Date: Sunday, May 19th, 2013
Time: 3:41pm
Location: Maria Armando's House, Shinjuku Heights
I can't believe how fast the time has been flying these days. Already, we've been together for three months, depending on if you count our ill-fated bar date after the Fawles case. Since there was no clear day one for us, when the conversation of an anniversary came up, we had both decided that it counted.
It's funny how Dahlia Hawthorne and our disappointment over her release was a large part of what brought us together, and yet, now we hardly ever worked on her case. We did try for a while though; we just kept getting distracted. Then, of course, we also hit a dead end. We, and hopefully everyone with a legal brain, knew that she was guilty after that case, but finding evidence to definitively pin her down was challenging. We said we'd pick it back up some day, really turning over every stone to find the one break in the case, but we've yet to find the time or the motivation.
In fairness to us, we have been preoccupied. He continues to take on one-two criminal cases a week and Mr. Grossberg, being as impressed as he is with Diego's increasing win record with my assistance, has allowed me to provide legal support for his cases, breaking the monotony of my days. Previously I had been offering my support unbilled, during what should have been my free time.
It was nice, getting a chance to flex my legal muscles and feel like I was doing something important. Contract work, as vital as it is to the monetary side of business, is not really stimulating; once you've done one mortgage, you've done them all. Really, I should have ended my strike from criminal cases by now, but this arrangement provided some of that criminal trial experience that I had previously craved as a brand-new attorney, without having to step foot in a court room again. I knew no other case was likely to be that bad, but my stomach was still in knots when I thought about it or walking onto a gruesome crime scene.
These criminal cases took the majority of our time, and the rest? Well, the rest of the time we were just together. Usually at his place, but sometimes on formal dates when we had the time and the energy. This relationship was still only half as long as my longest relationship, and yet it felt significantly more important. With that last relationship, we saw each other a few times a week. With Diego, we were in each other's pockets so much that our three months was roughly equivalent to a year and a half of a regular relationship.
Reina often joked that she was the perpetual third wheel at the lunch table now, but she said that she'd rather that than sit with anyone else. We tried our best to not be so couple-y with each other when we weren't alone but, according to her, it wasn't enough. We were just in our own little bubble.
I really liked being in that bubble. I felt like I was a teenager again. Like I could be as open and as romantic as I was then before that optimism got destroyed by harsh experiences. I still kept one pinky toe out the door though, just in case. Old habits die hard, and I couldn't be 100% uninhibited, as much as I tried. He should still be proud of that achievement, if he knew where I had started. I typically kept one foot out the door or just left the door closed, period.
About two weeks ago, while we were goofing around and cuddling together on his couch, he told me he loved me. He looked embarrassed after he said it, something I didn't see from him very often. I saw him irritated with himself or perplexed or exasperated but not embarrassed the way I, unfortunately, seemed to get quite frequently.
He apologized, saying that it just "slipped out" and that he wanted me to say it first because he didn't want to make me uncomfortable. I paused, for too long probably, processing before saying it back to him.
We've been saying it to each other ever since: when we text, say goodbye, or go to sleep, but I do feel a little uneasy about it. I know I feel that way, I do. I've enjoyed seeing him all the time too; he didn't twist my arm. I'm just always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It was silly, I know. If he was just going to just turn heel, the time to do so would have been about a month ago, both of us getting food poisoning on our takeout order and spending almost 24 hours in and out of his bathroom. We got a lot closer, a lot quicker than we hoped that weekend, much to our chagrin. I guess there was one other time I saw him embarrassed, now that I think about it. Luckily, with the two of us in the same boat, we were able to laugh it off, both of us swearing off takeout, saying we'd cook our own food from then on. That pact lasted all of two days, returning to our usual habits the moment we were back at work and were too exhausted at the end of the day to cook.
Another perfect time would have been last week, when me, Diego, and Lana went out dancing at this nightclub. He was hesitant to go in the first place, saying that those kinds of places "weren't his scene". He mostly stood around, sipping his drink, a whiskey on the rocks since they didn't have Irish coffee there, and somewhat swaying while me and Lana danced to the loud and pulsating house music.
When he went to the bar to get us all another round, Lana pointed to him. "You have a good egg there," she said. I had looked over at him too and saw that a woman, a pretty one, had gone up to him and placed her arm around his waist. He had briskly removed it and, wordlessly, without looking at her, walked over a few feet to get away. I told her that it didn't count for much. He knew I was here and could watch him. She laughed. "Who hurt you?" she asked teasingly.
