“Once my agent did try to sell me to a company by telling themLa Culebrawas my grandfather. You know what they told her? If I was his illegitimate daughter’s daughter, they’d want me. Or if I were anything but Hispanic, it’d be a story. They made it seem like I cheated to get to where I was, like his genes and my Hispanic heritage immediately gave me an advantage. As if I didn’t bust my ass day after day, working harder than my teammates to improve.”
I took a calm breath and blinked back the tears of frustration. It had been so long since I had made myself feel so small. “I’ve had to work twice as hard as everyone else to prove to myself that I didn’t get here because he’s my mom’s dad.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner but,” I shrugged, “I just… I want to be me. I want people to like me for me, not because of who my brother or my grandfather is, or what I freaking wear… I would have told you eventually. Someday.”
In the five minutes it took from that point until we were pulling into the parking lot of the family-owned restaurant, Germany didn’t say a word. I was familiar enough with him to recognize when he was pissed off or annoyed, and I couldn’t sense either of those emotions from him. He was simply silent.
I didn’t feel like talking about it much anymore either, so I didn’t force the conversation. Talking about that old man always gave me indigestion and a heavy heart. It really nailed home how lucky I was to have the people I had in my life.
We didn’t speak to each other as we met up with my family; they were waiting by the entrance. We didn’t say anything as we walked into the establishment and took two seats next to each other. My dad was seated at the head of the table, my mom on one side with Ceci beside her and her friend at the opposite end.
“What would you like to drink?” The waiter had started with my mom and made his way around, getting to Kulti before me.
I’m not positive what I was expecting, but it wasn’t “Water.”
“And you,señorita?” the waiter asked me.
I’d been planning on getting a margarita because that was usually my treat, but I had a possible drinking problem sitting right next to me and I was driving. “Water too, please.”
My mom started talking about one of her brothers calling earlier to wish Dad a happy birthday and how he was planning on coming to visit within the next month, when the waiter came back with our drinks and to take our orders.
“For you?” he asked Kulti.
The jerk-off did it.
“Tacos,” he paused dramatically and I had to be the only one that really caught it, especially when he knocked his knee into mine beneath the table and shot me a side look, “al Carbon.”
I snorted and tapped my knee back against his, curling my lips over my teeth to keep from smiling. I barely remembered rattling off my meal because I’d asked, knowing damn well they didn’t, “Do you have any German Chocolate Cake?”
Why would they have German Chocolate Cake at a Mexican restaurant? They wouldn’t, but I was going to be a pest and look like a moron at the same time.
“Umm,no.We havesopapillasandflan?” the man offered.
Before I got a chance to answer, someone pretended to drop his napkin on the floor and in the process of bending over to retrieve the imaginary item, decided to dig his sharp elbow right into the meaty part of my thigh.
It lasted all of a second, but the squawk that came out of my mouth was so ugly even my dad, the king of ugly noises, made a face at me.
“We don’t know her,” Dad said to the waiter in Spanish.
I laughed and turned to Kulti, way more amused than I was embarrassed, “You’re going to get it later, bratwurst,” I muttered under my breath.
He knocked his knee against mine again, his actions saying so much more than any words right after getting out of the car could have. Where the hell had this playful man come from, I had no idea, but I loved it.
I reached beneath the table and squeezed his denim-covered knee.
“Who wants to give me my present first?” my dad asked once the waiter had walked away.
Mom and I met each other’s eyes from across the table and we both barely shook our heads. Who asks that? My dad. My dad asks for his presents.
Mom turned her attention back to the brand-new fifty-seven-year-old and winked. “I’ll give you your present at home.”
I cringed.
From down the table, Ceci said, “Mom!”
Then I added, “Gross.”
Our dad laughed but it was Mom that gave us both a frown. “Nasty girls,” she said in Spanish. “That’s not what I meant!”