Brown-Eyed Girl (Travises 4)

“No one is going to handle me,” Sofia burst out. “I’m not a puppet. Mamá, when are you going to accept that I can make decisions for myself?”

Alameda’s mouth trembled and her eyes filled with tears. She fished in her handbag for tissues. “I’ve done everything for you. My whole life has been for you. I’m only trying to stop you from making so many mistakes.”

“Mamá,” Sofia said in exasperation, “Luis and I are wrong for each other.” Alameda was sobbing too loudly to hear. Sofia turned to Luis. “I’m sorry. I wish all the best for you and your son —”

“Eres babosa,” Luis exploded. From the way Sofia stiffened, I knew it was an insult. He gestured toward Steven. “When he finds out how stupid and lazy you are, the way you lie in bed like a dead fish, he’ll throw you out. He’ll leave you fat and pregnant with his bastard, just like your father left Alameda.”

“Luis,” Alameda exclaimed, shocked out of her tears.

Luis continued bitterly, “Someday you’ll come crawling to me, Sofia, and I’ll tell you that it’s what you deserved for being so —”

“And that is absolutely all we need to hear about your opinions,” I said briskly. Seeing that Steven was about to lose it, I strode to the door and shoved it wide open. “If you need a taxi, I’d be happy to call one for you.”

Luis stormed out without another word.

“How will he get back to the hotel?” Alameda asked in a watery voice. “We came in my car.”

“He’ll figure it out,” I said.

Alameda blotted her eyes, which were surrounded with raccoonlike rings of mascara. “Sofia,” she whined, “you made Luis so angry. He didn’t know what he was saying.”

Biting back a sarcastic reply, I put a hand on the older woman’s shoulder and guided her toward the back of the studio. “Alameda, there’s a powder room past the kitchen, down the hall to the left. You’ll probably want to fix your makeup.”

With a muffled exclamation, Alameda proceeded to the bathroom.

I turned to discover that Sofia was in Steven’s arms. “… sorry to involve you,” she was saying in a miserable voice. “It was all I could think of.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Bending his head, Steven kissed her fully on the mouth, one hand at the back of her neck in a light cradling hold. I could hear her sharp intake of breath.

Flabbergasted, I walked by them to the kitchen as if nothing untoward were happening. Mechanically, I began to unload the clean dishes from the dishwasher. “I’ll help with dinner,” I heard Steven say eventually. “What are we having?”

Sofia sounded dazed. “I can’t remember.”

For the rest of the evening, Steven was the picture of the perfect boyfriend. I’d never seen him act like this before. Affectionate. Easygoing. I couldn’t tell how much of it, if any, was real. He insisted on helping Sofia cook, and before long Alameda and I were sitting on bar stools at the counter, watching.

Steven and Sofia had spent countless hours working together, but they had never seemed comfortable in each other’s company. Until now. They had just discovered a new kind of together. They were finding the right level, warming to each other.

Having worked in her family’s restaurant, Sofia was an accomplished cook. Tonight she was making chicken mole, Alameda’s favorite dish. For an appetizer, Sofia set out a bowl of home-fried tortilla chips, delicately thin and crisp, along with salsa pureed into a smoky liquid that made my tongue pulse with heat.

While Steven made margaritas, I went to find Coco, and I brought her out to meet Alameda. Although Sofia’s mother and I had almost nothing in common, we had finally found something to bond over. Alameda and every one of Sofia’s aunts adored Chihuahuas. She held Coco in her lap, cooed over her in Spanish, and admired her pink leather collar studded with rhinestones. Discovering that I was a willing audience on all Chihuahua-related matters, Alameda proceeded to dispense feeding and grooming advice.

Steven tossed a salad made with fresh-roasted corn, crumbled white cheese, chopped cilantro, and a tangy, creamy lime dressing. “How does this look?” he asked Sofia.

She smiled and replied in passing as she went to the refrigerator.

“What was that?” he asked.

Sofia took out a container of coffee-marinated chicken. “I said maybe add a little more dressing.”

“I got that part. I was asking about the Spanish words. What did they mean?”

“Oh.” Blushing, Sofia set a heavy iron skillet on the cooktop. “Nothing. Just an expression.”

Steven put his hands on the counter, caging her from behind. Nuzzling her cheek, he murmured, “You can’t call me names and not tell me what they mean.”

Her color deepened. “It wasn’t a name, it was… well, it makes no sense when I translate.”

He wouldn’t relent. “Tell me anyway.”

“Media naranja.”

“Which is?”

“Half of the orange,” Alameda said. A frown pleated her forehead as she reached for her margarita glass. “We say it to mean ‘better half.’ Soul mate.”

Steven’s expression was difficult to interpret. But he lowered his head and kissed Sofia’s cheek before moving away. Sofia began to stir the contents of a nearby pot without seeming to be entirely aware of what she was doing.