Chapter 12

CHAPTER

TWELVE

SANTOS

I 'm surprised I didn't get a ticket for driving that fast. I pull up to my sister's house to see her standing behind the glass door. Her arms are crossed and the lone figure on the porch makes my mouth taste like chalk. His light brown hair is grayer and more disheveled than I remember, but it's assuredly our dad.

I recall being a kindergartener and the three of us moving in with Abuela in her home. Dad claimed it was so they could take care of us so he could work more. His work trips kept getting longer and longer. By the time I graduated high school, he was barely ever home. It's not like he could remember —he wasn't sober half the time.

He may be my biological father, but the idea of a caring parent is a foggy memory that died when Mom did.

I nearly leap out of my car and stride to quickly get between my sister and my dad. When he turns to me, Santana opens the door but doesn't take a step forward.

Dad raises his hand and meekly says, "Santos —"

"What are you doing here?" I ask gruffly, standing between them. I don't even bother obfuscating how I feel about him. He deserves nothing from us.

My dad's eyes look tired and ragged, and to his credit, he steps back with his hands up. "I came by to talk to Santana. And now that you're here, I wanted to talk to you, too."

I frown and turn to see my baby sister who's looking down. "You told me he didn't v-v-visit all these years?" I whisper.

"He never did," she mutters.

"I, uh, heard you're getting married." Dad tries to step forward, then hesitates when I glare at him.

"How?"

"Your mom's cousin posted it on social media."

"Of course," Santana remarks.

"It's a tiny affair," I state. "Seats are taken. A private gathering." If Wayne wasn't working the night shift, I'd bet he'd be standing here, blocking him from my sister.

"Right." Dad claps his hands and an awkward silence floats between us. "Well…I just wanted to say…congratulations."

"Alright, cool," Santana says, shaking her head. She still doesn't look at him, and I don't blame her. I can't stand the image of him, even though I inherited his jawline and overall physique.

"Can I um…text you kids sometime?"

I turn to my sister, and she shakes her head. "No thanks. Goodbye, Dad," she says. Then, she promptly turns and exits, presumably to sequester herself in her room. That's the appropriate action.

Before I can follow her in, I turn one last time to make sure Dad is leaving. He reads my mind and steps backward with his hands up. "I get it. I'll go. But son?"

I frown at him and hesitate, halfway through the doorway.

After a pause, he continues, "I'm glad you're still looking out for your sister."

I look down, then bristle. "Someone has to," I murmur, hopefully loud enough for him to hear. I walk in and lock the door. Then, I gaze out the window and watch him drive away. Good riddance.

Two minutes later, I find Santana pouring two cups of tea in the kitchen. She seems less distressed, but just as wrung out as I anticipated. Frankly, I'm unnerved as well.

We sip in silence, likely sharing the same thoughts. The dark moments of our childhood are long gone, but the emotional scars from parents never truly go away.

Santana puts down her cup. "Fuck social media, amiright?"

We both laugh, then our smiles fade. "He's an ass. He deserves nothing," I remark.

She pulls back her hair and looks away. "I know."

"I can stay here tonight if you want."

"No, it's cool." She shrugs. "I can't call you every time the boogeyman shows up, expecting you to come running."

I snicker. "But you can. He's our boogeyman. We share our blood with him."

Santana sighs and idly taps her porcelain cup. "True. And you can't outrun blood," she says in a facetious tone.

"We're adults now. He can't hurt us anymore, Tana."

"I know, and I know we can always get a restraining order."

I grasp her hand. "Worst case scenario. I'm envious that some kids actually have g-g-good relationships with their parents."

"Well, not many kids have their dads freak out and throw bottles at them in a drunken tirade." She gives a facetious shrug, and my fists clench. I blocked out the memories of Dad tossing glass bottles in this very kitchen. I can still hear his lachrymose slurs about missing our dead mom and wanting the pain to go away. Young Santana cried in the corner, and I was able to get her out of there, but the damage was done to both of us. I consider her fortunate he didn't try to harm her directly.

"That's behind us. He can't come in here anymore. That's trespassing." And if he tries anything else, I'll be forced to get violent.

"Hopefully he realizes that." She brings the cups to the sink and sighs. I recall Dad apologizing the next morning after sobering up. I would have believed him if he didn't do the same shit two more times.

I approach my sister and put my hand on her shoulder. She's the spitting image of the photos of my mom. "We're both moving on," I say.

"I hope so. But thanks, Hermano ." She pats my hand and we share a smile. "Why is your lip all red?"

My breath hitches, and I break away. "I…I d-dunno. Goodnight!" I swear I hear Santana giggling as I make my way out of the house.

What a whirlwind night this was. The boy I've always yearned for kissed me, and the man I don't want to see again showed up to ruin it. After starting the car, I touch my mouth and smile. Natie is attracted to me on some level; despite the drama, no part of me wants to forget tonight.

Me: My sincerest apologies for yesterday evening.

Natie: It's cool. I shouldn't have thrown myself at you.

Me: You have nothing to atone for, Natie.

Natie: Good to know, Handyman.

Natie: (winking emoji)

Me: That nickname was the bane of my adolescence.

Natie: LOL!

Natie: You ran off pretty quickly.

Me: Family drama. The converse of my marvelous evening with you, it was distressing.

Natie: Sounds rough.