Surely, if he was only putting up a front, he also wouldn't have invited me to his mother's house today. Every Sunday, I would stay at his place and just watch tv or read for a few hours while he visited with his mom. He told me that I was welcome to join at any point if I wanted to, but I always declined, saying I didn't want to intrude.
Today was his birthday though and, traditionally, his mom would make him dinner and cake to celebrate. I didn't want to miss out on his birthday, so I accepted the invitation for the first time. His mom worked until 3pm at the hospital today so we said we would stop by after her shift.
Before driving over, I was nervous, agonizing over what I was going to wear and how to do my hair and makeup. He told me that his mother knew I wasn't catholic, and said that we'd skip mass today, so I didn't have to take that dress code into consideration. Since the weather was warm and sunny, I opted for a royal-blue floral sundress, some wedge sandals, and a light blue jean jacket. I put my hair in a single braid, and kept my jewelry and makeup minimal, not wanting to look overdone.
On the drive over, I was even more nervous, fidgeting with my nails and not responding much to conversation. Halfway through the drive, he grabbed my hand and held it, driving one handed the rest of the way to her house.
We walked hand-in-hand up the steps to her place, me dropping his hand reflexively after he knocked on her door. He chuckled. "Mamá isn't going to be scandalized seeing us hold hands," he teased.
I smiled slightly. "Right. I'm not thinking," I said shakily.
I looked at our surroundings as we waited for her to answer the door. Her house was quaint, a small bungalow, likely built in the 60s or 70s, but it was cute and well-maintained. The house's siding was a pale pea green, there were whitewashed shutters on all the windows, the small pathway connecting the front door to the driveway was cobblestone, and she had a thoughtful assortment of flowers lining the front of the house, all starting to, or already in, bloom.
After about twenty seconds, she answered the door. She was a small woman, barely five feet tall, if that, and just as slight as she was short. Based on what Diego told me, she was in her early 50s but looked much younger than that, her face being largely wrinkle-free and still relatively taut. Unlike many women in her age group, she kept her hair long, going several inches past her shoulders and styled half up/half down. She must have been going gray by now, but her hair was nearly the same dark brown shade as Diego's, so she probably dyed it closely to her natural color. She was dressed fairly formally, wearing a tea-length periwinkle chiffon skirt with accordion pleats. She had tucked a cream-colored silky button-up blouse into her skirt, had some skinny gold bangles on her wrists, and a gold cross pendant necklace.
"Happy birthday mijo," she said warmly to Diego, giving him a one-armed hug. She looked me up and down. "Well, she certainly is beautiful, but can she cook?" she said. Her command of English was good but heavily accented. Despite being complimentary, her remark felt very dismissive, not exactly greeting me or making a formal introduction. She instead turned her attention to her side, grabbing a pair of shoes.
"Mamá, this is my girlfriend Mia," Diego said, looking at her curiously.
"Hi, Ms. Armando. It's so nice to meet you. What are we making?" I asked timidly. I looked at her while she only looked down at her tan patent leather ballet flats, sliding her tiny feet into each one.
"Ms. Armando is so formal. You can call me Maria or Lucia or Maria-Lucia," she said plainly, looking up from her shoes.
I was confused. Which one was it? This felt like some kind of test. I looked sidelong at Diego for an answer.
"Maria is fine," he responded. "Maria, in the Dominican, is like Mary or Jane or Sarah over here." I nodded. "Mamá goes by Maria unless she's with her Dominican friends and there's another Maria in the room."
"Anyway, cooking will come later," she said sternly. "We better get going, or we'll be late."
"Late for what?" he said sharply. Based on his tone, I had a feeling I already knew the answer.
"For the 4pm service."
He sighed. "Mamá, I told you over the phone, Mia isn't catholic."
"Everyone is welcome at church," she said. "She can come too."
He switched to Spanish, and they bickered back and forth for about a minute, while I just stood there awkwardly, not understanding the words but understanding the tone. We were all still standing at the threshold and on the front steps.
"Mia, I'm sorry, you don't have to go," he finally said, exasperated. "We can drop Mamá off, drive around for a bit, and then pick her up after mass." He looked at her severely and she looked back at him with the same intensity.
While I now had an out, I felt like I was being tested again. It wouldn't look good to his mother if I opted out, so I really only had one valid choice. I had never been to mass before, but hoped I was dressed alright for the occasion. After spending so much time agonizing over an outfit, I now felt self-conscious, dressed more for an outdoor BBQ than a church service if her clothes were any indication. I was in good company at least; Diego was wearing dark wash jeans, a red and white baseball shirt, and sneakers.
