He rarely talked about his life with his parents, before they died in a boating accident, before he came to live with his grandfather. But I knew his mother was Cuban.
Trey repositioned his silverware. “Sometimes. With my mother. But my father wasn’t fluent, so...” He broke off as the server returned with our wine.
“What do you mean, your granddad didn’t like it?” I asked when the waiter was gone.
“He didn’t like my mother. He was angry at my father for not taking over the business.”
Old Mr. Laurence owned the car dealership and half the commercial real estate in town. A pillar of the community, Aunt Phee said. The Laurences had served as soldiers, judges, and state legislators. They’d financed the renovation of the waterfront and the park, donated to the library and the new hospital wing. I could understand old Mr. Laurence being pissed when his son and heir decided not to follow in his family’s footsteps.
“But none of that was your fault,” I said.
“He didn’t approve of the marriage. He basically disowned my dad. Until they died, I’d never spoken to him, except on the phone.”
I winced a little in sympathy, trying to imagine being fifteen years old, going to live with some grandfather I’d never met. “What about your mother’s family?”
“They didn’t approve, either. My grandmother thought my father wasun vago—a slacker. So that was the one thing she and Granddad could agree on.” He met my gaze, smiling crookedly. “Hey, I’m notblaming the old man. I was the new kid in town. I didn’t want to stick out by speaking Spanish.”
“That wouldn’t matter.”
His eyes were black and opaque. “It didn’t matter until the first time somebody asked me if my mother was a Mexican.”
“That shouldn’t make any difference!”
“But it does.”
“But...” I struggled to reconcile this Trey with the godlike image I’d carried since middle school. “Everybody liked you.”
“Your family liked me,” Trey said. “I wouldn’t have survived without your sisters. Your mother. Everybody else thought I was some stuck-up rando from Orlando.”
I set down my wine. “I thought you were from Miami.”
His grin broke, quick and genuine. “Hialeah. We had an apartment four blocks from my grandparents’ house.”
We. His parents. I wondered if he’d had a chance to grieve their deaths, or if he’d been too busy making himself liked. Making himself fit in. I could relate to that.
“Do you ever think about going back?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t been back since I was twelve. Except for holidays.”
I frowned, confused. “I thought you were fifteen when you came to live with your grandfather.”
“My parents sent me to military boarding school. Outside Philadelphia. Me and the screwups and the drug lords’ kids. Granddad paid.”
The food arrived then. Chicken with a crispy skin for me, a perfect filet balanced by freshly cut frites and an artfully arranged salad for him.
The noise of the room, the low lights, wrapped us in a bubble of privacy. Our knees brushed under the table. I had an insane urge to slip off one sandal and curl my bare foot around his ankle. Which...No. He was my sister’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Talking was better. Talking was safer.
“That must have been lonely,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
“Do you ever hear from them?” I asked. “Your mother’s family?”
Trey cut his steak. I should let it go, I thought.Don’t spoil the mood.
“Not really. There’s just my grandmother now,” he said. “And some cousins.”
“She must miss you.”You must miss her.
