Rock Chick Regret (Rock Chick #7)(177)

“I’m not going to wear ugly shoes with a bridesmaid’s dress, Hector.”

“Isn’t there such a thing as not ugly shoes that are comfortable?”

“No,” I said shortly (and honestly).

He chuckled.

I rolled my eyes.

Hector, even after months together, still thought I was funny.

I still didn’t get it.

“Jet’s pregnant,” he said suddenly.

My hand tensed in his.

“What?”

“Eddie told me tonight. It’s early. They’re keepin’ it to themselves for a little while. Whatever you do, do not tell Mamá.”

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Are they happy about it?”

His hand squeezed mine. “Don’t know about Jet but Eddie’s over the f**kin’ moon.”

If that was the case then I knew about Jet. She was sure as certain over the moon too.

“That’s great,” I said softly.

“Yeah,” he replied, just as softly.

It was my turn to squeeze his hand. “Uncle Hector.”

Silence.

Then, “Shit.”

Then it was my turn to laugh.

* * * * *

We walked up to the house, hand-in-hand.

Hector let us in.

I flipped the switches and the lights came on.

Then I reached down, slipped off my high heels and tossed them over the back of the couch into the living room. They bounced off the seat of the couch and I heard them hit the floor.

I tossed my purse in the same direction. It bounced on the seat and stayed there.

The renovating the house business wasn’t playing out like in my dreams (exactly).

Hector and I fought tooth and nail about everything house.

Once we were done with the floor, the mantel and the skirting boards, Hector announced he wanted the living room off the kitchen, better access to beer during games.

I explained (patiently, at first) that the dining room had to be off the kitchen.

We hit a stalemate that meant weeks of stacked furniture covered in plastic.

Then one night I got creative with lingerie and talked him into it (about two seconds before he cl**axed).

It wasn’t fair, in fact, it was really not fair but this lesson served me well in the coming weeks.

Hector didn’t seem to mind.

To the right was an antique, walnut, twelve-seat dining room table I found on Antique Row on Broadway. I had it refinished, the seats of the chairs redone in a dusky gray and dusky gray-blue stripe. It now had a big round vase on it filled with calla lilies. A matching sideboard sat against the wall to the kitchen, displaying my Mom’s Waterford crystal that I took from her locker, the family photo of Mom, Dad and me and another photo of Hector and his Dad taken when Hector was nineteen. There were white Christmas lights weaved in real pine greenery on the mantel.

To the left was Hector’s midnight blue twill furniture but I’d added some toss pillows with blue, gray and chocolate brown designs. The TV from the bedroom was installed in the corner, all the furniture positioned for maximum viewing potential. In another corner was a huge, real fir Christmas tree decorated in blue and white lights and blue, silver and white ornaments. There was more greenery and lights on the mantel weaving around silver-framed photos of Hector’s family and other photos of my Mom, grandmother and grandfather. A huge white poinsettia in a shiny blue pot sat dead center on the coffee table.

To the back of the living room through the French doors was the den, complete with big desk, reclining chair and Hector’s desktop computer.

The front rooms were all perfect.

The kitchen was now a pit. Everything had been yanked out by Hector, Buddy and Eddie a few weekends ago and carted off in a reclamation truck.

My cooking lessons were on hold. With the kitchen like it was, we were definitely not hosting Christmas dinner (Blanca was).

I walked in, pulled off my cape, draped it on the banister then went up the stairs and straight to the bedroom where I fell face first on the bed.

I didn’t used to be the kind of person who threw her shoes across the room (or her purse) and left my coats on the banister.

I used to be clean and tidy.

Obsessively so.

I also used to be the kind of person who woke up at the barest hint of sound.

I wasn’t either of those anymore.

Real Sadie was a lot more relaxed. She slept better and she didn’t get wound up about stupid stuff.

I liked Real Sadie. Most of the time, she had it going on.

I felt the bed move when Hector sat on it and the zipper at my back started going down.

“I’m going to sleep right here,” I informed him.

“Como quieras,” Hector said softly and, hearing those words, I smiled into the bed.

I didn’t have to open my eyes to see the room.

Hector had made the bedroom his next project (after the living room and before the kitchen). He’d taken time off and we’d slept on the pull out couch for a week while he refinished the floors, replaced the skirting boards and painted the walls (I wanted to help but the gallery was being redone and Roxie’s wedding plans were heating up so Ralphie and I were kind of busy). The walls were a warm, gray-green and there were new, shiny maple skirting boards. Hector had bought a new bed, nightstands and two new dressers, one low with a mirror on top, one tall and wide with six drawers.