Chapter Four
Cris
Date numero dos happened the following Friday, aka tonight, at Benji’s urging for me to “get back out there.” He insisted a delay would make me more skittish. I figured since I was as skittish as a rabbit who’d encountered a cat in the carrot bed on my date last week—and ran away like one—he had a valid point.
“I can’t even call it a date,” I comment, half humiliated and half relieved. I’m at Benji’s, bellied up to the kitchen counter, my shoes tossed onto the floor, and a margarita glass in my hand. I lick the salted rim and take a tart, cold drink as he portions out shredded-chicken enchiladas, smothered with the amazing white cheese sauce the local Mexican place is known for, onto our plates. He sets foil containers filled with Spanish rice and refried beans between us so we can serve ourselves. Before he takes his seat next to me, he tops off our margaritas and tears open the paper bag of tortilla chips for easy access.
“Maybe I’m cursed,” I say as I scoop rice onto my plate.
“You’re not cursed.” He takes the rice and trades me for the beans.
“He texted me twice to say he was on his way. Twice!” I point to him with the spoon and then set the container aside. “Did you order guacamole?”
“What am I, an animal?” he asks rhetorically before handing me a small Styrofoam container loaded with rich, yummy green guacamole. “Extra spicy.”
I almost blurt “I love you” to express my appreciation for the guac, but I bite my tongue, suddenly feeling awkward.
I cut a corner off a steaming enchilada. “I don’t know why he texted me twice and didn’t bother showing up. Unless he was in an accident.” A scenario flits through my head but I promptly dismiss it. I have that bad habit with my brothers too, but they’ve earned my worry. This jerkwad is not going to raise my cortisol levels.
Benji halts my fork’s incline. “What are you doing?”
“Eating?”
“If you put that into your mouth without salsa, I’ll have to report you.”
Properly corrected, I lower my fork and wait while he dollops fresh tomatillo salsa on top. “I was remiss,” I say after I swallow the bite. I wash it down with my drink. “This is a good margarita.”
“I can’t cook but Archer taught me how to mix a cocktail. Or was it Nate?” He regards the ceiling for a second before giving up. “I don’t know. One of them.”
At the mention of the Owen brothers, I smile. The Owens have been good to me. I’m lucky to have piggybacked onto a family with healthy parental units. I didn’t have great examples growing up, what with my mom gallivanting off with a revolving door of deadbeat husbands.
To be fair, Dennis’s dad was a great guy. When Mom moved to Vegas, Dennis was nine years old. His dad had died at work the year prior. Heart attack. I always thought, had he lived, Larry Brunswick would have supported his son when Mom didn’t. He was very involved in Dennis’s life.
Manuel, my oldest brother, has a father who isn’t a deadbeat but definitely isn’t involved in a personal sense. Jake L. Rivera is a criminal defense lawyer. An incredibly successful one. He’s sent money over the years, and he paid for Manuel’s college, but beyond that he doesn’t believe he has parental duties. Now that Manuel has graduated with a bachelor’s degree in business and has opted to pursue his master’s, attorney Jake L. Rivera can’t be bothered with paying for more school.
Timothy is my youngest brother and might be the most brilliant. His father, Clay, lived with us until Timothy was born. One day he went out for cigarettes and never came back. Timothy doesn’t remember his father, which is probably for the best. Almost one hundred percent of his four-year college plan has been paid for by scholarships. He’s taken two quarters so far. He’s always been easygoing and rarely caused problems, which might explain why I didn’t lose my mind trying to raise him alongside my other two (more headstrong) brothers.
My own father’s identity is a mystery. Mom described him as the “most attractive man on the planet.” After he knocked her up, he left and she never saw him again. Sometimes I wonder if he was the one who drove my mom to marry and marry and marry again, as if searching for that kind of elusive first love.
Initially, when I was an intern at Owen Construction and working directly under Benji’s dad, William, I tried to manage both school and work. Something had to give. And since my quest was to raise three strong men to be good fathers and decent humans, I dropped out of school and kept what became a well-paying job.
I don’t think William or Lainey or the other Owens knew how much child-rearing I was doing back then. I didn’t share a lot of details. I worried if they found out how distracted I was at home, they’d never hire me on. I was desperate to stay at Owen Construction. I couldn’t think of any echelons higher than working for the Owen family. They’re well-known, their reputations and good works preceding them.
I didn’t expect sympathy back then—didn’t want it either. I was grateful to have a job (my internship quickly turned into a paid position), and when Benji hired me I was thrilled to have a pay raise and move to a more casual work environment—Benji’s awesome house.
Which is probably why lounging at his breakfast bar and chatting over enchiladas feels like a natural part of my day.
“Well, it’s very good,” I comment about the margarita.
“I’m sorry, Cris.” Benji, suddenly sincere, places his hand on my knee. It isn’t a sexual touch or an inappropriate one. It should be bland at worst, friendly at best. So why do I feel electricity shoot from his fingertips, up my thighs, and straight to my—
I fake a cough, moving my leg out from under his hand. He hops up to pour me a glass of water. I wave him off and take a gulp of my margarita instead. “I’m fine. Honest. And why are you sorry?”
He takes his seat and regards me like I’m daft, or suffering from short-term memory loss. “Because you were stood up.”
“Oh, that.” I momentarily forgot why I was here. I’d rather be here than out with that A-hole anyway.
“His loss.”