Big Chicas Don't Cry(70)

I turned around to look at my welita one last time before heading back to the waiting room to search for my parents.

But as I was about to leave, Gracie walked in. Our eyes met, and her face crumpled in grief. We crashed into each other and sobbed like we were little girls.

As we stood there, I felt my phone vibrate inside my purse.

I knew it was Adrian.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t care.





Chapter Thirty-Nine


SELENA


I hadn’t made it to the hospital in time to say my goodbye. Stupid LA traffic had taken that away from me.

So I’d ended up at my grandparents’ house, along with everyone else. They trickled in throughout the afternoon and into the early evening. We were the walking wounded. Dazed, confused, and hurting like hell. The last few hours had left me with a painful thud in my head, swollen eyes, and a knot in my stomach.

I still couldn’t believe that Welita was gone or that I would never get another chance to hear one of her stories or laugh at her attempts to tell a joke.

“Here. I opened another box,” my sister tearfully said as she handed me yet another tissue.

We were sitting in my grandparents’ patio—the same place where just a few months earlier we’d laughed and teased.

Welita was the first of my close relatives to die. My father’s parents died when I was young, and I barely remembered them. I wondered if that’s what would happen with my younger cousins. They were sad today, of course. But how long would it take before they forgot her smile or the way she smelled?

I felt sorry for them already.

Death sucked. And as you got older, the more it seemed that death came to take away those you loved.

I looked around the patio. It was filled with people I couldn’t imagine my life without. I didn’t want to think of ever not having my grandparents, my parents, my sisters, my cousins, or anyone else around. Where would I go on the weekends if my parents weren’t around? Where would I spend Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter if my grandparents were gone? Who would I talk to about everything and anything if my sister wasn’t just a phone call away?

My family included some of the nosiest, most frustrating, most meddling people around. But I loved every single one of them.

And I couldn’t leave them. Not yet.

I walked outside and pulled out my phone and called Nathan. His voice mail answered instead. “Hey there. Um. Can you let Kane know that I’m no longer interested in the job? It’s just not a good time right now. Okay, well. Oh, and my welita died. Call me when you can. Bye.”

Wiping my tears away, I hung up and walked back to my family.





Chapter Forty


MARI


I couldn’t believe my welita was dead.

After I’d hung up with Tía Marta, I just braced myself against the wall in my kitchen and slid to the floor. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t cry.

I was sitting there frozen for I don’t know how long. I wanted to stand up and grab my purse and drive to Inland Valley so I could see my welita before the mortuary came to take her away. But I knew, even without traffic, I wouldn’t make it in time.

You should be with your family.

I should’ve been. But my legs wouldn’t move. It was Letty’s day off. I was all alone in my big, empty house.

Tears wet my cheeks as I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called the first person I could think of—Chris. But he didn’t answer, and I didn’t leave a message.

So I sat there on the kitchen floor, alternating between numb and hysterical.

The light that had shown through the large window over the sink had dimmed to more of a haze by the time I heard the garage door open.

Esteban called out my name. I told him I was in the kitchen.

“Break out the champagne, cari?o. The case went to the jury today and . . . ay, Dios! Oh my God! Did you fall? Are you hurt?” he yelled when he saw me on the floor. I lowered my head.

He bent down in front of me and cupped my chin with his fingers and lifted it so he could look me in the eyes. “Marisol, please tell me what is wrong,” he pleaded.

I saw the gentle concern in his eyes, and that was all it took. The tears came, and I whispered, “My abuelita died.” He didn’t say a word, but sat next to me and pulled me to him. I grabbed his shirt and buried my head in his chest and sobbed.

I cried for Welita. I cried for my abuela. I cried for my cousins. And I cried because my marriage was broken and Esteban didn’t want to see it.

“I’m so sorry, Marisol,” he whispered into my hair. “I would do anything to take it away.”

I looked up at him and searched his eyes. I knew he meant what he had said.

“Then take it away, Esteban,” I whispered back. “Please, take it away.”

He kissed my forehead first and then my left cheek. Slowly and softly, his lips brushed mine. He hesitated for a second and then kissed me softly again, this time full on the lips.

My whole body ached with grief. And I wanted something, anything, to make it stop.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I said breathlessly. He nodded and got up first. Then he pulled me up and kissed me some more. His cell phone rang.

“Leave it,” I said between kisses.

“I . . . I . . . can’t,” he said after pulling away from my mouth. “It could be the clerk calling about the verdict. I’m sorry. I have to get it.”