Big Chicas Don't Cry(49)

Tony nodded. “I knew it. But why? Did I do something to make you hate me?”

Not even close.

But I couldn’t tell him that. Instead, I took a breath and remembered what Selena and Erica had told me. If anything was ever going to happen, I needed to make the first move.

So, I told him the truth.

“Remember that time in the eighth grade when we were paired up to do that project?”

He furrowed his brow. “Kind of?”

Dear God, do I really have to do this right now?

God didn’t answer, but Selena’s voice did.

Tell him, Gracie.

I took a deep breath. “Well, we were. And you were nice and seemed excited to be paired up with me. But then I overheard that the only reason you were being nice to me was because you wanted me to do all the work.”

Saying the words out loud seemed so silly. Why oh why had I held on to this memory for so many years? I definitely wished I could run to my bedroom and hide under the covers.

To his credit, he was obviously embarrassed.

“I wish I could say that it wasn’t true,” he admitted, and my heart sank. “But I know I was kind of a little asshole back then and really didn’t think about anyone else’s feelings. I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, Gracie.”

A new warmth spread over me. “I know,” I answered.

“Can we start over and be friends? For real?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Yes. I would like that.”

Realizing there was no way I could handle any more revelations tonight, I waved goodbye and escaped his truck as quick as possible.

Part of me wanted to text Selena as soon as I was in bed. Another part of me wanted to keep the moment to myself just a little longer.

I put my phone away and drifted to sleep with a smile on my face.





Chapter Twenty-Six


ERICA


“Feliz cumplea?os, Welita.”

“Gracias, mija.”

It was Welita’s birthday and Easter Sunday. I handed her the bunch of lilies I had just purchased at the corner flower shop, and she put them with all the others on the kitchen table inside my abuela’s house. There were about six or seven assorted flower arrangements—including more lilies.

It was almost tradition now—or maybe a running joke—that ever since she’d gushed a few years back over an orchid someone had given her, everyone now always gave Welita some type of potted flower as a gift: poinsettias for Christmas, lilies for Easter, and tulips for Mother’s Day. And she never said anything remotely negative as her simulated garden of gifts grew with each visitor. One time I asked her why she didn’t tell people what she actually wanted so that everyone would stop giving her so many flowers.

In Spanish, she told me, “Why? If someone wants to give me a flower, then I am happy to receive it. A gift is a gift, and you should always be grateful for anything someone gives you out of love. The day you tell someone what to give you is the day you no longer get gifts out of love, but rather obligation. Well, for me, I’d rather have the love.”

I handed her my other gift, wrapped neatly in pink paper. Her wrinkled and brown-spotted hands struggled with pulling the paper free from the tape. Worry tightened my chest until she finally pulled the CD free.

She stared at it for a few seconds without saying a word. “It’s the soundtrack for Jersey Boys!” I explained. “You know, the play about Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons.”

Her confusion turned into delight. I’d told her about the Broadway production after she’d asked if there were any more Four Seasons albums or CDs I could buy her. Selena and I had already promised to take her to see the musical as soon as it came to Los Angeles.

“Put it on for me,” she said in Spanish.

I walked over to her old CD player on the counter and spotted an enormous arrangement of wildflowers and daisies in a beautiful crystal vase sitting next to it.

“Welita, who gave you these flowers?”

“Marisol.” She explained that my cousin had stopped by yesterday and had also brought her a pineapple upside-down cake.

For some reason this tidbit of information bothered me. While I was glad that she had at least made an effort to visit Welita, I was irritated that she’d done it the day before the family party. The arrangement was also too much, and, to me, it looked like she was showing off her money. Or rather, her husband’s money.

“?Qué te pasa, mija?”

Welita’s question startled me. I guess she could read my irritation all over my face.

I told her the truth.

“I just wish Marisol would’ve come today,” I said in Spanish. “I haven’t seen her or talked to her in a long time. I guess I just wish we were all still as close as we used to be when we were little girls.”

She nodded sadly, and for the first time, I saw how tired she looked. Was that why she was inside the house, instead of in the patio with the rest of the family? Was that why she still wore her usual flowered housecoat instead of her church dress? Had she even gone to church today?

The worry returned, and I asked her if she was feeling okay. She told me she thought she was getting a cold. We talked a little more until she let me know she wanted to lie down for a little. But before she walked to her room, she grabbed my hand and said, “Nunca es demasiado tarde.”