Page 9 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sly

“Mateo, what do you want for dinner tonight, mijo?” my abuela asks from her spot near the sink.

“It’s Camila’s night to choose,” I answer as my middle sister lets out an outraged squawk from where she’s leaning against the counter.

The objection dies down as fast as it started to build.

I go back to screwing new bulbs into the canned lighting in our kitchen—just one of the long list of chores I’ve been too busy to get to over the last couple of months.

But since I’m currently trying not to think about the fact that it’s been three days since Vivian gave Sloane my number and she still hasn’t texted, I’m determined to keep my downtime to a minimum.

Also, they have to get done, and with the season starting and my work at the foundation kicking up again, this is the only time I’ve got to do them.

“Yes, well, she yields her choice to you,” abuela Ximena retorts.

“I absolutely do not!” Camila protests with a flip of her short, dark hair. “I’ve been dreaming of tonight’s meal all week. I wanted—”

“Pollo en Chile Colorado,” we all finish at the same time, because it’s what she always asks for.

Now she just looks insulted. “Just because I’ve asked for that the last couple of times I’ve gotten to choose—”

“The last ten times,” my abuela corrects. “And I’m fresh out of whole chickens. So unless you want to go wring Mr. Darcy’s neck, your choice gets bumped ’til next Wednesday.”

“I could choose something else, you know.”

“Then moan and complain until it’s your turn again because you had to settle?” abuela Ximena shoots back. “No, thank you.”

Camila rolls her dark-brown eyes before looking up at me. “I’m not that predictable, am I, Sly?”

Because I know a land mine when I see one, I keep my mouth shut as I finish changing the last light bulb. Except to say, “If chicken is off the table, how about carne guisada?”

The flavorful Mexican stewed beef is Camila’s second favorite meal.

“That, I can do,” my abuela replies, even as she shoots me an exasperated look that tells me she knows exactly what I’m up to. Nearly twenty years of being the only guy in this family has taught me what’s worth fighting for…and what definitely isn’t. My favorite enchiladas can wait.

“What’s next?” I ask as I climb down the ladder.

“Mariana’s showerhead needs replacing. The new one is in the cabinet under the sink.”

“On it,” I tell her as I fold up the ladder. “What time’s she going to be home, anyway?”

“I’m picking her up from track practice at five.” Camila plucks a grape from the bowl on the counter and pops it in her mouth. “Though I don’t know why she just won’t learn to drive like every other seventeen-year-old around here.”

“You know Mariana,” abuela Ximena says as she pulls a bunch of tomatoes out of the fridge. “She does everything in her own time.” She shoots me a look. “Like some other people I know.”

“I sent the flowers,” I tell her. “She never responded, though I know she’s got my number. I’m not about to badger the woman.”

“Woman?” Camila asks, eyes wide. “Flowers? What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” I tell her.

“Mateo’s got a little crush,” abuela Ximena answers at the same time.

“They were thank you flowers,” I interject.

Camila, who is about to start her last year at the University of Texas, looks almost giddy as she skips right over my explanation. “There’s a woman who hasn’t immediately fallen at Sly’s feet? Who is this mystical, magical creature, and when can I meet her?”

“Did you miss the part about her not responding to the flowers?” I ask as I grab my abuela’s toolbox. I do my best to ignore the giant sticker of a black widow that now graces the top of it.

“How could I miss my favorite part?” she counters. “So, does she think you smell like gym socks or what? Because she’d be right.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly.” I head for the stairs. “I’m too smelly for her.”

“No, seriously. Why did she turn you down?”

“He didn’t say she turned him down. He said she didn’t respond,” abuela Ximena tells her. “It’s not the same thing.”

“Feels like the same thing,” I mutter as I climb the steps to the third-floor bathroom. Not that it matters. The flowers really were a thank-you. Nothing more. It’s the request for the phone number that made me think she might actually get in touch.

But it’s probably for the best she hasn’t reached out. I don’t have time for anything resembling a relationship right now, and neither does she. The sheer amount of San Diego Lightning game tape I’ve watched this week is proof positive of that.

So what if I can’t get her sharp eyes and fuck-off attitude out of my head? She’s like thunder—close enough to rattle me but impossible to reach.

“She probably didn’t see them,” my abuela shouts after me, echoing the excuse I gave her in the car.

The last thing I hear before deliberately closeting myself away is Camila asking, “How can someone not notice when she’s getting flowers?”