Natie: Want to come over some night and talk about it?

Natie: Or we could watch a movie to forget your troubles. We have this big screen room at the resort.

Me: Either of those choices sounds splendiferous.

This totally isn't a date. So why am I sweating bullets in my car? As I've mulled over tonight's itinerary in my head all week, I fashioned myself into a nervous wreck. I didn't have the courage to ask Natie outright what the status of this hangout is. Our texting is as mildly flirty as ever, and most days it's nonstop. We've chatted books, and I've stared at each message with a goofy grin on my face. Keisha gave me curious glances in the office this week, but I didn't spill the beans about my not-a-date-but-maybe-a-date with Natie tonight.

But I want it to be. Because I've only tasted a sampling of Natie Shiba, and I'd like the full membership, please and thank you.

I loosen the collar of my blue-plaid button-down shirt and check myself in the driver's windshield mirror. I trimmed my beard so it's perfectly square, but do I look too clean? Maybe Natie prefers a scruffier guy? I sniff my pits and notice a small stain. Crap, I knew I shouldn't have worn a black faux-leather jacket.

After checking my teeth one last time, I get out of the car. I need to look extra-kissable in case Natie wants an encore performance. Do I have any gum in my pockets? Maybe I should have brought flowers. Or would that be too forthcoming? Wow, this guy has truly rendered me an anxious disaster of a man.

When I walk up to Shiba's Seaside, Natie meets me and holds the door open. We greet each other, and those damn butterflies in my stomach won't stop doing somersaults. He looks amazing in a white-collar shirt, and I'm glad we both wore jeans to this…whatever kind of hangout it is.

"Hey, man," he says. His smile is a lighthouse that could illuminate the darkening azure sky.

"Hey yourself," I purr.

He chuckles and leads me to the hotel restaurant bar. Several patrons are eating dinner at the tables, paying us no mind. A drink would most assuredly calm my nerves. "So, I've been dying to ask," Natie says.

"Ask what?"

"What happened last week?" He hands me a glass of whiskey and sits next to me at the bar. "Not gonna lie, I thought I ruined our new friendship by…you know…"

His cheeks turn into an endearing shade of light pink. I smile and say, "You most certainl-l-l-ly…d-d-di…" I shake my head. Not now, stutter, please . I'm begging you, not in front of Natie.

"It's okay." He puts his hand on mine. "Take your time, Santos."

My eyebrows jump. In my thirty-one years of life, no one's ever been that patient with my miscommunications. "You…didn't," I murmur.

His grin crinkles his eyes, and I adore him more than I did five minutes ago. "Glad to hear it."

"It's just…" I scratch my eyebrow and stare at the bar. "My dad showed up."

"What?" Natie's jaw drops.

"Yeah, but…" I rub my chin. "I'd rather we just…w-w-watch a movie, or chat b-b-books."

Natie bumps his shoulder into mine, then downs his drink. "I got you, Hand." I bite back a swoon, finish my drink, and then follow him past the lobby.

"Down here is our home theater for events." Natie walks backward and we make our way around a corner. "And we can watch old black-and-white monster movies. They're no romance, but…"

"A monster movie sounds e-e-exquisite," I say.

He beams at me and stops when we make it to a small doorway. Natie opens his mouth, but before he can say more, a woman walks out of the theater. "Oh good, you're here."

"What?" Natie yelps.

" Musuko , you can help us turn on the theater."

"For what?"

"Your father and I are having our movie night."

An older Japanese man appears and holds a DVD case in his hand. "You're always telling us to relax," the man, his dad, says.

"But not tonight," he mutters. "We were gonna watch a movie."

"Very well." The rotund man with the gray beard looks behind Natie and waves at me. "Do you like old kaiju movies, young man?"

"Dad," Natie whines.

"I love them." I beam at them. It seems we're skipping the "What are we?" conversation and heading straight to meet the parents.

"Then join us!" Natie's mom says. They're both so eager and charming.

"No, Santos and I will go watch in my house."

"Nonsense, the room is massive," Natie's dad says. "We won't at all interrupt your date." He points at the two of us and smiles. I like the way he thinks.

"It's…it's not…" Natie says, flustered.

"It's not a date?" Natie's mom touches her chin. "Why not? Don't you think this young man is handsome?"

I bite my lip in an attempt to not crack up at the amusing situation. Natie meanwhile, looks like he wishes the floor would swallow him whole. "How I view Santos is…not relevant, okaasan ." That response intrigues me. Perhaps Natie wants me as much as I desire him.

"Oh, you young people," his mom chastises. She lightly slaps Natie's shoulder and continues, "Always going on fake dates or cooking internships when you should be looking for true love."

"Mom, please," Natie whines through a murmur.

"A movie sounds fun, Mr. and Mrs. Shiba," I reply brightly. "I'd be honored t-t-to watch with you."

"We'll sit way in the front," Mr. Shiba says. "You won't even know we're there."

"Oh, I love monster movies," Mrs. Shiba sings.

They walk forward, and I exchange a glance with Natie. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

I grab his arm and reply, "It's cool. I'll have an enjoyable time regardless." With one last squeeze of his firm, firm bicep, his whole body relaxes. We share a smile and walk into the home theater. A dark movie with Natie Shiba that may-or-may-not be a date? Tonight sounds like exactly what the doctor ordered.