Page 59 of Who's Loving You

My parents still own a phone that plugs into the wall and doesn’t have a speaker. So when she approaches and says hello, I can practically see the two of them with their heads pressed together, straining to hear me on the other end.

“Hola, Mamá.”

“Vaya. Is this my long lost daughter? The one who doesn’t care about her family.”

“Mamá. That is not true. I’m just busy, that’s all.” And here we go. “But I’ll be in Los Angeles this weekend. I was hoping to spend a night or two with you before I leave.”

“Por supuesto, mi hija. Of course.You can always stay with us. Oh I’m so happy. Maybe Vicenté can ask his friend to join us for dinner one night. You know, he’s very handsome and succ–”

“Mamá. Te detienes. No inviting friends or co-workers or the man at the doctores. I, uh,”You can do this, Valentina. Perk up those tits and say it.“I met someone.”

The squeal that leaves my mother’s mouth has me wincing and pulling my earbud out until the ringing ceases.

“Oh Valentina. This makes me so happy. Will he be joining us? What is he like? Is he from Spain? Where did you meet?”

“Cálmate, mamá. Slow down.”

“Bueno. Lo siento. I’ll be quiet. Go ahead.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe deep. “He will be in Los Angeles but he won’t be able to join us for dinner–”

“¿Y por qué?” she interrupts.

“If you would wait a minute, I will explain why. He will be there for only a couple days and has to leave Sunday. It will be late when he’s done, so he won’t be able to meet you.”

“Busy? Who is too busy to meet their novia’s parents?”

“He is, Mamá. He is…he’s a football player.” I close my eyes as anothereeekkkis let loose. “And notthatkind of fútbol. American football.”

“Oh,” she says curtly. “Well I guess that is okay. But I don’t see many Spaniards playing American fútbol.”

“That’s because he is not Spanish.” She gasps as if I told her I’ve decided to become a serial killer.

“Paloma. Basta basta.” Papá shushes her and she blesses me with her silence.

“He is Hispanic, partly. His mom is of Mexican heritage but his dad is mixed race.”

My parents are by no means racist. We were all taught to love every one of every color, ethnicity, religion and sexual preference. One of Mamá’s closest friends is from Yugoslavia. But for her children, she is very set on keeping to “our roots.” It’s old fashioned, and maybe even closed minded, but she feels how she feels and I feel how I do.

She should know by now that I don’t follow the norm. I am who I am and I do what I want. I refuse to fall into line with her expectations, and that is what bothers her the most. Valentina. The daughter who is too smart for her own good.

“Bueno. Tan bien.” I’m a fool to think her opposition ends there. “But I do not understand why he cannot meet us for just one night. He has to eat, nó?”

“Yes, he has to eat. But he flies in on Saturday, has a short practice, then has a curfew. He has time for aquick dinner which is usually with his teammates. They leave immediately after the game on Sunday, so there really is no time for him to drive up here and spend hours eating and being grilled with a thousand questions.”

I can hear the disappointment in their sighs. It’s louder than if they were to yell. Mamá has always known how to lay on the guilt trip really thick, so the weight starts to push me down like a hundred pound boulder.

“Maybe,” I start then pause, wondering if what I am about to say is the dumbest or smartest thing to do. “Maybe I will ask if we can join him for an early dinner Saturday night. A short dinner.”

She starts praising me in Spanish as if I’ve just told her I’ve been crowned the Queen of Spain. Here she is, thinking I’m about to introduce her to her next rich and famous son-in-law. Won’t she be heart broken when we “break-up” in a few more weeks.

“Let me call him and ask if it’s even possible. Don’t get overly excited and start picking out your evening gown. I’m not certain he can make time. Okay?”

“Bueno. Entiendo, mi hija.” Mamá’s voice turns sugary sweet, dripping in love and adoration for her daughter.

My parents love me, I know that. I have never once thought or acted as if they do not. I just simply feel like I’m always the one disappointing them with my life choices. No husband, I live in a different state, and I don’t conform to their expectations. Typical middle child who goes against the grain.

“I’ll text Alba and let her know I’ll fly in on Friday morning so we can spend the entire day doing wedding stuff. I’m going to call Nic now–”