Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
But Kyle and his crew are nowhere to be seen.
Whatever. My little fantasy about Kyle, and the tiny bit of anticipation I allowed to build up while thinking of his attempt to back up his bragging, has worn off and I’m barely running on fumes at this point.
I make it through a hefty stack of pots, my irritation growing with every circular scrub of my steel wool. Everyone else has gone home for the day, yet here I am, still working my ass off. One dish at a time, one day at a time, over and over, yet barely scraping by.
As I set my rice cooker to soak, there’s a knock at my door. Expecting it to be Kyle and having no more energy to fight with him, or fight my own physical needs, I don’t bother turning around and instead, just shout in the general direction of the front door, “Fuck off.”
“Excuse me, Daniela?” a male voice answers.
Shit. It’s not Kyle.
That’s my older brother, Xavier.
I look heavenward, wondering why God hates me so much. Xavier is the last thing I need today. Still, I grab a dishtowel and dry my hands as I walk toward the door.
“Come on in,” I tell him as he barges in without invitation before I can get there. The knock was apparently nothing more than a simple formality. I’m not surprised. Xavier likes to think that he’s my father’s stand-in and that I’m some responsibility he has to bear until I have a man who’ll take over that role. They’re both traditional like that. Or at least, they’d call it traditional. I’d call it misogynistic. But you know, to-may-to, to-mah-to.
He’s dressed sharply, in gray slacks with a crisp line down the front and a button-down blue shirt that’s open at the collar to show his gold chain and has the sleeves rolled up to show his gold watch. His hair looks freshly styled, though I know he fixed it this morning before leaving the house. He works hard, but his job as a car salesman is more talking and desk sitting than sweating and actual labor, which is why he looks daisy-fresh and I look and smell like sunshine and salt. And not in a fun, beachy way.
Xavier doesn’t come around often, not to my house, so this can’t be good. For either of us. He’s likely here to lay down some antiquated law I’m supposed to obey, with talks of what I ‘should do’ and ‘could be’, and I’m in no mood to deal with his bullshit. He’s barely said three words and I can already tell this is going to go poorly.
Especially when he looks past me at the messy kitchen filled with half-clean and half-dirty dishes and frowns in distaste.
“How goes the serving of the poor, hungry masses?” he asks. He tries to flash his salesman’s smile, but he can’t hide the snark from me.
Xavier has always thought himself too good to serve, whether at the family restaurant, at home, or even now, in his own marriage. My sister-in-law, Mara, takes care of Xavier and their two kids, my niece, who’s six, and my nephew, who’s three. She seems truly happy with that arrangement, so I’m happy for her. But I have no interest in that type of relationship. Actually, put me down for negative interest in that.
Or any relationship, I remind myself.
“Great.” That’s enough conversation on that topic as far as I’m concerned, so I turn, giving him my back as I return to the kitchen and my dishes.
I don’t know why he bothers to ask. It’s the same answer I always give him. Even when I was starting out and trying to figure out how to make this unusual setup work, I never let Xavier know it was anything other than perfect. If he had the slightest hint that anything was wrong, he’d tell me to get a ‘real job’, or even better, get married and take care of a husband and then kids. In his mind, that’s what I’m destined for, so why fight it?
And I most definitely won’t share that I’m having some temporary issues while Kyle’s working next door. It’d make Xavier’s day for me to admit defeat and follow the path he thinks I should take.
“Hmm,” he hums, not believing me for a minute. Thankfully, that’s not why he’s here and he gets to the point quickly, probably ready to disinfect himself from the molecules of food and detergent floating in the air. “Mama and Papa are worried about you.” He looks around for a place to lean his butt, and when he doesn’t find a spot he deems pristine enough for his hundred-dollar slacks, he settles for propping his shoulder against the side of the fridge. “You haven’t been by in so long. To hear Mama tell it, you’ve all but abandoned them.”