Goodnight troublemaker.
Chapter 19
Hennessy
“Abuela, I swear to God, if you try to feed me one more tamal, I'm going to explode right here on Mom's new couch.”
My grandmother ignores me completely, already piling another one onto my plate along with an extra scoop of rice. The woman is five-foot-nothing and somehow manages to be the most unstoppable force in the universe.
“You're too skinny,” she declares, patting my cheek with fingers that smell like masa and chili. “A man wants something to hold on to.”
“Abuela!” I groan, checking my phone again. It's already half-past six, and I need to be out of here by seven if I'm going to make it back to my place in time to get ready. “I'm not skinny, I'm average. And I don't care what men want to hold on to.”
That's a lie. I care very specifically about what one man wants to hold on to—preferably my hips while he fucks me from behind—but that's not something I'm sharing with my grandmother.
“Lies,” she says. “You dress too nicely for someone who doesn't care.”
My mom laughs from the kitchen doorway. “She's got you there, baby.”
I roll my eyes, shoving a forkful of tamal into my mouth to avoid responding. It's delicious, of course. Everything my grandmother makes is amazing, which is why I'm now going to have to squeeze into the dress I bought for tonight.
“Where are you rushing off to anyway?” Dad appears beside Mom, one arm sliding around her waist. Twenty years of marriage and they still touch each other like newlyweds. It's gross. And kind of amazing.
“I've got plans,” I say vaguely, checking my phone again.
“Plans,” he repeats, eyebrows lifting. “With who?”
“Friends.” I take another bite, avoiding his eyes.
“Which friends?”
“Dad, I'm twenty-three. I don't need to give you an itemized list of my social calendar.”
His eyes narrow. The legendary Coach Javier Vega stare that's made men cry on the hockey rink. I've been immune to it since I was twelve.
“It's a guy, isn't it?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
Mom elbows him in the ribs. “Javi, leave her alone.”
“What? I'm just asking.” He doesn't take his eyes off me. “Is it a guy?”
I take a long, deliberate sip of water. “Maybe.”
“Who is he? Do I know him? What does he do? How old is he?”
“Oh my God,” I groan, dropping my fork with a clatter. “This is why I don't tell you anything.”
“Hennessy Ximena Vega, I'm simply asking who you'rehaving dinner with at eight o'clock on a Thursday night.” My dad crosses his arms over his chest, blocking my path to the door like some kind of human barricade.
“A friend,” I say, keeping my voice casual while my stomach does somersaults. “Just a friend from work.”
“Is it that fuckboy, Derk?”
“It's not Derek,” I cut him off, rolling my eyes. “And I told you, we only went out once.”
“Once was enough for me to know he wasn't good enough for you.” Dad sniffs, like the memory of meeting Derek six months ago still offends him personally.
Behind him, my grandmother chuckles. “Mijo, leave the girl alone. She's twenty-three, not fifteen.”
