Big Chicas Don't Cry(86)

“You’re pregnant,” my dad finally said, his face blank.

I nodded and just kept sobbing.

“What? Impossible! Impossible!” my mother kept yelling in Spanish.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I cried.

“Who’s the father?” my dad asked. I didn’t say anything. Again, he answered for me. “The PE teacher?” I nodded again. “And what does he say?”

This time I answered. “Nothing. He’s moving to Texas for a job. He is not going to be around.” I started crying again.

My dad walked over and pulled me up to face him. He grabbed my shoulders and said, “It’s not terrible. Okay? I may not like it that you are not married, but you are older, and you have a good job. It’s not like you are Rachel.”

I nodded, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

“Ay, chiquita.” He called me by my childhood nickname. “Don’t cry anymore.”

Then he pulled my mother to him and put his arms around both of us. We stayed there, us three, for a while. Just holding each other and crying. Finally, when we broke apart, I looked at my mother and asked who was going to break the news to my grandmother.

Almost instantly we all said in unison, “Selena.”





Chapter Fifty-Four


ERICA


They say there’s a fine line between love and hate. What I wanted to know, though, was when exactly had my life turned into such a fucking cliché?

The writer in me was ashamed.

As I sat on my couch chewing angrily on a piece of salami, I thought of all the snarky things I was going to say to Adrian when he finally showed up to my place.

The Pinche Asshole was officially one hour late to our weekly viewing of our favorite Hulu series. Tonight was the season finale, the one where we were going to finally find out who the murderer was. I’d even spent money and time making a goddamn charcuterie board with his favorite meats and cheeses, and the bastard couldn’t even text me a reason as to why he wasn’t here yet.

I had called it, though. When he told me our usual Hulu night had to be pushed back a little later because it was Isela’s mom’s birthday and he and his parents were going to dinner with her family, I told him we could reschedule.

But no. He insisted he could still come over after dinner. I was doubtful, but I also wanted to see him. So, like a lovesick pendeja, I’d agreed to have some snacks ready and to wait for him so we could watch the episode together at nine.

This was my own damn fault. Still, I was pretty pissed that he hadn’t answered my texts or called and it was already ten.

I’d eaten my way through all the chocolate and most of the cheese and finished off the wine when Adrian finally showed up at 10:15.

I waited a good five minutes before letting him inside.

“I know, I know,” he rushed out as he walked to the couch. “I’m sorry. I left my phone at my house. There was a mix-up with the reservation, and we didn’t even get our food until eight thirty, and it was just a big mess.”

He was about to reach for a cracker when I slapped his hand away. I picked up the tray and said, “You don’t deserve my charcuterie.”

“It wasn’t my fault. I really am sorry, Erica.”

I hated that he looked so good in his button-down dress shirt and slacks. Dammit. I could feel myself relenting.

“You suck.” It was the meanest thing I could come up with because by now I was just happy to see him.

Such. A. Pendeja.

I put the tray down, opened up another bottle of wine, and joined him on the couch. Thirty minutes later, the murderer had been revealed, and I was feeling pretty good. So much so that I’d ended up with my legs curled under me and my head against his shoulder.

It felt nice to be with him like this again. Between work and his many family commitments, our weekly Hulu nights had become the only time we could spend together out of the office. Now that the series had ended, what did that mean for us?

“What show should we watch next?” I asked after he’d turned off the TV. “It doesn’t have to be on Hulu. We could have Netflix nights now, or Apple TV evenings.”

He laughed and sighed deep. “Whatever you want. Except K-dramas. My brain is too tired after work to have to read a TV show.”

I sat up to face him. “Don’t use that as an excuse. I know the truth. You don’t want to watch K-dramas because they’re romances, and your cold, black heart refuses to watch anything having to do with l-o-v-e.”

“I don’t mind watching romantic movies or shows,” he said after a yawn.

“Oh, really?”

“Really. I mean, most of them are ridiculous and predictable. But I’ll watch one every once in a while.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed. “You just made my point. You think they’re too shallow for your very intelligent brain. You’re such a snob.”

“I’m not a snob. I just think the plots of some of these shows are simplistic or even unrealistic. Real romance doesn’t work that way.”

I scoffed. “Oh. Now you’re an expert on romance too?”

“Not an expert. But, come on. Do you really expect a guy to do something out of the blue and out of character just to profess his love to you? Why not just have a conversation?”