I really needed that visual—said no sister ever.
Her eyes soften under the bangs of her wig, which is now sitting two inches crooked. “Don’t worry about me, Miri. I’m not breaking homes. Hearts is a different story. He wants a relationship beyond sex. Not interested.”
We settle into the sofa andMy Big Fat Greek Wedding. Gus, the father, was so cute with his Windex home remedy. I empathize with Toula and her thick glasses. Contacts feel like condoms over my eyes, so I can’t give up frames for good, but there are pieces of myself I see in her.
Awkward.
Unmarried in our thirties.
Still figuring it out.
“I’m thinking about dating. For real this time,” I announce to the bowl of popcorn in my lap. Marcela’s stare burns through the silk scarf that covers my nightly twists. “Do not make this weird.”
She raises both hands. “I’m not.”
“It’s just…I think I’m ready. Not to settle down and get married tomorrow. Maybe I’ll find a guy who believes in monogamy and wants to see where things go. Someone who isn’t technically married.” I giggle at her swat to my shoulder. “Someone who isn’t—I’m ready.”
Antonio never read the texts I sent. I got curious and went on social media to check out what the Steel are up to. The answer is a night out with Jell-O shots and women with long hair and short dresses. He didn’t post any photos, but Bread did. Video of Antonio shirtless in a gold chain and jeans, looking down at a woman who was grabbing her ankles, was the reminder I needed to snap out of whatever feelings I think I have.
Marcela’s four-month marriage to her on-again-off-again high school sweetheart taught me not to dive headfirst into a relationship, especially one that sweats your hair out and ends with ulcers and a night in jail after busting out every window in his car.
The weight of Antonio’s penis alone would have me popping out his trunk with a tire iron. He’s charming, sweet, andfine. Forget the width of those thighs that drove into me, or the beard that scratched against my lower lips. I’ll catch feelings and federal charges behind him.
Any thoughts that veer outside of platonic are wrong. He’s clearly enjoying the single life of a professional athlete, as he should.
I don’t expect Vegas to mean anything more to him than helping a friend in a bind. Like changing a flat. My vagina wasthe tire, in this case. His penis was averyeffective jack, hard as iron without causing puncture wounds.
“Will you stop staring at me please?” I fix my glasses and push away Marcela’s foot as it creeps back to my butt. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Does that mean I can count on you to come out tomorrow?” She drums her fingers together with a face-splitting grin.
My sister hates the idea of love and celebrates Anti-Valentine’s Week religiously each year. Tomorrow is the kickoff, with her annual charity event.
“It means I’ll come, but I’m not subjecting myself to a date with the highest bidder,” I warn. “You and your district can kiss my ass.”
“Miriam Yamileth Beckford. Did you just cuss at me?”
“Stick around. I’m just getting started.”
Chapter 32
Miriam
Afish fry with throwbacks is always a good time.
Marcela’s fundraiser for the Jefferson District isn’t the convention-center soirée I’d imagined, with overpriced parking and bland food. It’s the place to be on a Friday night in your Sunday best.
Worn pine softened from decades of neighborhood gatherings and gospel brunches creaks under two-steps to Tony! Toni! Toné!’s “Let’s Get Down.” Elders hold court at spades tables around the hem of the dance floor. The crackle of fish searing in the kitchen floats through the double doors, separating greens, cornbread, and catfish recipes passed down generations.
Tonight reminds me of nights in Panama City during the rainy season, when we’d open the windows and doors to listen to the percussion of water droplets and “Patria.”
Rubén Blades isn’t in rotation, but the heart of the community is here, which reminds me of home.
I beat my chest and swallow a cough when the sting of bourbon incinerates my insides. Samford, the gray-haired bartender with bifocals, put more than a “splash” in thelemonade cocktail he swore would change my life. More like send me into the afterlife with a hangover.
I’m barely hanging on, with only prayer and a plate of fish keeping me steady on the barstool.
This is my first drink, by the way.
