Kiss of Fire (Imdalind, #1)(6)
“Sorry it’s not a car,” he laughed, “but your mom wanted to give you a full new outfit for your birthday and forced—eh, recruited me to help. I thought this would set off the diamonds in your eyes. I think she will do anything to get you out of those hoodies and jeans.”
I looked down at the necklace that now hung around my neck, my voice coming back. I moved my hair out from under the chain careful not to show that dreaded mark.
“Besides,” Ryland continued, “you can always wear your new outfit under a hoodie and then your mom can still feel like she won.” I couldn’t help but laugh, though, I also felt like crying. I had never received anything so beautiful, something that I instantly loved. Darn my girl emotions! One tear had leaked out.
“Thank you, Ryland. It’s beautiful. I love it.” My voice did not get above a whisper.
“You know, Jos, you’re more of a girl than you let on. I’m just glad I am the one who gets to see it.” With that, Ryland kissed my forehead. I thought my heart might explode.
I hadn’t had a birthday this good, ever.
Two
That all ended with dinner.
We always met my grandparents at the same place; a little Mexican dive called La Fea Gato. La Fea Gato was in between our two houses, so we each had to drive an hour to meet for dinner. After having done it for eleven years, it wasn’t a big deal. I even had a favorite on the menu and spent the majority of the hour drive dreaming of Chile Verde rather than listening to my mom dote over how pretty I looked, and how big the rock Ryland had given me was.
At first, she had attempted to pull my hair up, but I had put my foot down, startling poor Mette with a wail she had never heard come out of me before. I didn’t care how much my mom promised that the mark was barely noticeable, or that scars were fashionable; mine was staying hidden. In the end, I had brushed my dark hair out until it hung around my slender face like a sheet.
We arrived at the restaurant late, rushing to the table to allow my grandmother her obligatory time to ogle over how much I had grown or changed. We all knew it was an act; my grandparents only came out of respect for my mother’s wishes. I never saw them any other time.
My grandmother was a round woman with gray hair that she always wore in a bun. Her appearance suggested that she would be wearing a flowered apron, smiling and selling butter rolls rather than wearing business suits with the severe look she always had. My grandfather had always been quiet and somewhat reserved, but today he seemed downright cranky, and greeted my mother and me with a curt head-nod. My grandmother didn’t seem to notice and looked me over quickly before shoving a bright pink parcel into my hands.
I tried my hardest to smile at the impending skirt, but I was not sure it worked. My mom’s iron grip dug into my arm as she prompted me to open it. Even though it was obvious no one wanted to be there, my mom was still going to try her hardest to make this work.
The tape came off easily, as if it had been rewrapped, and an atrocious red and black plaid skirt tumbled onto my lap, followed by a small black bag that would hold only a wallet, if I was lucky. I looked at them both as happily as I could before being shooed off to the bathroom where I held the skirt up to me, against my new shirt. They didn’t match. I was going to look like a style-defunct school girl. Of course they all declared I looked wonderful anyway. I could have worn a stuffed chicken and it would have received the same reaction. My frustration and irritation were turning into uncontrollable laughter.
Once the food came, I bowed out of the conversation, and my grandmother seemed to lose her lackluster interest in me. I focused on my food as my mother and grandmother chattered away about work and neighbors, and aunts, uncles and cousins I had never seen. I caught snippets of information about Uncle Robert’s new wife and Cousin Becky’s new—scandalous—tattoo, not taking anything in. The taste of chilies and guacamole consumed me so much that I was unaware of my grandmother’s question until my mother tapped my leg.
“Joclyn?” she asked, repeating her question, “how is school?”
“Fine,” I said, hoping I didn’t have to elaborate. There wasn’t much more that I could say about school, so we sat in uncomfortable silence.
“Excuse me.” Mom spoke as normally as she could, although it was obvious she left in order to give us all time to talk. “I have to go to the restroom.”
My grandparents had nothing to say without my mom there, so I sat staring at the last of my empanada and listened to the clink of dishes and bits of conversation around me.
“Don’t open the bag until you get home.” My grandfather’s rough voice made me jump.
“Excuse me?” I asked, taken back.
“The bag. Don’t open it until you get home. There’s a letter from your father in it.” I think I may have leaped a few inches out of the booth. The words “your father” were never spoken, least of all by his own parents.
“My father?” I spoke much louder than I had anticipated, my heart beating a million miles an hour. “You’ve seen him?”
My grandfather leaned forward, but my grandmother looked at him so sharply, even I felt uncomfortable with her gaze. My grandfather shrank back against the booth.
“Yes, dear.” Her voice was falsely sweet. “Your father asked us to give that letter to you. And we agreed.”