"I can go," I said, my voice faltering a little.
"You sure, Mia?" he asked apprehensively. He could tell that I seemed uncomfortable.
"Absolutely!" I said brightly, trying to hide my nerves. "New experiences, right?" I asked rhetorically.
"Let's get going then," Maria said hurriedly, shutting the front door and locking it before walking towards the car.
Diego scanned my face and I smiled, the emotion not reaching all the way to my eyes. "Alright," he said, resigned, walking towards the driver's side door.
I let Maria take the passenger seat and I sat behind her as we drove the eight minutes to the church. We all sat in near silence as we drove there, listening only to the quiet hum of the radio and the ambient noises from the car. I didn't want to say the wrong thing, Diego was still annoyed, and Maria didn't attempt to make any small talk.
When we arrived in the church and sat in a pew, I was relieved when Diego sat in the middle between us, creating a buffer. I wanted to hold his hand, but it felt even more inappropriate given the setting. I tried my best to fall in line with the rituals, kneeling when everyone else did, standing when they did and reading along with the prayers or songs, trying to match the phrasing and timing as best I could. It must have been obvious that I was out-of-place here to anyone paying attention. Luckily, no one seemed to notice. While Maria was dressed formally, there were some others dressed similarly to me and Diego. We didn't particularly stick out.
Occasionally, and clandestinely, Diego would whisper to me, apologizing for the service being so boring and giving instructions ahead of time when possible. Maybe it was just my nerves keeping me alert, but I found it intriguing rather than boring. While the sermon wasn't very stimulating, everything was so different, and it felt like there was a new ritual to learn and observe every few minutes. I wondered if this is how outsiders felt when they visited Kurain Village and attended our ceremonies. If I was allowed back home, I would invite him to one and see what he thought.
After nearly an hour, he whispered again, this time telling me to stay at the pew while he and Maria waited in line. He said he'd explain more later, but I wasn't supposed to go up unless I was part of the religion. I nodded and stayed seated, watching as each person approached the priest or a church volunteer, taking some sort of wafer and wine and gesturing their hand into a cross.
When service was over, and we were in the car again driving back, Maria asked me what I thought. I told her it was interesting and asked some questions about it. Luckily, this was a favored topic of hers and she answered happily, filling the silence.
When we returned to her house, she directed us towards the kitchen, asking that we help out with supper. While still in the foyer, I started to remove my shoes, but she told me to leave them on, stating that the floors were too dirty to walk on barefoot. At her insistence, I left them on, but when I looked around the house, the floors seemed pretty clean to me. Guess I have to stand and cook in wedge sandals all evening.
I expected her to change out of her nice clothes before cooking but, instead, she just put her hair up in a bun and tied an apron on. She handed an apron to each of us, and I dutifully put mine on, wrapping the strings behind my back and then tying them in front of me in a bow. Diego set his aside on the counter instead.
Nuh-uh, I thought. If she was making me wear a red gingham apron, he was going to wear one too. I grabbed his apron, in a much more distinguished and masculine navy blue, and handed it to him. He smirked and put it on, and I smirked back at him. I would never tell him this, I don't think his ego needed it, but I thought he looked cute in his apron.
"What are we making Ma?" Diego asked, once our hands were washed, and we were all garbed up.
"What do you think we're making?" she asked him.
"My guess is the same thing we make every year?"
She smiled. "You would be correct."
"What do you typically make?" I asked. I wasn't here last year.
"Traditional Dominican food," Maria exclaimed, not elaborating further.
"Have you had Dominican food before?" Diego asked. I shook my head. "You'll like it," he said, smiling. "We eat it a lot, of course, but we usually go more all out during celebrations." He paused for a second, thinking. "Let's see, we'll usually have sweet plantains, yuca fries, coconut rice, beans, garlic shrimp, and stewed beef. Am I missing anything," he asked, looking to Maria.
"Bizcocho Dominicano," she replied.
He laughed. "Well, the cake was a given."
I looked at the oven clock: 5:27pm. "Are we making all of that right now?" I asked incredulously. I wanted to eat before 11pm, preferably.
Diego looked in the fridge. "The beef just needs to be reheated, the shrimp is marinated, the beans are soaked, and, oh, the cake is looking good."
Maria glared at him before admonishing him in Spanish. She gently pushed him out of the way and started gathering ingredients from the fridge and from a basket on the counter.
He grinned. "You can't ask me to help cook and then expect me not to see the cake. I'll pretend to be surprised later."
