“Twenty-six, thank you. And I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.”
“That’s because you have youth on your side.” Sophia delivers the news gravely, lips pressed into a tight line, and how is it I’m growing both more sober and more confused?
“Yes, and while I appreciate what my new hip can do for me”—Rita grips the armrests of her chair and gently lowers herself into her seat with a groan—“I’m too old to dance like I used to. If I could go back, I’d confide in Rafael what he confided in me the night I ended our Latin ballroom partnership…”
Wanda pats the chair between her and my grandma, and I plop right down, fully recognizing the hook beneath the bait and biting anyway. “What did he say?”
“That he was in love with me.”
I gasp, propping my elbows on the table and my chin on my fists as Rita’s expression turns bittersweet.
“When I searched within my own heart and felt the truth—that I’d accidentally fallen in love with him, too—I took that as proof Hector was right about my dancing career rather than realizing Hector was all wrong for me.” Rita sways to a beat only she can hear. “What I wouldn’t give to spend one last dance pressed up against Rafael, his hand splayed low on my bare back as he showcased my movements, never forcing them to align with his.”
At the whimsy softening her features, I swoon a little on her behalf. Having a partner always there by your side, highlighting your accomplishments while providing support on the downlow isn’t the norm, though. That’s the dream; the fictional ideal.
“Learn from my mistakes, Mia.” She leans across Wanda and cups my face in her hands. “Follow the fire in your soul, not the path that’s only correct in your head.”
Somehow, she’s summed up a battle I’ve fought for as long as I can remember. Passions are unwieldy and require a person like me pulling strings behind the scenes.
“I should’ve gone on that trip to Tokyo,” Vonetta says, Rita’s hands sliding from my face as we all turn toward her. “A company there offered to take my SoulEssence Elixir skincare line international, but I was too afraid to travel alone, especially to a country where I didn’t speak the language. Not many female entrepreneurs were asked in those days, either.”
“We should go.” Gertie rubs her back. “I’ll pack extra compression socks and a jumbo size bottle of ibuprofen in our mini suitcase of medicine.”
“And what if my leg swells and blows up on the flight anyway?”
“It’ll be a memorable adventure.” They share a smile that speaks to their past decade together. Neither had married before relocating here, Vonetta because she was busy expanding her company and felt meh about men, and Gertie because she was a lesbian and denied the right for most of her life. Once they met, sparks flew.
“Oh, get a room, you two,” Grandma Helen teases.
“Big talk from the lady who hasn’t invited a man into her room for so long, she’ll have to Google how,” Rita jokes, and snorts ring the table.
“Whatever,” Grandma Helen retorts, “I had a man in there last week, I just didn’t go bragging about it.”
“He was fixing the fan,” Wanda tattles, going right from that to loudly lamenting she’s never flung herself out of a plane or off a bridge—which I think means we’ve circled back to regrets again? “I want to experience that exhilarating freefall, but I’m afraid I waited too long and my body can’t handle the jolt.”
“Or your ticker,” Grandma Helen helpfully provides. “That’d give me a heart attack for sure.”
“Well, come with me, and then we can go out together, just like we always promised.”
What the hell is happening? How did I land myself on an episode ofRidiculousness, Golden Edition?
“If we’re talking regrets…” Chair legs scrape cement as Arlene scoots into the outermost ring of porch light.
Wanda lunges across the table, dipping one braless boob in the puddle of salsa on my plate as she snags Arlene’s hand. “Don’t you dare say your divorce, babe—you did nothing wrong.”
“He never deserved you,” Rita chimes in, and I nod my head, because solidarity.
“This fuss is why I”—Sophia lifts her head high and sweeps a stray curl out of her eye—“don’t believe in regrets.”
Sputtered raspberries, guffaws, and an out-of-character “Don’t make me go there, because I will,” from Vonetta echo through the humid air and, since my grandma hasn’t finished her margarita, I reach over, lift the glass to my lips, and help her out.
The other women shout out several examples, the majority of which are just names.
“Allen.”
“Fernando.”
“Edmund.”
