Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 27128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
“Manny, I had you all wrong. You literally do not give a damn about what anyone says.”
“Sí, preciosa. But I’ll allow you to make it up to me.
Essence leans in her chair until her lips touch my earlobe. She whispers, “I don’t mind making it up to you in any way you desire. In fact, I wish you were around twenty years ago... Forget I said that. I want you so bad right now.”
As I groan, my voice falls to a deep, low hum. “So bad? Preciosa, you torture me.”
With a tray and three plates, Alexis strolls back outside. “You guys ready to dig in?”
Sí. Food now.
Essence shortly after.
But I’m saving the best for last. I’m gonna dig my foot into Gustavo Lara’s ass until he learns a lesson he never forgets. Although Essence believes it’s too late, the pinche cabrón will pay.
In blood and broken bones.
Chapter 12
Essence
This time last week, if someone claimed the world was being invaded by miniature aliens, inflated heads, and all, I’d agree. I’d second that delusion over the tranquility fanning before my eyes. The continuous churn of a crystal-blue ocean creates a serene ambiance as I munch on paninis with Antonio and his daughter.
His daughter!
Hell, forget my first assumption. When Antonio explained that Alexis’ mother had been estranged for years, I was torn between the elation of no baby mama drama and sorrow. I grew up in a one-parent household. I had my momma, but both would’ve been nice.
I smile into my mango mimosa and laugh with Alexis at Antonio’s expense while asking about her roughneck boyfriend.
Upon placing down her sandwich, Alexis sighs. “Javi likes to dress a certain way. He’s not a cholo. Dad doesn’t know Javi’s smarter than all of us combined.”
“Smarter than me? No.” Antonio rolls his eyes away.
“Try calculus, Dad.”
“I can do anything.” Antonio polishes off the last bit of his panini and arises to his feet. “Starting with getting another bottle of champagne.”
“Thought I was stubborn,” I mouth to Alexis, and we share a laugh as he stalks into the house.
We’re deep in a conversation about the complexities of new relationships when Antonio saunters onto the deck. “Another mimosa, preciosa?” he asks, just as my cellphone chimes.
Damn, I shouldn’t have grabbed my phone when helping Antonio craft the first round of mimosas. I’m about to turn off my iPhone, but I glimpse at the screen. “Oh, I’ve gotta answer this. Alexis, I might not be able to give your boo a run for his money, math-wise, but my childhood friend, Ryann, went to MIT.” I climb from my seat.
Ryann must want to discuss birthday plans. In our mid-30s, we decided to surprise each other with gifts a lover would. Extravagant presents spanning our entire birthday month.
Edible arrangements.
Singing birthday cards.
The works.
But since hitting our 40s, we’re like a tired, old married couple.
So, I saunter toward the edge of the sand, letting my toes grip into the smooth granules while answering, “Hey, Ry.”
“Essey,” her voice sounds heavy. The nickname I abhor—that might’ve come from the deep south in the Jim Crow days—sounds even more tired.
“Hey, cheer up, girl. In two weeks, your neighbors will be jealous of you! Or will you be at your parent’s house? Your surprise—”
“Neither,” she groans.
I nudge a perfect seashell with my toe and try not to squeal about the second surprise. After Ryann’s serenaded by a singing birthday card, we’re checking into an expensive hotel and spa. Just one night, though. “Aren’t we getting together later that night? I want a slice of the cake your momma always—”
“Essence, I’m too old for my momma’s silly-ass birthday cakes! I removed 57% of my 401k—”
“You. Did. What?” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Essey, you heard me!”
“For what? You preach that black people are less likely to be prepared for retirement. Ryann, you are not reckless!”
“Essence, I’ll be 43 next week, same as you. Don’t you think it’s time for us to be irresponsible? I’ll be the wild girl with a black eye.”
A black eye, what? I clear the crag in my throat and ask, “Were you attacked?” Ryann couldn’t hurt a fly. Although she’s clocked 15 years at the worst middle school in South Central L.A., a car backfiring scares her witless.
“Not exactly attacked.” Ryann lets out a harsh sigh. “I intervened in a fight at school. The idiot administrators forced me to take time off. So, I’m vacationing. I leave the day before my birthday.”
I plop down into the sand, floored by her statement. Ryann still gets high school graduation photos from her success stories. And one of those little fucks blackened her eye. “Text me all the details, Ry. I want deets on the hotel and the flight numbers. Call when you—”
“I know the drill. You’re usually my vacation buddy, but I’ll text you like my own momma.”