Maria handed me the yuca and the plantains and told me that I could do those. I set them down on a free countertop and started looking around for a cutting board and a knife. Diego found them first and set them down in front of me. I stared at the ingredients for a second, thinking.
"Do you know what to do?" he asked amusedly.
I sighed. "Not really," I said. I did cook a lot when I lived in the Village and to a lesser extent when I was in college, but I have been almost completely out of practice since I got my apartment and my job. The amount of restaurant food or pre-packaged snacks I ate was shameful. Besides, I'm sure there was some very specific way to do this, so I didn't feel confident freestyling. "I definitely know I have to peel them but, after that, I'm not entirely sure," I added.
He grabbed a large stainless-steel bowl and filled it with water and some salt before placing it behind the cutting board. "I'd do the yuca fries first," he recommended. "They need to soak for a bit." You can basically just peel them and cut them into fry shapes. A bit thinner is better, they cook faster." He grabbed one of the ripe plantains. "As for these, just slice them about 3/4 of an inch thick, cutting them kind of diagonally." He grabbed the knife and mimed slicing the plantain at an angle before smirking. "Do you know how big an inch is?" he asked mischievously.
He wasn't seriously doing this right now? I played along. "About this big, right?" I asked, holding my thumb and index finger about two millimeters away from each other.
He laughed broadly. "Okay, I deserved that," he said.
"Whatever you two are talking about, I'd like you to stop," Maria said sternly, gathering spices and herbs from a drawer.
I blushed. "Sorry," I said. He started it though.
"Mijo?" Maria asked, before pointing to a large casserole dish on one of the higher shelves. Diego grabbed it for her but, when she went to take it from him, he held it up even higher, far out of her reach. She stood on her tip toes and tried to reach it but couldn't. He looked at her, smirking, teasing her by lowering the dish and then raising it just as she was about to grab it. She glared at him again, and he eventually handed it to her before affectionately kissing her on top of her head.
Maria said something tersely to him again in Spanish. He laughed. "Mia. Mamá, who speaks pretty decent English, as you would have noticed-" He glanced at Maria who didn't look back. "-Has told me that I am a horrible host for not offering you anything to drink for the last ten minutes. Can I get you anything?"
I didn't want to get involved with this mother-son conflict. "I'm okay, thank you," I said politely.
He grabbed a glass, anyway, filling it with ice and then tap water before setting it in front of me. "In case you change your mind," he said, smiling wryly. Maria seemed satisfied by this action and then the three of us silently got to work on our cooking tasks.
Gaining courage from a cooking task well done, the yuca cut and soaking in the water bowl, and wanting desperately to break the silence, I decided to attempt some small talk. I kept the topic of conversation safe. "You have a lovely home here, Maria" I said brightly. "How long have you lived here?" I asked.
She looked up from the sauce she was whisking at the kitchen island and smiled. "A little over two years," she said. Diego had his back to her, dicing up some peppers on the counter behind her, and she grabbed his sleeve lightly. "He helped me pay for it," she said proudly.
"You helped pay for this house?" I asked him.
He stopped what he was doing and turned around. "I helped pay for the down payment. We went half-and-half," he clarified. "If I had the money, I would have paid for the entire thing, but I'm not that rich. Yet," he added.
"That's really nice," I said warmly. Sometimes I feel like I don't give him enough credit.
"Were you hoping to have your own house someday?" Maria asked me.
"I don't know..." I said, my voice trailing. I had thought about buying a house before, but it was lower on my priority list, after paying off my debt and starting my own law office. "Maybe a few years from now, when I have the money," I added.
"If my boy didn't spend so much on that car or that $3,500/month apartment, maybe he'd have one too by now." Maria said this humorously, but it still came across pointedly.
"$3,000/month," he corrected. "You know what I've always said: we didn't have that much money growing up. I'd like to be impractical for a while."
"I know, I know," she said, backing down. "There are always homes for sale around here. Why throw your money away renting, when you can own?"
"I'll think about it," he said shortly, effectively ending the conversation.
There was more silence as we all fully resumed our tasks. I thought again about what I could say. I thought for sure that I was safe with my last question, but it somehow turned into a lecture. Luckily, the plantains were easy to cut, so I finished quite quickly and had another excuse to speak. "I'm all done with my prep!" I announced. "Is it too soon to cook these? I'm sure you want them fresh."
Maria went over to the oven and checked on the beef and then to the stovetop where she fluffed the rice with a fork. "It's time," she said matter-of-factly. "Diego, help Mia with that and watch the rice. I'll grill the shrimp."
