I look at the old stucco walls and the shutters, worn from years of keeping out the sun. It’s not new, sure, but it has character. “My apartment in LA was one of those so-called luxury buildings with graylaminate fake-wood floors, eggshell walls, and brand-new appliances, but it was stagnant there. It had no energy, no character. It never felt warm or homey. My parents live in an old house in the hills above Hollywood that was built in the 1920s and it exudes history and story.”
I lean back in my chair. “This place is like that, but its story is hundreds of years longer. The same is true with everywhere else in town. You can’t tear that down. You can’t—” I think of the anti-capitalist anthems that were part of the soundtrack of my childhood. The classic ’70s vinyl my dad used to play for me, recorded just roads away from where I grew up. The protests they’d take me to in the hot sun that energized me as a kid. The moments that first inspired my life’s path. I shift in my seat, taking a sip of wine. “I sound like my dad.”
Benito laughs. “I’m familiar with the feeling.”
I let out a huff, rubbing my temples with my fingertips. “Oh god. Is it unavoidable? Are we turning into our parents?”
I put my head on the table dramatically, which makes Benito laugh again. “I’m one mistress away, I think,” he says, waving his hand in front of him.
I laugh, looking up at him. “Fortunately for me, I broke the cycle, because I don’t think either of my parents ever had a sex scandal.”
He laughs harder; it’s loud and boisterous, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much joy on his face. Interesting, considering the source is me. Maybe I’m the one who brings this sideout of him. I take a deep breath, pushing out that dangerous thought.
Benito’s smile fades. “My father wanted to upgrade several buildings in town; he was in talks with several franchise businesses to convince them to move to La Musa. He was certain this place could thrive again if he made the tough but right calls. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll have to do the same.”
“Are things that bad financially?”
“Worse,” Benito says. “In small towns like this, tourism is everything. We don’t produce enough of anything else to make it boom economically.” Benito stands and takes his wine glass, putting it next to the sink.
“I see.” I follow him and do the same, because I can’t quickly think of a reason to convince him to sit back down with me. He reaches for the toolbox off the kitchen counter. “Are you calling it a night?” I ask.
His eyebrows shoot up his face and he turns to me. “It’s late. I figured—”
“You don’t have to,” I say. He continues to stare at me blankly with his hand still halfway toward the handle of the box. “I mean, if you don’t want to.”
“Should I not?” he almost whispers. I take in a sharp breath and take a step toward him. Benito stands up straight, the fight with whether or not to pick up his tools and leave apparently surrendered.
My eyes meet his and I try to read his expression. Is it nervous anticipation that matches mine or fear that his adversary is about to cross a line?
As if he’s heard the question himself, he puts ahand on my shoulder and runs it down my arm until he’s grasping my hand in his. There’s a dizzying feeling in my head that threatens to knock me down, but I feel safe knowing I’d fall directly into his arms. Every inch of me feels warm from the heat of his presence.
“Don’t you hate me or something?” he asks, his voice small.
“I can overlook that,” I say. He studies me for a moment, then squeezes my hand. My insides melt knowing there’s a possibility of so much more contact to come. Benito opens his mouth to say something.
My phone rings.
My phone rings.
“Should you get that?” he asks.
“No, it’s probably my friend Marisol. We were talking earlier, and she said she’d call back, but it’s fine.” It stops ringing for a moment only to start back up again immediately. “I’ll silence it,” I say, reaching for it. I almost drop it face-first on the ground when I see the name flashing on my screen.
Levi.
“Oh my god.”
Levi. Why is Levi calling me?
“Is something wrong?” Benito asks.
“No,” I say. “It’s no one.” I silence my phone and slide it into my pocket, but the energy of the moment is gone. I feel tears start to gather in the corners of my eyes and I want to scream. I’m so angry that the mere idea of Levi contacting me can elicit such a reaction.
The stirring in my body picks up at the thought of him leaving me here alone. “Benito.”
His eyes land on me and I study them. There’s some kind of puzzle he’s working out. Some riddle he can’t quite find the answer for, and I have a sinking feeling it’s me. “No, I should go to bed.” He points to the phone. “You should talk to your friend.”
His back is to me and he’s out of the room by the time I have my phone in my hand. I hear his footsteps start up the stairs as I stare at my phone screen. There’s a text from Levi now, like he knows it’d be harder to ignore than a phone call, and he’s never been one for leaving a voicemail. I debate deleting it without reading but my curiosity gets the best of me.
