Page 23 of Mr. Brightside

“You are awake too early. Or maybe you have not even slept? You better start talking, nieto,” she chides as she washes her hands.

She’s ruthless. And she doesn’t tolerate anyone’s crap. This is precisely why I just have to come out and say it. I turn the burner off and grab a bowl to give myself a few extra seconds. “Let’s at least sit down,” I offer, ushering her over to the table.

We both take our seats, but she tents her hands and eyes me skeptically. I know for a fact she won’t touch her food until I say what I need to say.

“I need to tell you something.”

She nods, an iron fortress of indifference, as I suck in a shaky breath and force out the words.

“I’m getting married.”

Her face screws up in confusion, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening as she frowns. There’s a charged silence between us that drags on for a beat and then another.

“I know this question does not make sense, but I have to ask it. Did you get someone pregnant?”

I roll my eyes and hold back a chuckle. Our family really does have fertile genes—both my abuela and my mom got pregnant in their teens. But my grandma knows I’m gay, and that it would be extremely unlikely for me to impregnate someone unplanned.

“No, Abuela. It’s a friend. Someone I’ve known and liked for a long time.” I bite my lower lip at that admission; saying I’ve liked Jake Whitely for a long time is a major understatement. But I want her to know that I’m not just jumping into this with anyone. “He needs a favor,” I add weakly, reaching for the bowl of arroz con dulce to bide my time.

“Andyouare the favor?” she presses.

I hold back a smirk but mentally catalog the remark so I can tell Jake about it later.

“I know him from work. He used to be my manager; now he runs the bar next door. The man who owns both places is selling them, and Jake—that’s his name—wants to buy them. He needs money fast, which he can get from his inheritance if he gets married.”

“He is gay?”

Could she at least throw me some softballs? I crack my knuckles under the table and sit up straighter in my seat.

Jake is bi. But trying to explain the sexual spectrum to my grandmother just might throw her over the edge, so I choose the path of least resistance. Besides, gay, straight, bi, pan, or anything in between doesn’t matter—he asked me to marry him, and I asked him to be faithful. He’s nothing butminefor the next two years.

“Si, he’s gay, and he wants to marry me. I’ve already said yes,” I declare with more confidence than I feel. I give her a pointed look before she can interrupt. “We have to stay married for two years. Then he’s going to share the money he gets from his inheritance.”

Her eyes sparkle at that revelation.

“So he is like your sugar daddy?”

She watches too many telenovelas.

“He’s not paying me to marry him,” I clarify. Because there’s a difference. I’ve stayed up all night convincing myself there’s a difference. “I’m marrying him, and we’ll share the money like any married couple would while we’re together. Then, when it’s over, we’ll split whatever’s left.”

I reach across the table and take her hand. Her skin is impossibly soft aside from the callouses on the pads of her palms. She always wears gloves when she works.

“Abuela, it’s alotof money,” I murmur.

“Cuánto cuesta?”

I look from the untouched coffee in front of her to her arched eyebrow. It’s a stupid amount. Embarrassing, really. More than I ever dreamed of possessing. More than he needed to share.

“It’s four million dollars.”

She slams her fist on the table with enough force to make the silverware rattle and the orange juice sway in her glass.

“Why didn’t you lead with that?” she exclaims excitedly. “When is the wedding?”

I laugh out loud at her enthusiasm and exhale a sigh of relief. But I quickly school my expression and prepare for impact. I was less worried about telling her about my marriage of convenience with a big cash windfall than I am for what I’m about to say next.

“Abuela… don’t be mad…”