Big Chicas Don't Cry(66)

Alan coughed into his hand and shifted in his seat. “Well, no. Your new title would be project manager.”

And just like that, my excitement bubble burst. I knew it was too good to be true. “So, I’d be doing everything Kat was doing, but without her title?”

“It would still come with a pretty good salary increase,” he offered.

“But not Kat’s salary.”

He shifted in his seat again. I’d never seen him squirm so much. Part of me wondered if he’d been expecting me to just fall on my knees and thank him for the opportunity.

“It’s definitely a step up, Selena. I really hope you’ll take it.”

“Do I have a choice?” I didn’t mean to sound so snippy.

Whatever softness I’d seen on Alan’s face minutes ago dissolved. He was back to being stern Mr. Umbridge. “Of course you have a choice, dear. But I must tell you that if you decline, we are going to post the position, and that person will be your new boss. And I can’t guarantee when another opportunity to advance will come your way.”

In other words, I needed to take the job.

Then I remembered I did have another choice. Kane Media was close to making a decision. I didn’t have to say yes right away.

I stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Umbridge. I really do appreciate the offer. Is it okay if I take some time to think about it?”

Surprise made his bushy eyebrows arch to the top of his forehead. “Yes, if that’s what you need.” I smiled and nodded and turned to leave. Then he warned, “But don’t take too long, Ms. Lopez. We won’t wait forever.”





Chapter Thirty-Six


MARI


The first thing I noticed was how much older she looked.

Had new wrinkles appeared over the past few weeks? New age spots? This wasn’t the Welita I’d seen a few weeks ago.

Fear took hold of my body, and I froze several feet away from her hospital bed.

A strong, warm hand grabbed mine, startling me. For a few seconds, I’d forgotten that Esteban was at my side.

I’d overheard Letty telling him the other day that I was still very worried about my welita. She’d suggested he come with me for a visit. I didn’t think much of it because I hadn’t expected him to really do it. But he’d surprised me this morning and told me he would drive me to the hospital.

Now we were here. And I couldn’t bring myself to get any closer.

Esteban bent down and whispered, “Cari?o, she can’t see you from here. Go to her.”

He gently tugged my hand, and I let him lead me farther into the room.

Welita let out a small groan and turned her head. Immediately, her face brightened when she saw us.

“Marisol,” she said weakly.

It was all I needed. I went to her bedside and touched her cheek. “Hola, Welita, ?cómo te sientes?”

She sighed. “Más o menos, ?es tu marido?”

I laughed when she pointed to Esteban. “Sí, Welita. He’s my husband.”

“Qué bueno. Gracias por tu visita.”

We spent the next fifteen minutes talking about her favorite nurses and the awful food they were trying to feed her. I was so grateful that Esteban and Letty had made sure I kept up with my Spanish. Esteban’s mom loved to correct my grammar whenever she was in town, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was that Welita always understood me.

When Esteban left us alone to take a phone call, she grabbed my hand and asked me if I had talked to my cousins. I told her I’d seen Selena in New York.

“Y Erica? Graciela?”

“Not for a while,” I admitted. She always knew when I was lying anyway.

“Soon?” she said.

I smiled at her English. “Yes. Soon.”

“Bueno.” Her bony, cold fingers curled into mine a little tighter. “Yo solo quiero que seas feliz, Marisol.”

Tears stung my eyes because I wanted so much to reassure her that I was happy. I wanted her to know that my marriage was good, that my cousins and I were going to be okay, and that she didn’t have to worry about me anymore.

Again, I couldn’t lie to her.

So, I offered her a smile and instead said, “I know, Welita.”

Later as Esteban drove us back to San Marino, I couldn’t stop thinking of Welita’s words.

Yo solo quiero que seas feliz, Marisol.

She used to say that to me a lot when I would visit her and my grandparents after the divorce. I was a stubborn teenager who hated my dad and hated the fact that I was forced by a judge to go see him one weekend a month, but Welita was the one who could always get me to be not so grumpy. She’d let me cook with her, and then we’d play cards or watch her novelas together at night. In between, she’d try to tell me how much my dad loved me, how much they all loved me. She would plead for me to tell her why I was always so sad. “Yo solo quiero que seas feliz, Marisol,” she’d say.

But my mom always made me promise never to tell Welita or my grandparents that my dad had stopped sending us money. She said they wouldn’t believe me or they’d make excuses for him. “Once you turn eighteen, you never have to see him or them again anyway,” she’d say. And so I never said a word to Welita. Even though part of me wanted to. I knew that it hurt her when I’d refused to open up. I just didn’t care back then.