“What’s up, Sammy?” she asked. “How’s Erica’s new job going?”
Maybe if Sammy started talking about something else, he’d forget whatever bullshit he came over here to say. Erica was his seventeen-year-old daughter, and she wasn’t at the barbecue because she’d just started working at the Gap on weekends to save money for college.
He shrugged. “She’s happy to have the clothing discount.”
“That’s good.”
Then Sammy waggled his eyebrows at her. “So, when’s McIntyre gonna put a ring on it? Or did he just mack and tire?”
“Oh my god.” Jasmine pressed her fingers to her eyes.
“Get it? Like he got tired of y—”
“Shut up, Sammy.” Michelle shot back. “You’re just jealous ’cuz you love that douchebag’s music.”
“Michelle! Language!” Esperanza shouted from inside the kitchen.
“The kids are all downstairs, Abuela!”
“This.” Jasmine bolted up from her chair and jabbed a finger in Sammy’s direction. “This is why I live three thousand miles away.”
“Aww, Jas, I’m just messing with you,” Sammy called after her as she stormed back into the house.
Jasmine didn’t know where she was going—maybe upstairs, maybe the living room, maybe out the front door and back to the hotel where she could brood about Ashton in peace. Hell, maybe even all the way back to California. But Esperanza intercepted her on her way through the kitchen.
She placed her hands on Jasmine’s cheeks and peered into her face.
“Muchacha, are you using that snail eye cream I told you about?” Esperanza sounded deeply concerned. “You look tired.”
“Sí, Abuela,” Jasmine replied through gritted teeth. “I use eye cream every day.”
“And night?” Esperanza raised her eyebrows, waiting on Jasmine’s answer.
Oh, for the love of—“Yes, every night.”
“Bueno.” Esperanza patted her cheeks and went back to stirring the rice on the stove.
Her grandmother was obsessed with skincare, and now that she’d discovered text messages and online shopping, she was forever sending Jasmine links to anti-aging products. Excessive nagging was how Esperanza showed she cared, but Jasmine couldn’t deny she was feeling worn-out today, and it probably showed.
“Give la nena a break.” Willie Rodriguez, Jasmine’s beloved grandfather, eased up behind his wife and dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “Jasmine’s eyes are beautiful.”
“Thanks, Abuelo.” Jasmine gave him a grateful smile. He was barely taller than Jasmine, with brown skin, a mustache that had gone white in recent years, and the kindest face she’d ever known.
The door behind Jasmine opened. Michelle entered the kitchen and signaled for Ava to get away from the oven.
Esperanza held up her hands like she was backing off, when in truth she never backed off from anything. “Yo lo sé, pero it’s never too early to start fighting wrinkles.”
Willie sent Jasmine a wink, and she took that as her cue to beat a hasty retreat. Jasmine ducked out of the kitchen with the Primas of Power on her heels.
“Basement?” Michelle suggested. “I stashed two bottles of wine down there.”
“Basement,” Jasmine agreed. She’d take her chances with the children, who at least acknowledged that being on TV was a real job.
“Let’s get day drunk.” Ava grabbed plastic cups and they trooped downstairs to hide until the food was ready.
WHEN ASHTON DECIDED to put distance between himself and Jasmine, he hadn’t meant miles. But talking about the Incident had triggered a deep need to see for himself that his family was okay. So after waking up early in her bed, he’d left her a note, gone back to his room to shower and change, then caught an early flight to San Juan.
Once again, his family had been surprised and happy to see him, although his father had pointedly remarked that it would be nice to know about these visits in advance. Abuelita Bibi fussed over him, as she always had, and Abuelito Gus had a lot of opinions to share about the latest Mission Impossible movie.
Being home was a relief. Seeing them safe and whole was a relief. But the restlessness that propelled him here refused to abate.
After they left for the restaurant, Ashton tried to lose himself in playing with Yadiel, like he’d done on his last visit, but all day long, one thought followed him.
He’d told her.
He still couldn’t believe it. Aside from Yadiel, the Incident was his most closely guarded secret. He didn’t even like referencing it with people who already knew. And while he wanted to blame his confession on gin or stress, those were lies.
