But before I can finish the thought, relief pours through the line in a long, unspooled breath.
“Fuck, man. I don’t even know what to say. That would be…” He sucks in a breath. “It’s like I can breathe for the first time in days. Maybe even sleep.”
“I guess one of us should.”
“It won’t be for long. And I swear, you won’t even know she’s there.”
I highly doubt that.
“A couch. A corner. Anything.”
“A corner, Gabe?” I scoff. “What is she, a puppy? No. Your hermanita is not crashing on a wee-wee pad in the corner or on the damn couch. There’s plenty of space. When are you looking to send her out?”
“Um…” He pauses like he’s checking his watch. “She’s already heading out. Actually, she’s inbound to JFK and lands in three hours.”
“Gabe!”
“She’s quiet. Clean. A workaholic who keeps to herself,” he says. “She doesn’t even need a ride from the airport. I already booked a car service.”
I swirl my coffee as realization dawns. I’ve been bamboozled.
“You booked a car service?” I ask. “With my address?”
He chuckles guiltily. “Mama knew you’d say yes. She gave her the access code.”
I freeze. “What?”
“You gave it to Mama. Mama passed it along.”
Of course, she did.
“It’s your own fault for trusting her with your code.”
“Putting her up at your place would’ve been cruel, Gabe. Especially considering that crash pad you call a condo consists of a gaming chair and a blow-up bed.” I pause. “Or is it a blow-up doll?”
It’s both,” he deadpans. “And besides, man, we both know you’ve got a heart.”
“I do have a heart,” I say. “A small, Scrooge-sized one no one’s supposed to know about.”
“So, Mamá’s forgiven?” he asks.
I smile. Though I’ve never officially met Gabe’s mother, I have deep respect for a force to be reckoned with. “Yes, she is. After her visit last year, your mama can do no wrong. When the kids and I got back from camping, the house was spotless. Fresh flowers everywhere. And a freezer full of addictive tamales.”
“She said your place needed a woman’s touch.”
I need a woman’s touch.
Shut up.
“Mi hermanita makes tamales, too,” Gabe adds.
Just the thought sparks my appetite. They’re so spicy I temporarily lose all feeling in my tongue, yet totally worth it.
I lay down my terms. “A dozen tamales for room and board.”
“Done.”
“Fine,” I groan, full of drama. “But if she starts organizing my shit?—”
