagine her telling him that she's walking to the store for a drink, alone. No matter how tired Papa was, he would've rallied to go with her, which is exactly what he did.

"Good work," I tell her, and she winks, knowing I understand her tricks.

" Gracias . And thank you for dinner too, but you've got to get ready," Mama says, changing the subject faster than I can blink. "Nick is coming over to take you out."

" Mama !" I hiss, outraged. "You did not arrange a date for me!"

"I did, and you're going to go because you're a good daughter," Mama says firmly, and while she'll always back down in front of Papa, that doesn't work with me. Instead, she stares at me with an iron hard will that I've at least somewhat inherited, but years of habit make me reluctantly give in. She smiles and pats my hand. "That's a good girl. Trust me, Nick will be a good match for you."

I ignore that because I don't need a good match. I don't need a man period, but Mama won't ever understand that.

I can do this. I've done it before. Meet the guy, make sure he understands that I'm not what he wants, and tell Mama it didn't work out. Done. Over.

"How do you know him?" I ask instead of yelling at her the way I want to.

"He's Yvonne's oldest son," Mama says, "from the church. He goes to Mass every Sunday." She says it like that's a big plus and then brings out the big guns. "And handsome! So good-looking, he'll make pretty babies. And did I mention he has a management job? He'll be able to take good care of you." She nods sagely, her eyes alight with excitement over all of Nick's attributes.

Take care of me.

When push comes to shove, that's all Mama really worries about. In that regard, she's a lot like Xavier, although she's at least willing to consider someone who doesn't work in an office behind a computer for my potential mates. For her, she wants me to marry a ‘good boy' who has a ‘good job', which to her generally means above the average income level.

And I get it. Mama and Papa have struggled their whole lives, and like all parents, they want something better for me. In their mind, having someone at my side would make every day easier, especially financially, but also emotionally. I just don't have the time, space, or inclination to be that person for someone else or let them be that for me.

"I don't need anyone to take care of me," I try to tell her, even though it's like talking to a brick wall. I keep hoping she'll hear me one day, though. "And I'm not dressed for a date."

She looks me up and down. My jeans are fine—they're clean and show off my best asset—but my T-shirt has seen better days and my hair is still up in my bun from today, just freshly retied. "I told you to clean up."

I huff. She's clearly not getting the point. Intentionally. "I did. To bring you dinner, not to go out."

She shoos me into the bathroom. "Do something with your hair, and I've got that top you bought me for Christmas last year. You can wear that."

Damn it, I should've known she'd have an answer for anything. Reluctantly, I stare at myself in the mirror, not liking what I see.

Why can't I just tell her no? I don't want to do this, don't want a date, don't want to hurt some guy's feelings when he's as messed up in this as I am.

But as I poke at my hair, stuffing loose strands back into the ponytailer at the center of the bun, I already know I won't be able to say no. As fucked up as it is, going out on an unwanted date is the easy route because everything else will cause drama with my parents, and neither of them is in good enough health for me to do something that will send their blood pressure through the roof.

"Here you go, mija ," Mama says on the other side of the door. I crack it open, and she hands me a blue scoop-neck shirt.

Why did I get this for her, anyway? I should've known she wouldn't wear it. I yank the tag off and pull it over my head, staring at myself in the mirror again.

"He's here," Mama whispers through the thin door.

"Let's get this over with," I tell my reflection.

"Ah, perfecto!" Mama declares when I come into the living room, smiling widely. "This is my Daniela. Daniela, this is Nick. Go, go, you two have fun, and mijo , make sure to get her home early like a good boy!"

"Yes, Mrs. Becerra," Nick says, and I can hear it in his voice. He's saying yes, but he's not going to take me home until he wants to.

"He can drop me off here after dinner," I say through clenched teeth that I'm baring in what I hope looks like a passable version of a smile. "My car is here."

Mama waves her hand. "No, no… we'll take your car to your house. It's all arranged with Xavier." I take a breath, ready to argue, but Mama interrupts me. "A drive would be good for him, you know?" She points at Papa with pursed lips. He's still sleeping, or feigning sleep so he doesn't get involved in her scheming, but either way, there's no point in arguing.

With that, she pushes us out the door, smiling like she's a magical fairy godmother who's going to find her wayward daughter a prince or die trying.

Out front, Nick boldly looks me up and down as Mama closes the door. I know she's still peeking out the curtain, so I try to maintain some semblance of manners even though I want to tell him to keep his eyes above my shoulders or I'll be forced to poke them out with my thumbs. "Hi."

"Hi," Nick says, sticking a hand in his pocket. "So, you're the girl my mom was telling me about, huh?"

"Guess so. I just heard about you ten minutes ago," I say flatly.

