“What about you?” he asks stiffly. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
It’s the least I can do after his admission.
“I’m an open book. What do you want to know?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, but when he speaks again, some of the warmth has returned to his voice, and there’s a hint of laughter in his words. “How does a free-spirited woman like Celeste end up with such a straightlaced granddaughter?”
I laugh in spite of myself. It’s a fair question.
“If you think Gran and I are worlds apart, you should meet my mother.”
The instant the words are out of my mouth, I want to stuff them back in.
Way to be sensitive, Gonzalez.
Maybe I deserve to hike through the desert in flip-flops after all.
“Why is that?” he asks, seemingly unfazed by my complete lack of tact.
“My mom and grandmother couldn’t be more different if they tried.” Facts. They haven’t agreed on anything since the release ofBad Feministin 2014. “While Gran is wild and carefree, my mom is strict and demanding. Both of my parents are, actually.”
Miles remains quiet, giving me the space to work through my thoughts.
“In my mother’s case, it’s probably the result of being raised by two hippies in an Airstream. I imagine the experience makes a person crave order and stability. She spent ten years living in the camper with my grandparents, travelling the country long before tiny living was a lifestyle choice.”
Miles lets out a low whistle. “Ten years?”
“Can you imagine?”
“I really can’t,” he says, shaking his head.
“When my grandfather passed, Gran just kept on living her best life, dragging my mom from one town to another, never putting down roots. You should hear the stories.” I loosen my grip on the steering wheel, doing my best to not look at the fuel gauge. “Of course, the tone depends entirely on who’s telling them.” I glance over, catching his eye meaningfully. “Something tells me you’d prefer Celeste’s versions.”
“Only if they’re free of hot dogs and hamsters.”
“Now who’s the smartass?” I tease.
Miles chuckles, but his gaze is far away as he asks, “What about your dad?”
“Papáis first generation Mexican-American. My abuelos immigrated before he was born, determined to build a better life. They were hard on him growing up, setting high standards and pushing him to excel academically. Basically, the complete opposite of Gran’s child-rearing style. And yet, they got the same results. He’s straightlaced. Hardworking. Disciplined. Just like my mom.” I tap my thumb against the steering wheel, hating that Miles has probably applied all the same adjectives to me at one time or another. “I guess it was bound to rub off on me.”
He turns, and though my eyes are locked on the road, I can feel the weight of his stare settle on me. “That’s not a bad thing, Luce.”
Maybe. Maybe not. But if I weren’t such a quiet little worker bee, perhaps he would’ve noticed me sooner.
But I can’t say that aloud, so I stick to the facts.
“Gran says they’re peas in a pod. Steady, predictable, and boring.” She’s not wrong, but she’s not entirely right, either. The truth is probably somewhere in between, but I’d be lying if I said I wanted to follow in their footsteps. “It’s why they pushed me to get a practical degree, despite my love of photography.”
Miles straightens. “You wanted to study photography in school?”
There’s surprise in his voice. Like the possibility of me doing something so frivolous had never occurred to him.
Why would it?
It’s not like he sits around thinking about me the way I think about him.
Even now, when we’re having incredible, scorching-hot sex, it’s strictly physical.
