His reaction is priceless. He shudders and scrunches his face like a pug’s.
Yeah, I didn’t think so, but hey, it was decent of me to ask.
“I’ll pass,” he says on a chuckle—make that a chortle. Andrew’s definitely the kind of guy who chortles.
“Fine. See you in”—I look down at my wristwatch—“less than twenty-four hours, then.”
Giving me a half-assed wave, he says, “Yeah. Sure.” When the elevator doors slide shut, he’s still standing in the same spot.
I wish Andrew and I were closer, but we don’t have the same interests, and we’ve never been friends. It would be great if we interacted on some level other than a competitive one, but the more my parents shoved us together, the more we tried to pull ourselves apart. Okay, that last bit’s mostly my fault. I’m mature enough to own the blame.
Who knows? Maybe this project will give Andrew and me the separation we need to connect in other ways. Or maybe we’ll kill each other. Admittedly, it could go either way.
Chapter Three
Lina
Bliss and Ian are somewhere over the Atlantic, heading to their honeymoon destination, so I’m officially off the clock for the rest of the weekend. Today’s to-do list is short: restock the fridge, live in my sweats, and binge on Netflix. But first . . . pão com manteiga and cafezinho.
By unanimous consent, Brazilians must consume two items—and only two items—for breakfast each day: buttered bread and coffee. If a person deviates from this menu, they’re probably staging a coup. Or they’re first-generation Brazilian Americans like me, in which case, bring on the bacon-and-egg sandwich. This morning, though, I woke up craving a traditional Brazilian breakfast, and my favorite place to get one is Rio de Wheaton, the grocery store my mother and aunts operate out of a strip mall just off Georgia Avenue in Wheaton, Maryland. Side note: For years, I’ve begged them to change the name. For just as many years, they’ve ignored me.
It doesn’t take me long to get to the store from my apartment in College Park. The bell affixed to the door jingles when I enter, and everyone inside stops in mid-motion to inspect the newest arrival. Passing a display of Havaianas flip-flops wedged between the cassava flour and masking tape, I breathe in the sweet and buttery aroma of freshly baked bread permeating the air. A third of the store’s space is dedicated to a tiny café—literally consisting of three round tables and not enough chairs—where the sisters serve cafezinho brasileiro, or the equivalent of Starbucks on steroids, and pão, in this case, a warm, flaky roll served fresh throughout the day.
“Bom dia,” I call out. “Como vai?”
“Filha, um minuto,” my mother says with a smile before she returns her attention to the customer at the register. As she hands the man his change, she winks at him. “Obrigada.”
Hang on. Is my mother flirting? That’s a first, and I’d love to see more of it. I don’t think she’s dated anyone after divorcing my father over ten years ago. The flush on her cheeks is promising, though, and the way she’s leaning forward, her head cocked to the side, suggests she’s into this guy. Hallelujah! As far as I’m concerned, my mother deserves all the booty calls her heart desires to make up for my father’s lack of affection during their marriage.
Lugging a twenty-four-pack of Guaraná Brazilia in her hands, Viviane, my mother’s oldest sister and our family’s matriarch, marches my way and gives me a hurried kiss on each cheek. Tia Viviane operates in two modes: “busy” and “on overdrive.” Her body already moving in the direction of her next destination, she looks at me over her shoulder. “Tudo bem?”
“Everything’s fine,” I tell her. For a few seconds, I’m rooted to the spot in the center aisle as people shuffle past me without any real sense of direction. They don’t appear to be interested in buying anything; they’re just . . . here. Jaslene says Puerto Rican storeowners have bodega cats. Well, Brazilian storeowners tend to attract bodega people. Such as the guy from the neighborhood who’s enamored with my younger cousin Natalia. He’s currently pretending to watch futebol on the TV suspended from the corner of the café’s ceiling, while the object of his unrequited love, who is very engaged to be married, is wiping down the salgadinhos display. Coincidence? I think not.
“Oi mulher!” Natalia says as she drapes the dish towel over her shoulder. “Scrounging for free food again?”
“Respect your elders, brat.”
At warp speed, she grabs the dish towel, flicks it at my chest, and leans in, lowering her voice so only I can hear what she says next. “You have a white ring around your mouth. What is it? Pastry residue? Pre-come?”
I jump back and quickly wipe at my face before I realize she’s doubled over in glee. “Har-har. Hilarious as always.”
“Why was my observation even plausible, prima?” she asks through her laughter. “I mean, what the hell have you been doing in your spare time?”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The truth is, if there were a white ring around my mouth, there’d be no chance it came from a blowjob, considering I haven’t been with anyone for well over a year. And since my livelihood depends on working most weekends from March through September, I don’t have time to meet potential partners in any case. These days, my orgasms are self-induced, battery-powered, and delivered in under five minutes—if I’m really feeling sassy, I’ll stretch it to ten. So, yeah, no way it’s pre-come. Remnants of a powdered doughnut, though? Entirely possible. “Whatever, Natalia. My love life, or lack of it, isn’t open for discussion—or dissection.” I snap my fingers at her. “Now get me coffee and bread and make it quick.”
“Pfft. Get it yourself. It’s break time, and I need to call Paolo.” She removes her apron and hands it over, giving me her ever-present smirk. “You’re welcome to take my place for a bit. If you want to make yourself useful, that is.” A loud pop of her glossy lips punctuates her point, and then she waves goodbye as she saunters toward the door.
“Don’t forget we have an appointment on Wednesday,” I call after her.
“It’s my dress fitting. Of course I’ll be there,” she shouts back before she slips outside.
I throw the apron over my head, tie it around my waist, and wait for it in . . . three, two, one . . .
“Wash your hands,” my mother warns.
Every. Time. As if I don’t know better. But do I snap back at her? Of course not. I value my life as much as the next person. “Will do, Mãe.” I look around the store for my other aunt’s short, springy curls. “Where’s Tia Izabel?”
My mother’s other older sister is the quietest of the bunch—and the least interested in running the store.
“She went to run a few errands,” my mother says.
Mãe’s still busy at the register, so I sneak a kiss on her cheek, then stride to the back. After my hands are properly washed and sanitized, I return to the counter and use tongs to swipe a bread roll; I pop a piece into my mouth and sigh in contentment. Definitely worth the drive.
My mother finally breaks free of her register duties and slips a hand around my waist. “How was the wedding? This was the one with the green dress, right?”