I looked down. The fabric stopped well above my ankles. Not stylish—ridiculous.
Shit.
“Has crecido.” Grandma sprang up and wrapped me in a hug so tight I coughed. “Like father, like son.” She sighed, patting my chest. “Just taller. You’re as tall as your grandpa. He’d have loved to see you grow up.”
For her sake, I mustered a smile. “I know.”
What I didn’t know was how she’d survived two devastating losses—first her husband, then her son—without losing her spark. The white-walled house held thousands of memories of the men I admired most: Commander Joshua Williams, my grandpa, and Sergio Williams, my dad.
I was eight when Grandpa died. If someone had told me I’d lose Dad seven years later, I would’ve thought it was a cruel joke. It still felt like one.
Grandma ran her manicured fingers through my hair. “How many hearts have you broken, huh?”
I smirked. “Today, or. . .?”
Laughing, she pushed me away. “Go cook. The guests will be here soon.”
“Let me change first.”
Back in the bedroom, I swapped Dad’s slacks for my black jeans.
When I returned to the kitchen,Titanicwas still playing. Grandma watched, enthralled, as if she didn’t already know every line.
I whisked eggs forla tortilla, glancing at the screen every few seconds. “What a realistic movie.”
She huffed, pushing aside a crystal ashtray. “You’re a cynic.”
Laughter bubbled in my throat, but I swallowed it. No need to rile her up. As a high school English teacher, she was used to smartasses. Her students both adored and feared her—and for good reason. Grandpa might have commanded the NAVSTA in Rota, but María del Carmen ruled this house with absolute authority.
“A realist,” I corrected, pouring oil into the pan. “He didn’t have to die. It was unnecessary. Added for drama’s sake.”
“You’re too young.” She waved her hand, golden rings catching the last rays of sunlight. “Of course that piece of wood was big enough for them both. But she was his reason to sink.”
I snorted, dicing the potatoes I’d peeled earlier. “You’re saying it’s okay to die for someone you barely know?”
“Not to die,” she said. “But to put those you love first. And often”—her eyes misted, like they always did when she thought of Grandpa or Dad—“your reason to sink is the same as your reason to stay afloat. Would I have traded places with your grandpa? In a heartbeat. But fate didn’t want it that way. He wanted me to live and be happy, and that’s what I’ve done. And your dad wanted his wife and son to live a happy life too.”
I dumped the potatoes into the scorching oil, the sizzling drowning out my sharp exhale. It wasn’t the same. Almost twelve years later, Grandma was still faithful to her husband. My mother had jumped into a new relationship and never looked back.
Even now, everything about her and Russell Demeri was a sore subject. Maybe I was a resentful asshole, but I remembered how she dragged me to the States less than three months after Dad’s accident. I felt caged. Desperate to escape.
And when Russell took me to the track soon after, I’d hijacked a bike too big and heavy for me—rode it without gear—just as afuck you.
I got what I wanted that day. Russell didn’t know how to handle the teenage punk who defied him, so he hadn’t objected when I told Mom I wanted to return to Spain and finish high school here.
She tried to stop me, but Grandma convinced her. The condition: Dawson, Russell’s former mechanic, would move to Spain with me to keep me on a leash.
I hadn’t expected us to get along. I was ready to hate him like I hated Russell. But Dawson was kind, a pro, and instead of babysitting me, he treated me as an equal.
“You shouldn’t punish Sharon for carrying on with her life,” Grandma said softly, pulling me back. “She’s your mother, and she loves you. Don’t write her off.”
I stirred the potatoes with a wooden spoon. “Nobody wrote her off. I called her. I visited. She has no reason to complain.”
“She wants to fix things, Ash. I think you should let her.”
I turned, winking. “And I think this is going to be the best tortilla you’ve tried.”
“Creído,” she muttered, standing—but the proud smile tugging at her tanned face gave her away. She knew damn well five years of making dinner turned me into an excellent cook. It was our deal—she made lunch; I made dinner. I wouldn’t let her do everything alone. Managing a huge house on top of full-time work was exhausting, and I was more than capable of cleaning, doing my laundry, and cooking for both of us.