"Oh, guess that explains…" He looks me up and down again, and when his eyes come back to mine, I'm glaring hard, daring him to say one single fucking word about my appearance. Granted, he's in baggy khakis and his short-sleeved button down is tucked in behind his belt, showing some effort, but it's not like I'm in grungy sweats or work clothes. He doesn't flinch, which I guess is some sort of point in his favor. "Let's get this over with."

Good, sounds like we're on the same page.

Nick walks to the curb, where there's a late-model SUV parked. It looks clean and well-cared for, and when he pulls a fob out of his pocket, it beeps, unlocking the doors.

I glance longingly at my own car, wishing I could make a run for it, but this truly is for the best. An hour at dinner, tops, and then I can tell Mama that there was no chemistry, which will buy me a few weeks at least until she rounds up some other suitable potential suitor.

So I follow Nick. He walks around the back of the SUV, not opening my door or anything. I'm no princess, but considering that Kyle was more of a gentleman on an ad-hoc non-date, I'm not impressed. Still, I get in and buckle up.

As he starts the car, the radio blares and he's slow to turn it down. "It's my favorite song," he says as he pulls away from the curb and starts down my parents' street. I nod, not knowing the song at all and not liking it any more when Nick starts singing along.

Once the song's over, he pushes the button, shutting off the music entirely. "My mother says you're a good cook?"

"Yes, I run a lunch service out of my home kitchen."

I'm about to say how much I enjoy it despite how hard the work is, but I don't get a chance because Nick interrupts me. "I'm an assistant manager at Walmart." He proudly puffs out his less-than-impressive chest. "In the next year or two, I'll be a full manager, and that's a six-figure gig, easy. Even if they stick me in a bad area, I'll be making bank, so you wouldn't have to do the lunch thing or whatever."

I blink. He did not just assume that our future is some version of me quitting my job while he works. Hell, is he assuming that this is some done deal already? That I'm a done deal?

Fuck that.

"I think there's been some misunderstanding?—"

He cuts me off again. "There's a place up here I like. They have good mole . Maybe you can figure out their recipe." He tells me about his favorite foods until he's whipping the SUV into a parking lot. All the while, I grit my teeth.

Just get through it, Dani. Keep your mouth shut for a change and get through it.

It's surprisingly easy to do because Nick gets out of the car—not opening my door again—and walks into the restaurant while I follow along a couple of steps behind. He's friendly with the hostess, who he seems to know and who shoots daggers at me like I'm stealing her man, when as far as I'm concerned, she can have him. Please, take him.

The waitress is older and doesn't greet us, just stands at the end of the table while Nick orders for both of us. I raise my brows, but at this point, I don't care. Whatever they set in front of me, I'm gonna eat it and get this date over with.

But then Nick starts talking and doesn't stop.

He doesn't stop when the waitress drops off a Pepsi for me and a beer for him. He keeps talking when she brings out our chicken enchiladas with mole . And he keeps right on going as we eat.

And there's only one subject to his long, twisting monologue. Himself. His likes, his dislikes, what clothes he prefers to wear, what music he listens to, his gym workout, his movie preferences. Him, him, him.

He doesn't ask what I like to do, what I think about the food, if I'm a rap music fan or not, or even if I've got any opinions on the world at all.

So when my phone rings, I have zero guilt about holding up a finger and telling Nick that I have to take this call. And when he balks, looking offended at my rudeness, I don't tell him to choke on his enchilada, which is a kindness he doesn't deserve.

"Hello."

"Hey, I know you're busy with your parents, but I wanted to see if you or they needed anything. I know you were worried about your mom unexpectedly calling you home." Kyle says it in one big run-on sentence, and I can hear how concerned he truly is.

He's checking on me. And even checking on my parents, which is undeniably sweet. I have no doubt that if I said I needed something, Kyle would make it happen. That's the kind of guy he is.

"Yeah," I drawl out, looking at Nick and judging how much I want to say. Deciding ‘fuck it', I tell Kyle, "Mama tricked me. She didn't need dinner. She set me up on a blind date, which I'm on right now."

I hear squeaking like he's quickly sitting up in a chair or his couch or somewhere, and then he growls, "Are you serious? Dani, if you're fucking with me, it's not funny."

Nick narrows his eyes, looking at my phone, and I wonder if he can hear Kyle.

"Nope," I say evenly. "Not joking. Nick is a manager at Walmart," I report.

Nick whispers, "Assistant manager."

I lean forward, acting like I give a shit what he said. "Oh, my bad… assistant manager."

"Do you need me to come get you? I'm getting on my bike. Just tell me where you are."

I hear a door closing on his end, and I can picture him striding across his front yard, throwing a leg over Lucille, ready to come to my rescue. But I don't need a rescue. This date was a loss before it started, and I'm pretty sure Nick sees that now too.

"I'm fine," I say with a resigned sigh. Kyle says my name warningly, so I'm firmer when I say, "I'm okay, really. I'll just see you tomorrow."

I hang up, wishing I could talk to Kyle all night instead of being here, because somehow, not hurting my mom ends up hurting me more often than not.

