Come What May - L.K. Farlow Page 0,11
still hang off of my hips. I roll them a few times, finger comb my hair into a semi-presentable state, swish with his mouthwash, and set off in search of the kitchen and the coffee he promised me.
I take my time moving through the house, taking note of the pictures lining the walls. Desi is everywhere—her entire life from birth to now is displayed in this hallway. There are also pictures of what I assume is Mateo’s family, as well as a few of a stunning black woman who is the spitting image of Desi. “Must be her mother,” I murmur to myself.
“It is,” says a feminine voice behind me, causing me to jump.
Whirling around, I find myself face-to-face with Mateo’s daughter. My cheeks heat as she looks me over. I’m not sure if I’m more embarrassed for her to see me in her dad’s clothes or to catch me openly snooping.
At a loss for words, I nod.
“Her name’s Imani. She died when I was little—cancer.”
Tears sting my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, not knowing what else to say. Hell, there really isn’t anything else. I know good and well words can’t bring back those we loved… nothing can.
Desi shrugs. “Don’t be. I mean, yeah, it sucks and all, but I know she loved me.”
“Right. Yeah.” This girl has me at a total loss for words. “That’s… um…”
She shakes her head at me, a small smile playing on her lips. “C’mon. If we’re lucky, Dad will make huevos revueltos a la Mexicana.”
“Eggs?” I ask lamely.
Desi nods. “Yeah, but better.”
She takes off down the hall, but I hesitate. “Hey,” I call after her.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.” I shrug, unsure of how to properly thank someone for doing what she did. “For… you know.”
“No worries; us girls gotta stick together, right?”
“Right.” Desi nods, her lips tipped up in a knowing grin. “Good. Now, let’s eat.”
She turns and heads down the hall—presumably toward the kitchen. I take my time following after her, needing a few minutes to get my wits about me before facing Mateo.
I pause just before the threshold at the sound of Mateo’s voice. “What’s got you grinning?” I hear him ask.
After a pause, Desi replies, “Things and stuff.”
“Things and stuff, huh?”
“Yup. Stuff and things.” Listening to the two of them volley back and forth reminds me so much of Dad and me. Up until he couldn’t, he was always so invested in all things me. Even when he was in hospice, he’d use what little energy he had to ask me about my day, about boys, about life in general.
“Swear to God, you’re just like your mama.” The fondness in Mateo’s voice makes my heart ache in the most bittersweet of ways. Here I am, crushing over a man who’s already had his great love.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I decide to make my entrance, not wanting to take advantage of their hospitality by eavesdropping—well, any more than I already have.
Mateo hones in on me the second I enter the room. He parts his lips, as if to speak, but no words come out. He looks me up and down with a stare so heavy it feels like a physical caress.
My skin turns to gooseflesh under his scrutiny, and I can’t help but let my imagination run wild with what he might be thinking.
Is he imagining shoving the dishes from the table and tossing me down on it, or is he merely wondering when he’ll get these pants back from me?
Who can say—but with the way he’s biting on his bottom lip, I’m willing to bet it’s closer to the feasting on me option.
He’s practically in a trance until Desi claps her hands together mere centimeters from his face.
“Dios mio, Desi!” Mateo yells, but there’s no heat behind his words.
The teen girl doesn’t look even the least bit sorry. If anything, she looks proud. “If you’re done staring, I’d like some breakfast. Huevos revueltos a la Mexicana, por favor.”
My cheeks burn at her blunt observation—the fact that her dad might have just eye-fucked me in front of her is beyond mortifying.
I expect Mateo to correct her; instead, he gives me one last burning look before addressing his daughter. “Grab the eggs.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, feeling out of place.
Mateo shakes his head no, but Desi asks, “You know how to chop veggies?”
I nod.
“Great.” Desi grabs two cutting boards from the drawer and two knives from the block. “You dice the onion and pepper and I’ll do the tomato and cilantro.”
“She’s a guest,”