When I realized he was still too discombobulated to move, I retreated to his side, grabbed his arm and hauled him toward the back door. “Come on, old man. Let’s see what the master bedroom where you’re going to make sweet love to your wife for the rest of your life looks like.”
That got him to move. We thoroughly checked each room, and with each one we entered, this smile would spread across Pick’s face as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. He’d make little comments about which one would be Julian’s or Skylar’s room, or Chloe’s, though I had no idea who Chloe was. But I didn’t really need to understand—it was the growing excitement emanating off my brother that was awesome. He had a future, family, and now the perfect home to look forward to. I was happy for him.
And extremely jealous.
I kind of didn’t want to go back to my apartment after that, and I didn’t have to work that evening. There was no band practice. It was as if I had nothing.
After Pick dropped me off and I jogged down the steps into my basement, I texted Remy to see if he wanted to grab something to eat with me. It was nearing the noon hour and I’d skipped breakfast. My stomach was growling. It sounded like the perfect plan to me.
But he wrote back, saying he had to work, so I called him a loser, and tossed my phone onto my coffee table. Slumping onto my sofa, I stared at my television, not really in the mood to watch anything. I didn’t even want to play Call of Duty, because it’d been more fun when I’d done that with Sticks.
Ugh. I needed a life. Dropping my head back, I stared up at the ceiling as my stomach growled again. I wasn’t in the mood to prepare my own food so I decided now was as good a time as any to check out that family restaurant of Remy’s. Casta?eda’s or whatever it was called.
Slugging back to me feet, I gathered my phone, wallet, and keys and was out the door.
“Elisa!”
Tío Alonso’s voice jarred me from the daydream I was having. Hands buried in a bowl of floury dough, I spun around.
“Lo siento,” I immediately apologized before he could even scold me for whatever he was going to scold me for this time. “I’ll have these in the oven in five minutes.”
I’d been distracted ever since getting the call from Asher. He’d sounded lonely. I had no idea how I could tell that from one little text, but I still felt guilty about having to tell him no. I felt guilty about turning down his offer to hang out longer last night, too, and I felt guilty about lying to him, and falling for him and—God, I was just really extremely guilt ridden, okay?
But it would’ve made everything worse if I’d followed him home from the diner last night. I needed space from Asher. I was growing too many feelings, and it was only making things harder for me to handle.
“That’s not what I needed,” my uncle said, waving me forward. “I mean, yes, we need them, but you’re required out front now.”
When I only frowned in confusion, he sighed. “Juan and Diego couldn’t make it in today.”
I nodded, then scrunched up my eyebrows because I still wasn’t sure how this related to me. My mother’s two younger brothers Diego and Juan only came in once a week on Wednesdays to play with Big T and Luis—Diego’s son—in their special live mariachi music band. They liked to move from table to table to serenade the customers. While Tío Diego and Big T played guitars, Tío Juan strummed a harp, and Luis shook maracas.
Clapping his hands at me impatiently, Tío Alonso waved me to follow him. “Come on. We need some live entertainment. It’s Wednesday. The people are expecting music.”
I gasped with excitement, totally not expecting him to ask me. “And you want me to play the extra guitar? Or the harp?” Because, really, I could do either.
But my uncle scowled. “No, no. You sing. You have a beautiful voice. Tomás can accompany you on his guitar.”
My shoulders slumped. Of course he’d want me to sing...and probably something like “Ave Maria” or “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina,” too, something all soulful and depressing. He never let me play an instrument. The man was so freaking old school, he didn’t believe in females being in a mariachi band to play instruments. They could only sing.
Blah.
Not that I hated singing. I just despised his outlook on life sometimes.
“Come.” He clapped his hands as if beckoning a dog.
I sighed and turned back to my dough. “But what about my sopapillas?”
He scowled at my project for a second before waving me forward again. “Bring it with you. You can finish preparing them on the big worktable out front. Put on a cooking show while you sing.”
Heaving out another sigh, I picked up the bowl, then grabbed a baking sheet, a few other things I’d need, and followed him out the door with my flour-speckled apron and hairnet still on.
The dining room was crowded and loud, and no one paid me or my uncle any attention as I followed him to the large wooden worktable, where he took off a vase of flowers and began to clean the surface before I could use it. Standing just behind him and clutching my cooking supplies to my chest, I waited like a good girl until someone moved up behind me and murmured into my ear.