TAKE TWO_ Who says you can't ma - Heather M. Orgeron Page 0,10
increasing the pace. My skin feels electrified, tingling everywhere we touched. As my release juts out, filling my palm with its warmth, I have a vision of her on the other side of that door, moaning my name while she trembles against her fingers.
Nya
Ryder who?
I know I’m in trouble when we turn down Mami and Papi’s street and there are cars lining both sides of the road as far as I can see.
“Y’all didn’t tell me Lita and Abu were throwing a party!” Ellie unclamps her lap belt, and the car begins to rock as she bounces around in the back seat. “I hope we’re having tamales!”
“Hijo de puta,” I groan. It wasn’t enough to have to listen to my parents champion this union—now it looks like half of San Miguel will be here doing the same.
“I believe you mean daughter.” Liam removes his right hand from the wheel and pats the top of my knee. When I level him with a look of what the fuck, he explains his remark. “You said, ‘son of a bitch,’ but they’re your parents, not mine…”
“That’s kind of like calling Lita a bad word, right, Daddy?”
He nods, wedging his black Hummer the wrong way between two parallel-parked cars. “Sure is. You should definitely tell Lita, Sofia.”
“Or not.” I step down, and my heel sinks into the freshly mowed grass as I adjust the skirt of my green floral dress. At least I dressed sensibly. “Come here.” I wave my child over to make sure she’s presentable.
After smoothing down her flyaways, I add a little pink gloss to her lips. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but be on your best behavior, yeah?”
“Sure.” Yeah, right. And even if she is, it isn’t saying much. Our child is a hot mess. I one hundred percent blame all the unsavory parts on her father.
“What are you doing? Stop messing with your dress.”
“Ugh,” Ellie groans, stuffing her hands into her pockets. Pockets? I didn’t even know this dress had pockets!
“It itches.”
I tug her hands out, placing them at her sides. “A lady doesn’t fidget.”
Her eyes roll.
“And don’t make a face when the relatives greet you. I will hear about it for weeks.” I lick my thumb, wiping a smudge from her cheek.
Liam chuckles when she sulks, scruffing the hair I just tamed back into a wild mess. “But I don’t like people touching me, and they even kiss me too.”
“I don’t know what you’re laughing for.” I glare his direction. “You will be just as attacked.” Maybe he’s forgotten what these family gatherings are like. Personal space is not a thing with these people.
At that, his smile spreads. “Yeah, but unlike El-belle here, I love being the center of attention.”
“I bet they all came to celebrate your wedding,” my daughter announces on the way up the stone steps of their little Spanish-style house. Just as I realize—due to my little girl’s keen observation—that this is indeed a tornaboda, or Mexican wedding reception, the door bursts open.
We’re greeted by my cousin Maria. Followed by a loud mix of English and Spanish cheers and greetings. A large, colorful banner hangs above head. “Felicidades Nya y Liam!” it reads.
“Uh, Abu,” my daughter whisper-shouts to her abuelito. “Why isn’t my name on the sign? It was my birthday wish.”
Papi shrugs. “Blame Abuelita and Bisabuela.” He points her in the direction of his wife and mother in law. “No one consults me about anything. I only live here.”
While Ellie storms off to scold her grandmother and great-grandmother, Liam and I are assaulted by the aunts, uncles, cousins, and close friends of the family. San Miguel is a tightknit Hispanic community in North Las Vegas. Although most of the familiar faces filling the room are of no relation by blood, they are very much my family.
I’m kissed and squeezed half to death. My lips feel as if they will crack from all the forced smiling. We haven’t even made it through the foyer yet and already I’m exhausted from pretending.
“Sofia y Carlos! Buenos dias!” My husband greets my parents with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning once he’s finally released by my Tio Frank. I, on the other hand, feel like I’m walking in front of a firing squad.
“Oh, mija,” my petite, round mother, coos. She dabs at a tear, and my chest clenches tight. However over the top her reaction might be, she is my mother, and I’ve never been able to stand seeing her upset.