Page 32 of Size Game

I look at her and try to put the thoughts out of my mind. “Nothing.”

“I know that’s not true.Youknow that’s not true.”

“How do you know?”

“You’ve been distant. When you play with Sadie, the smile on your face is as fake as a hooker’s tits.”

I laugh at her description, then shrug again. “There’s just a lot going on.”

“Like what?”

I look at her, and she looks at me.

“I may not be your mother, but I am a mother. I know when you’re lying,señor. I know when you are down and upset. It’s better to just get it out in the open.”

I take a deep breath and start to tell her everything about Claire. I mean everything. I tell her all about the sex, the website, the hookups. She sits there and listens, nodding along with my stories. Then I get to our final meeting and how distant she has been. I tell Imelda much more than I think she really needs to know, but she asked and I apparently need to get it out.

She sits there and nods for a while, pondering everything I said. She looks at me and pats my shoulder. “You love her, don’t you?”

I nod.

“And you told her?”

I nod again, looking down at my hands in my lap.

“And she just said she had stuff to figure out?”

Again, a nod is all I can muster.

“Give her time. She’ll come around, and when she’s ready, you best be too. You can’t have her ready to give some big speech about love to you looking like a bum.” She motions to me, all of me.

I rub my hand through my disheveled hair and chuckle. “Thank you, Imelda.”

“Now go take a shower.Reinitawill go out withabuelafor the day. Go find your friend Filipe.”

Imelda never calls Phil, “Phil.” She calls him “Filipe,” which Phil has taken as a term of endearment. I give her a big hug and head upstairs to take a shower.

While in the hot water, I hear a knock on the door. Then I hear Sadie run downstairs to greet her grandmother. Imelda and my mother talk to each other for a short while, and then I hear the door close.

There are footsteps coming up the stairs. I listen to Imelda go into Sadie’s room and do some cleaning. Then, after a while, I get out of the shower and try to find something nice to wear. I’m going to listen to Imelda and go out for some drinks or something with Phil.

I decide on a dark green button-up, which I only button halfway up. I have to look good after all, and I’ve been told I have a nice chest. Then I grab a pair of dark jeans. I don’t own many pairs of jeans and I don’t really get to wear them often, but tonight I feel I should. I trot downstairs, and Imelda is down there putting some laundry in the washer.

She gives me a hug and tells me that she’ll be back late. I tell her that I don’t expect to be back until the wee hours of the morning. She agrees that that might be a good idea, and then she leaves. I stand in the kitchen, leaning against the island and staring down at my phone sitting on the counter.

I really want to call Claire, but Imelda said I should wait. She hasn’t steered me wrong before, so I decide to listen and shove my phone in my pocket. I head over to the small coat closet by the front door and find a light leather jacket. I throw it over my shoulder, grab my keys, and open the front door.

Standing there on my stoop, her hand up in a fist poised to knock, is Claire. She looks gorgeous with her flowing locks of chocolate hair and deep coffee eyes that you could get lost in if you aren’t careful. She’s dressed simply, but each piece of clothing hugs her curves perfectly. She has a short-sleeved shirt with a flowy overshirt wrapped around her shoulders, and a pair of jeans that leaves little to the imagination.

And now, she is frozen and staring at me like a deer in the headlights.

“Claire?”

“Is now a good time to talk?”

I stand there, just as frozen, with my hand still on the door. Then I nod and step back to let her in. She walks past me timidly and heads to the living room. I close the door and stare at it for a second, gathering my thoughts. I take a deep breath and head to the living room after her.

We sit on opposite ends of the couch, turned to face each other. She is picking at the edges of her sleeves, clearly nervous. I start to feel sick. If she is this nervous, it can’t be good news for me.