“You’re a business operator. You… take care of business.” I waggle my eyebrows at him.
“Why are you doing that?” he asks, eyes boring through me in that way parents do. “Why do I feel like we’re not on the same page right now?”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, looking back at the house. “You can be honest with me. I can keep an eye out for Frankie at school, if one of your rivals catches wind of where she goes.”
He sits up and turns his body to face me entirely, but he remains silent, his dark eyes laser-ing into the side of my face.
I make the mistake of looking over. He stares at me with those thick eyelashes, waiting patiently.
“Okay,” I whisper-yell, “I know you’re in a gang. I can keep a secret, though. It’s safe with me.”
“What?”
“It’s okay, Dom! I won’t tell?—”
“Agang? Like a murder and drugs gang? Or like an a capella gang?”
I frown. “What’s an a capella gang?”
“A group of people who sing without instruments.”
“Sing people… to death?”
“What about me screams ‘gang’ to you?!” he continues, incredulous. “Is it my side-hustle as the president of theParent Teacher Organization? The grocery lists? Myelectric car?”
I gesture frantically down his body. “I don’t know! The hair! The tattoos! You only wear black! And you said someone owed you five hundred grand the other day and couldn’t pay up!”
Dom rubs his face with his hands. His shoulders are shaking, and I can see he is cracking the fuck up through his fingers. In fact, he seems very close to dissolving into hysterical laughter and losing it completely. “I desperately need a haircut. I just don’t have the time. The tattoos are indigenous tribal tattoos. From the Philippines, from where my parents are from. I got them because it’s a dying art. I only wear black because it’s easier than being stylish. And what you overheard on the phone was a cash flow issue with one of my manufacturing companies. One of our biggest clients delayed payment.”
“Right. One of your ‘clients’ for one of your ‘manufacturing companies’ ‘delayed payment,’” I retort, using an abundance of air quotes with my fingers.
He’s still chuckling, and it’s so lovely to watch his face rest into those well-worn lines, making his entire being glow. “I’m a serial entrepreneur, Lina. I start and build and manage and sell businesses. I never know how to tell people what I do without sounding like a giant douche.”
“Sounds like a snotty rich people thing.”
“Exactly,” he says, grinning and maybe wiping tears from his eyes. “It generally is. Especially in finance, which is one of the industries I operate in.”
“And the torture industry is not one of those industries,” I clarify.
“It’s me, Dominic Flores, Executive Chairman of Torture and Weekly Meal Prep,” he deadpans, then, “Frankie, will you please open your eyes?”
Frankie walks outside, again carrying a giant pile of the most breakable plates, this time with her eyes closed.
We both go to stand, but Dom rests his large, warm hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me back down into the chair. He laughs down at me one last time and goes to help his daughter.
I do not think about the feeling of his hand on my skin.
* * *
Since it’s my first official day of Relaxed Lina, I allow myself to work for only three hours. But I make sure to do it in the sun, on the second floor patio outside the guesthouse living room, with an incredible view of the ocean just past the railing. In my bikini, on a lounger, because I am So Chill. Oh, with a glass of chilled wine for extra Chill Points. And a little cooler with some extra bottles.
Assistant principals get summers off, and principals are year-round employees, which is part of the reason I don’t want to go for the principal job. That, and when you’re principal, everything is your decision and your fault. I’d rather do all the grunt work than take all the responsibility and accountability. If something goes wrong at your school, it’s your name and face in the news. Being an AP is lower stakes, less pressure.
But right now, I may as well have the principal spot, considering all the work I’ve done the last six months. That principal paycheck sure would be nice.
The rest of the family just left for a water park, but Dom and I stayed back to work (but I am So Chill while doing it, so it counts for a Relaxed Lina day). I realize it’s probably around lunchtime when I see Dom puttering around the kitchen inside. Navigating the fridge and the cabinets in that gliding, deliberate way of his. We make eye contact through the glass, and I wave. He holds up a bag of chips, pointing to it, mouthing “want some?”
I nod. He brings it and walks through the sliding glass door.