No way do I want to hear my sister’s reaction when she finds out who I sent flowers to. Twice.

Originally, I had the same thought as my abuela.

Maybe Sloane didn’t get them, or maybe they blended in with the rest of the flowers she probably gets on a daily basis.

But it’s hard to imagine that both bouquets I sent, one to her hotel and one to the venue, went unnoticed.

Especially considering the size of them.

Which means Sloane isn’t interested. And that’s fine. A woman has the right to spend time with whomever she wants, whenever she wants. And a man has a responsibility to take no—or no comment—for an answer. Especially when that man knows her disinterest is the best thing for both of them.

That doesn’t stop me from thinking about her, though. And listening to her music, which has been one hell of a ride in and of itself. Her earlier stuff is light and fun, but the albums grow darker and more intense over time.

The transformation is painful to hear. There’s no denying that she’s built upon every trauma she’s survived, unlocking new layers of art and talent and power from her pain. Still, I wish she didn’t have to. I wonder what kind of music Sloane would make if she felt safe again.

Her last album is devastating, but it just might be the best thing I’ve ever listened to. I don’t know why I waited so long to do it.

I put it on shuffle as I get to work unscrewing my baby sister’s calcified showerhead. “Firelight” comes on. It was the first song she sang at the concert last weekend, and I can’t help remembering her face as they lowered her to the center of the stage.

She looked like a dark goddess, a sorceress prepared to vanquish anyone who dared oppose her. But even then, in her fuck-me-up boots and bow-down-to-me dress, there was a disconnect. A bunch of tiny details that didn’t quite add up to the image she was trying so hard to project.

Two hours later, I’ve installed the showerhead, changed more light bulbs, patched a hole in the laundry room wall, fixed a broken drawer, and have finally moved on to the last item on my abuela’s list: reinforcing the closet rod in Mariana’s bedroom, because apparently it keeps falling down under the weight of all her clothes.

I’m putting in the last screw when my baby sister strolls in wearing a shit-eating grin that makes me instantly wary.

“Sloane Walker, huh?” Mariana asks, throwing herself across the bed.

“Don’t start.” I swipe the music off.

“Hey, I love that song,” she complains.

“Then stream it on your own phone.” The second the words come out of my mouth, I know I shouldn’t have said them.

Sure enough, it takes about ten seconds before “Hopeless” starts blaring all over again.

“She’s got a great set of pipes, I’ll give you that,” she comments as Sloane’s husky voice hits a high note. “And she’s gorgeous. But do you really think you can handle all that?”

“I have no doubt the stories about her have been highly exaggerated.” I dump the drill back in the toolbox. “And I’m not talking about this with you.”

“I’m sure that’s what all the guys think.”

“About talking to you? I’m sure it is.” I hightail it out of her bedroom, but in true brat style, she just follows me.

“Cute,” she tells me with fake cheer. “But I was talking about Sloane, and you know it. I can’t believe you sent the Black Widow flowers. Did you actually think that would work?”

I don’t know what I thought, except that I wanted to talk to her again. Whether or not I should want that is something I don’t plan on getting into with anybody, especially not my kid sister. “Which part of ‘I’m not talking about this with you’ do you not understand?”

“The ‘not talking about it.’ Obviously.” She grins at me before taking the stairs down to the kitchen two at a time. “I can’t believe you have a crush on Sloane Walker.”

“And I can’t believe you went on a date with Vikram Chakravarti,” I retort as I follow right behind her. “The kid flunked out of home ec.”

“I already told you, he did it on purpose. They were using non-vegan butter,” she huffs. “I like that he’s a man of principle. And, just so you know, we’re going out again this weekend.”

“What? I thought you had theater every night this weekend.” I frown at Camila, who is currently helping make a salad for dinner. “How come this is the first I’m hearing about this?”

“Probably for the same reason you don’t tell us about asking out international pop stars,” Mariana taunts. “And not all dates happen at night. He’s taking me to breakfast, thank you very much.”

“Wash your hands and set the table,” abuela Ximena tells me. “And you get drinks for everyone, Mariana. Lucia will be here any minute, and she says she’s bringing someone special with her.”

I stiffen at the news that my oldest sister is dating again. “Who?”

“His name is Mason,” abuela Ximena answers evenly. “And you’ll be nice to him.”

I’m not so sure about that. I was nice to Grant and— I cut the thought off before it can finish forming. Going there isn’t exactly good for my mental health.