“Kieran,” I snort. “His name is Kieran.”
She shrugs. “I said a Culkin. No one expects you to go on a dick binge. But”—her head cants, and she purses her lips like Robert De Niro—“I won’t say anything.”
“Good to know.” I roll my eyes and tap the rim of my margarita glass. “I’ve thought about dating. I’m not fully sold on algorithms being equitable on apps, which leaves finding someone in person.” Where it gets weird fast, and I usually end up wanting to run back to the house to organize my lemons. “Kieran is cute. I just don’t feel the spark.”
“Spark?” Marcela crunches into a birria taco.
“You know, that electric charge. A zing. Our father had it with our mother.”
“And look what happened to that,” she scoffs.
Okay, not the best example since they ended up divorced. But the love was there. Remnants still linger in the way they try to brush off asking about each other. My mother is loud and outspoken. My father is reserved and quiet. Put together, their differences are what made their relationship, until his career got in the way.
“My point is that I don’t feel anything for Kieran, other than nervous that I fumbled my interview. I’m also not actively searching for anybody right now. If it happens, it happens.”
More people are having babies in their forties. The taboo of being single later in life is losing its stronghold, taking the pressure off of procreating within the time frame that society dictates is “reasonable.” I’m not rushing or stressing myself out with what anyone else assumes is best for me. I’ll know when it’s the right time, just like I’ll know who my person is.
Maybe.
“Would a certain rugby player have anything to do with you swiping left on Culkin?”
I frown. “Did you hear me say I’m not actively searching for anyone?” What’s the proof in this tequila?
Marcela purses her lips again. “I did. That doesn’t answer my question. Nice try.”
God, why did you make her so annoying?
“Antonio has nothing to do with this.” I poke at a taco with my knife to keep from poking the person across from me, who’s a second away from demonstrating what a “blood” relative is.
“So you haven’t felt the zing with him?”
“Yes—no!”Please give me strength with her.
Every hair on my neck stood up when Antonio walked into that Adams Morgan bar. My heart always skipped a beat when I’d see him on the rugby field. It made zero sense, because I once babysat him! It was only a handful of times before he went to high school, but still.
My attraction is more of an anomaly, an unexplained scientific occurrence. I like him, and I won’t sour our friendship over an orgasm I can give myself. Plus, he’s a player. The only reason he showed interest in me three years ago was because I was a consenting vagina.
I push my glasses up my nose and sigh. “For the last time, he is a friend who, last I checked, is doing your friend.”
“Miriam.” Marcela chuckles.
I lift my hands. “I’m fine. We don’t need to talk about it again. They’re free to see each other. It doesn’t involve me.”
My sister raises a brow. “Sex for some people is just that—sex. No emotional attachments or feelings involved. I do it all the time.”
“I know you do.” I giggle into my glass.
“Don’t brush this off.”
“What do you want me to say, that I don’t like the idea of him with Lisa?” I push my plate away and fold my arms over a million and one ruffles. “He comes from money, and I’ll kick her wig off if she tries him like the elders she uses for paid vacations.”
“Not kick a wig!” Marcela hollers, earning the attention of our server.
Chucha madre.
“Estamos bien,” I tell his narrowed brows. “La cuenta, por fa.” He bumps a table on his escape route. I don’t blame him one bit. Now I’m laughing.
“Her wigs do look like mops,” Marcela says.
