lips drooping in a frown. Without a word, he picked up his cup and gulped several swallows.
He didn’t look at her.
Heat flushed her chest. Was she being a fool?
“Maybe we should meet another time,” she suggested. “You obviously have something on your mind. I should go.” She picked up her purse.
“No. No. Stay. Please.”
The anguish in his voice made her pause, but she still wasn’t sure what was going on.
“It has nothing to do with you,” he said. “I’ve received some bad news, that’s all.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Uh ...” He took a deep breath. “I don’t think so.” He tapped his fingers on the cup in his hand. “How are things going with Luis?”
She stifled her irritation at his change of subject. What had happened? When would they be close enough he’d be comfortable talking about his feelings?
Right. He was a guy. Guys didn’t do feelings.
“I’m working through what the book suggests—taking my time when I move him, talking to him about what’s going on. It’s going better most of the time. Sometimes he still tries to strong-arm me.”
“Think about when that happens,” Raúl suggested.
It didn’t take long to come up with an instance. “He’s usually intently involved in something.”
“That makes sense.”
The conversation lulled again, and the silence made her shift in her chair.
“Do you think I’m too young to understand your problems?” she blurted out.
“What do you mean?” His eyebrows crinkled.
“Whatever you’re unhappy about—whatever happened. Do you think because I’m only eighteen that I can’t possibly understand your pain?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.” He tapped the cup bottom on the table, the paper thud drowned out by the hiss of the espresso machine, while he stared out the window. No doubt he was visualizing something other than the parade of vehicles—mom-vans, low-riders, sports cars, and pickups—that passed by on Freedom Boulevard.
“Alicia,” he began when he turned back to her, “I’m used to keeping my own counsel.” He looked like he was about to say more but stopped himself.
“I’m sure you’ve had girlfriends before,” she challenged. “Did you talk to them?”
His smile was rueful. “’Fraid not. It was one of the things we used to argue about.” He shrugged. “You know how it goes. Women want to talk about love and sip wine; guys want to discuss sports and chug beer.”
She laughed, her insides loosening a little.
“Especially us macho Latinos.” He flexed a bicep, making her grin even more. “Talk about feelings? When they hurt so badly your insides feel like they’re being attacked by a small man with a large machete? Not happening.”
No wonder he didn’t have a current girlfriend.
“So. Not telling me?”
His joviality hardened. “I’d rather not.”
Ouch.
She’d been totally wrong about him. There was no future for them if he was going to stay bottled up.
“Okay.” Once again she started to gather up her things. No point in inviting him to the inn.
He grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry. Please try to understand.” Raking his other hand through his hair, he looked at her steadily. “It’s not that I don’t want to do this. I don’t know how.”
Her heart ached at his confession, longing to believe him.
“Will you give me a chance?” His voice was pleading, like a child who wanted dessert before dinner.
She took a deep breath and told him about the Fourth of July event.
Everyone came with baggage of some sort. Hers was a challenging son, his a damaged childhood.
• • •
The World’s Smallest Parade, so dubbed by Lucile Aldrich and her Aptos Ladies Tuesday Evening Society, was perfect for Luis.
Alicia held her son close, breathing in the dewy scent from his head as he pointed and gurgled at the passing floats, and marchers passed: ukulele players, dogs, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, gymnasts, and ladies in red hats. Floats from the local beauty
He didn’t look at her.
Heat flushed her chest. Was she being a fool?
“Maybe we should meet another time,” she suggested. “You obviously have something on your mind. I should go.” She picked up her purse.
“No. No. Stay. Please.”
The anguish in his voice made her pause, but she still wasn’t sure what was going on.
“It has nothing to do with you,” he said. “I’ve received some bad news, that’s all.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Uh ...” He took a deep breath. “I don’t think so.” He tapped his fingers on the cup in his hand. “How are things going with Luis?”
She stifled her irritation at his change of subject. What had happened? When would they be close enough he’d be comfortable talking about his feelings?
Right. He was a guy. Guys didn’t do feelings.
“I’m working through what the book suggests—taking my time when I move him, talking to him about what’s going on. It’s going better most of the time. Sometimes he still tries to strong-arm me.”
“Think about when that happens,” Raúl suggested.
It didn’t take long to come up with an instance. “He’s usually intently involved in something.”
“That makes sense.”
The conversation lulled again, and the silence made her shift in her chair.
“Do you think I’m too young to understand your problems?” she blurted out.
“What do you mean?” His eyebrows crinkled.
“Whatever you’re unhappy about—whatever happened. Do you think because I’m only eighteen that I can’t possibly understand your pain?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.” He tapped the cup bottom on the table, the paper thud drowned out by the hiss of the espresso machine, while he stared out the window. No doubt he was visualizing something other than the parade of vehicles—mom-vans, low-riders, sports cars, and pickups—that passed by on Freedom Boulevard.
“Alicia,” he began when he turned back to her, “I’m used to keeping my own counsel.” He looked like he was about to say more but stopped himself.
“I’m sure you’ve had girlfriends before,” she challenged. “Did you talk to them?”
His smile was rueful. “’Fraid not. It was one of the things we used to argue about.” He shrugged. “You know how it goes. Women want to talk about love and sip wine; guys want to discuss sports and chug beer.”
She laughed, her insides loosening a little.
“Especially us macho Latinos.” He flexed a bicep, making her grin even more. “Talk about feelings? When they hurt so badly your insides feel like they’re being attacked by a small man with a large machete? Not happening.”
No wonder he didn’t have a current girlfriend.
“So. Not telling me?”
His joviality hardened. “I’d rather not.”
Ouch.
She’d been totally wrong about him. There was no future for them if he was going to stay bottled up.
“Okay.” Once again she started to gather up her things. No point in inviting him to the inn.
He grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry. Please try to understand.” Raking his other hand through his hair, he looked at her steadily. “It’s not that I don’t want to do this. I don’t know how.”
Her heart ached at his confession, longing to believe him.
“Will you give me a chance?” His voice was pleading, like a child who wanted dessert before dinner.
She took a deep breath and told him about the Fourth of July event.
Everyone came with baggage of some sort. Hers was a challenging son, his a damaged childhood.
• • •
The World’s Smallest Parade, so dubbed by Lucile Aldrich and her Aptos Ladies Tuesday Evening Society, was perfect for Luis.
Alicia held her son close, breathing in the dewy scent from his head as he pointed and gurgled at the passing floats, and marchers passed: ukulele players, dogs, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, gymnasts, and ladies in red hats. Floats from the local beauty
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