"Sorry," I tell Nick, "that was a friend I had plans with tonight but had to cancel on because Mama told me she needed dinner."

"I heard," he says, his dark brows furrowing together. And though I expect more questions about that, he plows right on with what he was saying before my phone rang. "So, yeah, a two-year business degree is totally doable with online classes and would increase my salary by four dollars an hour."

Is. He. Fucking. Serious?

I feel my jaw drop open in disbelief, but Nick doesn't even notice because he's scooping up the last of his rice and beans. I shake my head and do the same, going back to my meal because as awful as the date is, Nick is right about one thing. This mole is delicious.

The rest of dinner, he keeps talking, and though I finish my Pepsi, plus a second, even the caffeine can't keep me awake. He's not a bad guy, truly. He's just not what I'm looking for, mostly because I'm not looking for anyone, as I've repeatedly told my family.

Thankfully, Nick says he has the early shift at work tomorrow and heads toward my house right after dinner, plugging my address into his GPS even though I tell him that I can direct him there.

As he pulls into my driveway, he says, "My days off are usually Tuesday and Wednesday. Maybe next week, we can get together and I can… what the hell? "

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Nick that I'm busy next week, and the week after that, and the one after that too, but at his clipped words, I look to where he's staring.

Kyle is sitting on my front step, illuminated in the porch light I left on for myself. I can't hide the smile that steals across my face. The first of the night.

Nick puts the SUV in park and climbs out, slamming his door and stomping toward Kyle. I open my own door to hear him demanding, "Who are you and why are you on Daniela's porch?"

Kyle has stood up, and the difference in the two men could not be more marked. Nick is five-nine at most, and maybe 160 pounds soaking wet. Kyle is six-foot at least, and probably closer to 200 pounds of hard muscle. Muscle I've felt beneath my hands and against my body.

"I'm Kyle," he says, his eyes finding me as I come around the SUV's hood. I feel him check me over, like he's worried I'm injured or harmed in some way, and then his eyes go back to Nick. "And you are?"

"Nick." He bows up a bit, puffing his chest out the way he did earlier, but this time, it's like he's trying to intimidate Kyle.

Kyle smirks in response. "Well, Nick… thanks for bringing Dani home. Have a good night." He lifts his hand in a dismissive good-bye wave, but Nick flinches at the movement as though he was expecting a hit.

It's a losing move in the stand-off between the two men, and we all know it.

Still, Nick tries to stay tough. "I'm not leaving. You are," he says, sounding like a grade schooler. "Unless you want trouble."

Kyle crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps looking extra bulge-y, and plants his feet, claiming ground, and grins an entirely new version I haven't seen before. He looks scary, dangerous, his smile saying ‘bring it, if you think you can.'

I've been borderline passive-aggressive all night, sighing, rolling my eyes, and even mentally checking out as Nick droned on about himself. Now, it's time for aggressive-aggressive.

I step between them, declaring harshly, "Enough." I turn to Nick, telling him, "Thank you for dinner. There won't be another date. You can go now." He stammers, but I don't slow, having held my tongue all night. "Kyle, I said I was fine and didn't need a rescue." He starts to say something too, but I point to the house. "Go inside, now."

I toss the key I've already dug out of my purse at Kyle, and he snatches it out of the air but doesn't move toward the door, not willing to leave me alone with Nick.

"You're fucking crazy, bitch," Nick tells me, sneering.

He's been annoying and borderline rude all evening, but his true nature is coming out, showing how crude and offensive he can be. He's taking the gloves off? Fine by me, because now, I'm the one he needs to be scared of. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" I snap, glaring as I take a step his way.

To his credit, Nick must not be a stupid man because he moves back slightly, and when he sees the fury in my eyes, he throws his hands up—which I don't flinch about in the slightest—and makes a sound dismissing the whole mess. He quick-walks back to his SUV, climbs in, and backs out of my driveway, nearly hitting Mrs. Stephens's mailbox across the street in the process. When his cherry red taillights disappear around the corner, I whirl on Kyle, who still hasn't moved.

"Happy now?"

"You were on a date with that asshole?" he demands incredulously. "Why?"

"I told you… my mom set me up and I couldn't tell her no. I obviously didn't want to go out with him. Or anyone else ," I remind him as I walk by, ripping my keys out of his hand as I pass on my way to the door.

I can feel him coming up behind me and rush to unlock it, moving this argument inside because the neighbors are already going to be talking after hearing what just went down.

Could I shut the door in his face? Yes.

Do I? No. I don't even pretend to.

I walk through, leaving it cracked open in invitation, knowing he's going to follow me because I can feel how wound up he is. It should piss me off, it should worry me on some level, but all I feel is a happy tingle between my thighs as I hear his boots on the porch. And when his powerful hand pushes the door the rest of the way open, I have to bite my cheeks to keep from smiling.