Big Chicas Don't Cry(82)

Her words surprised me, and I made sure she met my eyes. “Actually, I am.”

She put down her menu and sighed. Her chin quivered.

Shit. I looked around the restaurant and took a sip of my water. I folded and then unfolded my napkin. After a few seconds, I forced myself to look at her again.

Her head was down, and I could see a few tears starting to spill onto the white linen tablecloth.

I shifted in my seat and cleared my throat. “I really am sorry that you’re getting divorced. I never wanted that for you.”

She finally looked up at me. I noticed that her face wasn’t as gaunt as it was on the day of the funeral. Her makeup was minimal, and her hair was pulled up into a messy bun. For a second, I thought she looked like the Mari from before. My shoulders released their tense formation.

“I know. It’s just that, I . . . I feel like maybe a little of you, just a little, wants to gloat.”

“Why would you think that?” Old defenses kicked in.

“Because maybe it’s what I deserve.” Her voice cracked, and she hastily wiped her eyes with her fingers.

“No one deserves to have their heart hurt. Besides, what do I know about marriage? I can’t even keep a boyfriend.”

That made her stop crying. She even attempted a smile. It felt good. Familiar.

I became comfortable enough to ask the question I’d been wanting to ever since the funeral. “Have you talked to your dad?”

Her smile went away. “Not yet. I’m not ready.”

“I saw him the other day. He asked if I’d talked to you.”

“Really? I guess Espy told him about our, um, conversation that day. Speaking of, I want to apologize again for slapping you. I wasn’t in a good place and that was uncalled for.”

“And I was being a bitch.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. But she was polite enough not to agree. That was the opening I needed.

“Listen, Mari. I just want you to know that we, I, never meant to make you feel like you weren’t part of the family anymore. And we, I, really had no idea what was going on with you and your dad. I swear.”

Mari offered me a small nod. “I think deep down I always knew that. I was so angry at my dad, and that made me angry at everyone else, too, I guess. I’m sure I made it hard for you to understand what I was going through. I know I wasn’t the easiest to get along with back then.”

It was my turn to be polite and not agree. “I’m sorry you had to deal with so much crap all on your own. And I’m sorry I gave up on you. I should’ve tried harder to be a part of your life.”

She raised her hand to stop me. “No. I should’ve tried harder to be a part of yours. Can you forgive me?”

Tears clouded my vision, but I could still see how much Mari was still hurting. I didn’t want to be one of the reasons why. Whatever had happened at Welita’s funeral, or years ago, didn’t matter anymore. So I said, “I’ll forgive you if you forgive me.”

“Deal,” she said.

We smiled at each other for the first time in a long time. Then Mari picked up her menu and asked, “So, what are you going to order? Do you want appetizers, or do you want to just get an entrée?”

“Let’s start with the potato chips and then go from there.”

She nodded and smiled. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”





Chapter Fifty-One


SELENA


It was time to do battle.

I walked into my abuela’s patio and set down the reusable grocery bag on the table. One by one, I pulled out my weapons.

Bottle of tequila. Check.

Margarita mix. Check.

Salsa and cream cheese. Check.

Tortilla chips. Check.

Deck of Phase 10 playing cards. Check.

“Where are the sweets?” Tía Espy asked after checking the now-empty bag.

I pointed behind me just as Gracie walked inside carrying another bag. “This isn’t our first rodeo, Tía. We have come prepared,” I said and walked to the patio’s freezer to get ice for the margaritas.

A few minutes later, Erica arrived with more drink options and something she called dessert nachos. When I’d told her over the phone that I’d needed a Phase 10 night, she’d insisted we needed to bring as much alcohol and carbs as possible. But not just any kind of alcohol. The older generation of Garcia women didn’t do wine or beer. It was the hard stuff or nothing. And we were happy to oblige.

It was all very strategic.

Some families played poker. Others played bingo. Our family played Phase 10. Although played wasn’t exactly the right word. Our tías and my mom were totally ruthless when it came to the card game. And they’d taught us well.

So, plying the older women in our family with booze and carbs was just another way to give us younger women an advantage. Especially since our game nights were known to last well into the early morning. You would think we played for money or something. Nope. It was just bragging rights.

“You should’ve brought pi?a colada mix too. You know my mom drinks those like fruit punch,” Erica said as she blended the margaritas inside the kitchen.

I pulled some glasses down from the cabinet. “I forgot, dammit. How about you make her a Long Island iced tea?” I asked.

Erica stopped blending and looked at me. “With what? The strongest alcohol Abuela has is in the medicine cabinet.”