Diego was in the middle of putting peppers and various other ingredients into a blender. He lidded it and walked towards the stove. "I guess I'll finish that later," he said, laughing. He helped me gather the proper cookware for each item and started filling a pot about an inch high with peanut oil. "Times like this, I really wish we had a deep fryer. The yuca taste so much better deep-fried."
"You and I don't need that," Maria replied, gently patting him on his stomach, before she resumed gathering dishware and utensils for the BBQ.
I laughed in shock. "You're not calling him fat, are you?" I asked. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut, but this comment seemed particularly preposterous, especially to someone like me who sees him shirtless on a regular basis.
It reminded me of being back at home, mom and Aunt Morgan always keeping tabs on what we were eating. Something about discipline, they said, but I think they just didn't want us to gain weight. Luckily, Maya hasn't concerned herself about that too much. With mom gone and me around, Aunt Morgan was easier to ignore. Unfortunately, I've been more hyper aware of that kind of thing than I'd like to be.
"Not yet," she clarified. "Our family gains weight, especially as we age. Have to be careful."
"Maybe I take after my dad," he countered.
Maria bristled at that comment and gathered the rest of her items silently before walking outside.
After confirming she was outside and out of eye view, I hugged Diego from behind, wrapping my arms around his waist. Having to be less affectionate with each other felt particularly hard today for some reason. He stopped what he was doing and put his hands over mine.
Suddenly, we heard the glass door open, and Maria walked in. We pulled away from each other reflexively. "I forgot the BBQ lighter," she said plainly, walking outside again.
We all finished cooking without much more conflict or conversation and gathered everything on the kitchen table. Seeing everything together, it was clear there was far too much food for only three of us, especially with a whole two-layer birthday cake sitting in the fridge.
After Maria said grace, we each gathered a healthy portion of everything onto our plates and it barely made a dent. However, it was all so incredibly delicious that I felt like I could eat multiple plates of it. Everything was piled together so messily and yet the melding of the flavors together is what made it so good.
Maria didn't finish all her plate, saying she was too full, but encouraged me and Diego to have more. I helped myself to a second portion, but Diego said he was good, joking that he didn't want to get fat. She started piling food onto his plate, saying that he could make exceptions on his birthday, and he happily ate more.
As I was eating, Maria smiled at me. "I'm surprised you like spicy food this much," she said.
"Mia loves spice. Why do you think she's with me?" Diego joked.
I snorted. God, he can be so corny sometimes. "My family makes lots of spicy dishes. Different kind of food though."
"Tell me about your family," she said. "You have brothers or sisters?"
"One sister. Maya. She's ten years younger than me so still lives at home."
"What do your parents do?" she asked.
I paused. I could tell her my mom was a medium but, somehow, I didn't think that information would be well-received. She would probably think that was pagan nonsense or something. I don't even know if mom is still actively channeling anymore and who knows what dad is doing. "I'm not sure," I finally said.
She looked at me puzzlingly. "What do you mean?"
Diego looked at me sympathetically. "Mia, we don't have to talk about this," he said.
"It's okay," I replied. "I don't know where they are. Dad left when I was ten and mom left when I was 12."
She shook her head. "Dads leaving, I can see. I can't believe your mother would leave her children like that." Despite how biting her remark was, she didn't say it meanly.
"Mamá, can you try to be nice?" Diego pleaded. He offered his hand to me under the table for comfort, but I didn't grab it.
"It's okay," I said quietly. "She's right. They shouldn't have left."
She softened. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault. Makes me angry."
"Me too," I said timidly. I was still so angry at them but talking about it made me melt into a puddle.
We sat in silence for a moment, me and Diego picking at our food. Maria got up and, after confirming that we didn't want any more, announced that she would send the rest home with us. We both thanked her, and she started gathering everything and transferring it to plastic containers. I started eating more quickly because I didn't want her to clean up by herself.
Once I finished, I started clearing the rest of the table and helping her with the dishes. Diego followed shortly after. She thanked us and we made light small talk as we tidied up. Mundane stuff, like the weather, about Maria's job at the hospital, and if any of us had watched anything interesting lately.
Diego asked if anyone wanted coffee and, after Maria and I told him that we could only do decaf right now, he decided to make two pots, our decaf and then his regular. When he was finished pouring himself a cup, Maria shooed him into the living room so we could prepare his cake.
