When she let me go, she turned to the girl behind her.
“This is Jet, Eddie’s girl,” she said and then turned back to me, “This is my youngest daughter, Gloria.” We greeted each other. I didn’t bother tel ing her I wasn’t Eddie’s anything (or, at least, trying not to be) and I noticed Gloria had a dimple just like Eddie’s.
“You two are grocery shopping,” Gloria said and it was obvious this fact was borderline hilarious to her.
Blanca nodded her head with approval, as if they’d caught us at Dil ard’s fil ing out our wedding list. Then Blanca’s eyes lit. “You’l come to my house for dinner tonight,” she announced.
No.
No, no, no.
“We’re having dinner at Jet’s, with her Mom,” Eddie answered and I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
For about a nanosecond.
Blanca’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Then she burst out in a flood of Spanish and I caught the words, madre de ella, primera, and comida and I knew I was in trouble.
Blanca ended on, “Then you come to my house tomorrow.” No!
No, no, no, a thousand times no.
I opened my mouth to say something, but Eddie got there first.
“We’l be there at six.”
My mouth stayed open.
This was going to put a major crimp in my plans to keep Eddie at arm’s length (that would be Gul iver’s arm if I was Lil iputian).
“Bring your mother, Chiquita. I can’t wait to meet her,” Blanca said.
How come everyone was after me but no one could kil me or maim me? It would make my life so much easier.
“Mom would love that,” I told her, and she would. It would be a meeting of the minds. A meeting in hel .
Gloria was smiling, ful -on.
“Maybe we should invite the cousins,” she suggested.
I turned and glared at Eddie, thinking maybe he’d help, but instead he wrapped his arm around my neck and pul ed me into his side.
Blanca stared at us with an expression that could only be described as blissful.
Then she snapped out of it.
“Gloria, get another cart,” Blanca ordered, “we’l have to go back through. Hasta ma?ana,” she said and she was off, on such a mission, she went without any kisses good-bye.
I turned to Eddie and, as his arm was around my neck, this put us ful -frontal so I tilted my head back. “You could have done something about that,” I snapped.
“Like what?” he answered, his face a lot closer than was comfortable.
I tried to pul back but it didn’t work.
“I don’t know. Politely declined somehow.”
“I’m having dinner with your mother before you have dinner with mine. Come hel or high water, Mamá is gonna one-up your mother somehow. Trust me, sooner is better than later, it gives her less time to plan.” Without thinking, I said, “My life sucks.” Eddie tensed.
“It’s dinner with my mother, it isn’t the end of the world.” It was for me.
“That’s not what I meant.”
It was, in a way, but not in the bad way Eddie took it.
His eyes got serious.
“We need to have another chat,” he said.
“No!” I nearly shouted, panic stricken, “No more chats.” His brows drew together.
I tried to calm down and said, “At least, not until I figure out what I have to say.”
“How long is that gonna take?” he asked.
About four lifetimes.
Of course, I was going to have to speed it up.
I needed my life to get back to its normal, everyday boringness.
But first, I needed to go to the liquor store and buy a bottle of Jack. I didn’t drink Jack but I thought now was a very good time to take up bourbon.
Instead of imparting any of this information on Eddie, I said, “I don’t know.”
Then he said, “You’ve got until tomorrow.” My mouth dropped open, then I snapped it shut, then I said, “You’re giving me a deadline?”
He loosened his arm but held me around the neck and pushed the cart with his other hand, moving us forward.
“You aren’t exactly a fast mover and any time I give you, you’l use to retreat. That’s not gonna happen. So yeah, I’m giving you a deadline.”
I decided it was a good time to stop talking.
We made it through the rest of the shopping ordeal without incident until we hit the check-out line. I wasn’t without incident until we hit the check-out line. I wasn’t paying attention and before I knew it, Eddie slid his credit card into the card-reading machine.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Paying for your groceries,” he answered.
I stared. Then I glared. “You can’t pay for my groceries,” I said.
“Why not?”
I didn’t know.
“I don’t know,” Then it hit me, “They aren’t your groceries,” I finished.
“I’m eating some of them, aren’t I?”
This was true, he was.
He turned from me, back to the cashier.
Guess that conversation was over.
I bent over and pounded my head on the little check-writing desk.
“I’d let him pay for my groceries,” the cashier decided to throw in.