I’d like to get rid of the cable bill we’d taken on, but my mama sat in front of that used TV watching the Spanish channel most of the day, and I felt guilty to think of her with absolutely nothing to do. I tried to encourage her to get out and do the grocery shopping, or even take a short walk, but she didn’t show any interest.
I worried about her. Although she’d never been a particularly happy person, I’d watched her slide slowly into deeper depression since she’d ceased working. But at the same time, I couldn’t allow her to live in a constant state of physical pain if I could prevent it. She rarely complained about her back anymore and I took a small measure of pride in that. We still weren’t close, but when we’d moved, she hadn’t set up her shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe. I’d hesitantly asked her why but she’d only shrugged. Although I knew it might mean she’d given up all hope of her prayers being answered, I still breathed a sigh of relief. After all, her “prayers” had done nothing but hurt me, and there was no way to turn back the clock and undo what had already been done—Our Lady of Guadalupe could probably create many miracles, but the reversal of time wasn’t one of them as far as I’d ever heard. And if she had an in with God, she hadn’t used it on my mama’s behalf.
I thought back to the days my mama had worked on the farms and remembered how much happier she’d seemed, despite the hard labor. And I, too, had loved being among people who spoke my mother tongue, who told jokes in Spanish and called me endearments their mothers might have called them: peque?a, little one, florecita, little flower, mu?equita, baby doll. And though we’d all been poor and desperate, living in such a limited world, I’d felt beloved among them. I’d felt a shared community and kinship that I’d never felt since. And I’d known my mama felt the same way. I’d loved watching her smile as she chatted with the other women who worked beside her.
I was so involved in my own thoughts, my mind lost in the fields of strawberries and lettuce and tomatoes, I didn’t see Preston and Cole walk in until they were standing in front of me where I was behind the front counter, a syrup bottle in one hand and a warm, wet cloth in the other.
“We heard you serve a mean stack of pancakes here,” I heard drawled in a familiar voice. My head rose quickly, my eyes widening, and a smile breaking out on my face to see Cole leaning on the counter in front of me. Preston was standing behind him, his hands in his pockets, and I let out a small gasp, putting the syrup bottle and rag down on the counter and rushing around it.
“There’s my girl,” Cole said as he scooped me up in his arms, laughing as he planted his lips on mine. I laughed against his mouth at the unexpected kiss, squeezing him back. Over his shoulder, Preston looked away. I didn’t miss the flash of hurt that moved over his face and I felt suddenly awkward. I had greeted Preston with a physical show of affection, too, but I hadn’t expressed it with such exuberance. Of course, the situation had been different—I’d just been made to feel like garbage by his grieving mother. Dirty. Less. And not only that, but my feelings for Preston had always been different: deeper, more intense, desperate even. My love for Cole was easier and less complicated. We’d always been able to pick right up where we left off. With Preston, that was more difficult because I felt as if every system inside of me was racing just at his nearness.
Cole put me down and took one step back, his eyes moving down my uniform-clad body. “God, you look good.”
I laughed. “Yeah? You like this?” I teased, running a hand over my boxy, blue apron and straightening my nametag.
“Yeah, I do. It’s proof that you can make anything look good.”
I rolled my eyes, my smile fading as I took his hand, squeezing it. “Hey, I’m sorry about your dad.”
He nodded. “Thanks. Pres said you came out to the farm.”
I hoped the flush of embarrassment at the memory didn’t show in my face. “Oh, I did but . . . I couldn’t stay long. I just wanted to pay my respects.”
I went back around the counter and put two menus down, nodding my head to the open seats. “Hi, Preston. You’re going to eat, right?” I said softly as he stepped forward.
They both sat down, Preston giving me a tiny lip quirk and a nod. “Hi, Lia.”
“Surprise me,” Cole said, shooting me a grin and tossing the menu in front of him aside.
“Two eggs over-easy with wheat toast and a side of bacon,” Preston said, scooting his own menu away. I smiled as I turned away to put in their order, thinking about how they were such mirror images of each other. How could everything about them physically be so similar yet they were so opposite of the other?
I still had a few tables I was waiting on and so I chatted with Preston and Cole between taking orders and pouring drinks for my other customers. As I was re-pouring coffee for Preston, Cole said, “Hey, Lia, we’re going to have a small get-together this weekend. A barn party. Will you come?”
Preston looked at his brother as if this was the first he was hearing about it. Cole winked at him. “Our mom’s leaving tomorrow to visit her sister who couldn’t be at the funeral because of an illness. We thought we’d take advantage of having the place to ourselves before we really need to get down to farm business.”
“Aren’t we too old for a barn party?” Preston asked quietly.
“One is never too old for a barn party,” Cole replied. “We’ll get a few kegs, do some cheers to Warren Sawyer, play some country music like the good Central Valley farm boys our father raised us to be. It’ll be a far better memorial service than that uncomfortable tear-fest at our house. Come on, it’ll be great. Dad would have wanted it.”
Preston sighed and shook his head, taking a sip of coffee. It was pretty clear that when Cole said “we” what he really meant was “I.” Using their father’s memory to get Preston to agree to what he wanted was sort of manipulative, but that wasn’t for me to point out.
“Come on, Lia,” Cole said. “I’ll pick you up.”
“I, um . . .” I bit my lip, feeling uncomfortable about going to a party in the Sawyers’ barn. I’d heard about barn parties. Apparently it was a “thing” around here, and I’d even been invited to a few, but I’d always declined, not comfortable socializing that way with the other kids at my high school. I’d grown slightly more confident hanging out with others my age, or from IHOP, but I worried no one I knew would be at their party, and I’d linger on the sidelines. Alone. Watching.
Watching Preston talk to other women.
Preston had dug back into his food, and Cole was watching me with an expectant look on his face. “Please?” He gave me that irresistible grin of his.
I let out a breath. “I never could resist you, Cole Sawyer.” I laughed, rolling my eyes at the same time. “All right. I’ll write down my address.”
He grinned. “Great.” I glanced at Preston, but he was intent on his food, his jaw rigid.
“Great,” I murmured, wondering if I’d just made a big mistake.