She pulled it out of the fridge and set it on the counter, and I looked at it with admiration. The cake was white with scalloping details and blue flowers piped around it. "Happy Birthday Diego" was piped in elegant cursive on top. "You did a wonderful job with it," I said genuinely.
"Thank you," she replied, smiling. "Family recipe," she whispered, as if saying that alone was a secret in itself. She winked at me too as she said it, for good measure.
Instead of buying two candles, a two and an eight, she had a pack of 30 individual candles, and we scattered 28 of them over the surface of the cake. She used the BBQ lighter to light a few of the candles and I got to work using the lit candles to light the rest. When we were done, she carefully carried the cake to the other room, and we started singing. Her voice was clear and beautiful and mine was the opposite. However, I did have enough sense to lower the key and avoid attempting the high notes at the end.
Diego was grinning from ear-to-ear when we walked in and did his best at pretending to be surprised, seeing the cake he's no doubt had every year since he was a kid, and that he had already seen in the fridge hours earlier. After he blew out all the candles, Maria told me to sit down too, and she would serve it for us. I sat down next to him on the couch but didn't make the mistake of being affectionate again.
She returned moments later with all three plates, balancing them like a waitress. She ran back to the kitchen and grabbed our decaf coffees as well. The cake tasted just as good as it looked: the frosting was light and airy, the yellow cake melted in my mouth, and some sort of sweet fruity filling was inside. I think it was pineapple and mango.
After we were done, she cleared our plates, and returned with a wrapped gift, placing it on his lap. "What can this be?" he asked, unwrapping it. Maria stood with her arms crossed and watched as he opened it. He laughed. "No way, thanks! I love it."
It was a DVD boxset, but I didn't recognize the title. "Columbo?" I asked.
"You've never seen it?" he replied. I shook my head. "You have to watch it," he exclaimed. "This is mandatory viewing for lawyers."
"It looks like a detective show to me," I replied skeptically.
"It is. But it'll make you really good at catching contradictions," he said playfully.
"I never liked how much tv you watched, but I know this was one of your favorites," Maria explained, laughing. I'm not sure why, but she seemed to have softened as the night went on.
"Ma, if we didn't have cable at all those awful motels, I wouldn't have such mastery of the English language today," he replied, saying the last part facetiously. I'll admit, he was quite the wordsmith for someone who learned English as a second language. I always assumed that it came from law school.
"I know, I know," she agreed. "The one luxury I let you have. I always said it would rot your brain, but I guess you did alright." She bent down and kissed him on top of his head. "Happy birthday mijo."
I grabbed his car keys, ran outside, and returned with two wrapped boxes in tow. I set them down on the coffee table in front of him. Both boxes contained coffee paraphernalia.
I had done some inventory at his apartment while he was at Maria's one Sunday and consulted with a knowledgeable salesclerk at a department store to identify some ideas. He didn't have a Turkish coffee grinder nor an AeroPress. I wasn't sure if these pieces were essential to his collection, but he seemed very pleased when he opened them.
We chatted pleasantly for a bit longer, until Maria told us it was time to get going. She said that she had work at 7am tomorrow. We agreed, citing our Monday morning meeting at 8am tomorrow.
She piled all the leftover containers into a plastic grocery bag, wrapped up the rest of the cake as well, and handed them to us. We were instructed to bring the containers and cake plate back when we were done. She helped carry Diego's presents into the car and stood by the open driver's side window as we were about to leave. "See you both next week, hm?" she asked, rubbing her arms to try and stay warm.
"Oh!" I said with surprise. "Sure," I agreed. Looks like this is part of my weekly routine too.
She smiled and waved, and we waved back before rolling up the window and pulling away.
"What did you think?" he asked.
"That was weird," I said impulsively. He laughed. "Sorry, that's not what I meant," I clarified. "Your mom is hard to read."
"Reminds me of someone I know," he teased. I smiled slightly. He might have a point. "Yeah, she can be a tough nut to crack, but she liked you," he continued.
"How do you know?"
"If she didn't like you, she wouldn't have invited you back. Not even to be nice. 'To be nice' is not part of her vocabulary."
"I hope so," I said quietly.
There was a beat and he sighed. "Can't believe another birthday is already in the books. Before I know it, I'll be thirty," he said wistfully.
"Birthday isn't over yet," I corrected. "Still two hours left."
"Basically over. Getting ready for work when we get home means it might as well be Monday."
"The other half of your birthday gift is at your place," I said flirtingly.
He raised one eyebrow and quickly looked at me for confirmation. "Is it now?" he asked rhetorically. He grinned. "Best birthday ever."