The simple truth was that he trusted Jasmine.
And that scared him. If he’d trusted her with one of his secrets, it made it too easy to think about trusting her with the other.
That secret was currently clomping down the stairs. Ashton looked up from where he sat on the sofa, idly watching a baseball game while he waited for his son to “do something” in his bedroom. Yadiel approached him with an armload of books and dumped them unceremoniously and without proper warning onto Ashton’s lap.
Ashton jolted as the books—most of them hardcovers with sharp corners—landed on his thighs and groin.
“Papi.” Yadiel’s voice held a distinct tone of decree that immediately made Ashton suspicious. It was the same way the kid had announced that he wanted an Xbox.
“¿Sí?”
“I want to go to New York.” Yadiel said it in English, like he was proving he was ready for the trip, placing emphasis on every other word.
Yadi had a bad habit of saying what he wanted with force instead of just asking in the form of a question and adding “por favor,” so Ashton raised his eyebrows. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
“¿Puedo ir a Nueva York, pleeeeeeease?” The words spilled out in a rush as Yadiel clasped his hands together. “Look, I’ve been reading all these books about it.”
Sure enough, the books scattered on Ashton’s lap were a collection of stories like Taxi Dog and A Walk in New York mixed with photo-heavy travel guides for kids.
Ashton held up Taxi Dog. “I hate to break it to you, mijo, but I’ve never seen a dog in a taxi.”
Yadiel rolled his eyes. “It’s just a story, Dad.”
Dad, huh? The kid must really want to go if he was breaking out “Dad.”
On the one hand, Ashton loved the idea of showing his son around the city he was coming to enjoy. There were so many things Yadi would get a kick out of, from the museums, to the Broadway shows, to the architecture.
But the idea of his son wandering around the huge, crowded city made him sweat. He wouldn’t be alone, of course, but what if something happened? There were so many things that could go wrong.
There were practical considerations, too, like where they would stay, and making sure Abuelita Bibi could get around, and whether Ignacio would want to close the restaurant, and—
And his son was looking at him with undisguised longing on his face. Yadi wanted this. And it was within Ashton’s power to give his son something that would make him happy.
How could he say no?
Especially since the only real reason why he’d say no was fear. He couldn’t let that get in the way of letting his son live his life.
So even though it terrified him, he said, “Okay, Yadi. You can come to New York.”
Yadiel whooped and cheered, leaping all over Ashton and the sofa and knocking the books to the floor in his excitement. Ashton laughed and tackled the kid to the cushions, sparking a father/son wrestling match.
In the end, Yadiel won, standing with one foot on Ashton’s chest and crowing his victory. Ashton, sprawled out on the rug, wondered how the hell he was going to pull this off.
That night, after Yadiel y los viejitos had gone to bed, Ashton sat at the kitchen table and accepted the cold beer Ignacio passed him. It had been a long day—hell, a long week, a long summer—and he was tired.
Ignacio sat across from him. They clinked their bottles together and drank. “How’s the production?” he asked.
Ashton scratched at the edges of the bottle’s label, wet and peeling with condensation, to keep from picking at his own fingers. “I think it’s going well.”
Ignacio took a long swig. “Are you still keeping to yourself?”
Ashton sighed. “Not like I was before, no.”
He didn’t mention Jasmine, or how twisted up he was about her. His father was easygoing, and even when Ashton had suddenly found himself in the role of single dad, Ignacio had never been judgmental. But Ashton didn’t know how to talk about Jasmine with him. Not yet.
Leaning back in the chair, Ignacio crossed his arms and sent Ashton an impassive look. “You can’t be alone forever, mijo.”
“I’m not alone.” Ashton spread his hands to encompass the house, even though the rest of the family was sleeping upstairs. “I have all of you.”
Ignacio just shook his head slowly, and when he spoke, the words were laced with a resigned sadness. “It’s not the same.”
Even though she’d never lived in this house—Ashton had grown up in Guaynabo—at times, the absence of his mother could be keenly felt, like he expected her to turn the corner into the kitchen at any moment. Sometimes the feeling of loss faded, more like a forgotten task nagging at his attention, or a misplaced item waiting to be found. But it never truly went away.