“That’s called a catfish,” I point out drolly. But she is far from done complaining now that she’s on a roll.
“I’m being serious. I hate, hate, hate when they ask for your number within the first few messages after matching. It takes the wind out of my sails. Like I’m going to give some strange dude access to my personal shit.” She stares at me, wide-eyed. “They can do that, you know. Sometimes your full name will pop up in the contacts, and if they have that…” She whistles. “They can google you and find out all kinds of shit before you even talk about it. It’s creepy.”
That does sound creepy, but it’s nothing I’m not familiar with.
“Try having your face on the side of city buses and attempting to find a woman to date you for your inner beauty.” I’m kidding, but not really—it’s not easy being in the public eye and searching for love. “Try having women show up outside your building at all hours of the night because they waited in the parking lot outside the stadium and followed you home.”
This is why True and I are a good match—we get the complications of dating. It’s too bad she’s making it impossible to date her, and I’m still not clear what her hesitations about me are.
I’m successful.
I have all my hair.
I come from a great family. Well…mostly, if you don’t count when my sisters get up in my business.
I’m loyal.
I’ve never gotten anyone pregnant out of wedlock.
If those things don’t make me a great catch, I don’t know what does.
“So if you’re not on any apps but you’re looking for a relationship, why won’t you consider dating me?”
I see her freeze, entire body caught off guard by my question, which shouldn’t be this hard to answer. Fuck, I knew she wasn’t into me—why am I torturing myself like this?
Because you’re an idiot.
No.
Because she’s a good catch and you know it, and what man in their right mind lets a good woman slip through their fingers?
An idiot.
Just as I’m about to ask if she wants to go on a date—and not this ridiculous façade of “Hey let’s catch up” pizza shenanigans—a group of females materialize in my peripheral vision, causing a stir at the door as it blows open, wind kicking up the cold, blowing them in along with it.
One, two, three, four.
Five of the Espinoza girls, aka my goddamn sisters.
What are they doing here?
Seething, I vow to kill Gloria, vowing also that I’m never telling her anything ever freaking again.
Their eyes scan the crowded pizzeria until they find what they came here for: me.
Five mouths smirk.
Five pairs of legs weave their way through the pizza place, beelining for a table at the far side of the room—far enough away from True and me but still a distraction.
Spies.
Each and every last one of them.
My mother’s street soldiers here to do a job. They think they’re here because they love gossip and knowing what goes on in my life, but the truth is, whatever they report back to mi madre, she is going to use as ammo to find me a suitable wife.
I cannot take a piss without them breathing down my neck or trying to control my personal life! Ugh!
I want to bang my head on the table. Instead, I paste on a pleasant smile, peeling my eyes off the lot of my sisters and back onto True.
Her eyes flit to their table.
Back at me.
Raises her brows though no actual questions come out of her lips, just the sound of her clearing her throat uncomfortably.
I exhale, shoulders sagging, feeling like I’ve already gone ten rounds inside a boxing ring, the heat of my sisters’ penetrating stares getting me all sweaty.
Focusing on the words coming out of True’s mouth has become impossible now, my gaze roving back to my sisters’ table of their own accord.
They have menus propped up in front of their faces, watching over the tops—it’s a scene from a bad romantic comedy, hiding at a corner table but doing a horrible job concealing themselves.
As if they didn’t cause a ruckus when they blew in through the doors.
Jeez.
Estoy tan avergonzado. I’m so embarrassed.
“Is something bothering you?” True is watching me watch my sisters, except she has no idea those are my sisters, and I cannot imagine what’s going through her head right now.
I bet she thinks I’m ogling other women and probably thinks I’m being a pig.
I feel like one; this is a disaster—or it’s going to turn into one as soon as my asshole sisters decide they’ve sat around long enough and make their way over to our side of the pizza place.
My head gives a shake as I drag my eyes away. “Sorry, no—nothing is bothering me. I thought I saw someone I knew.” Turns out it’s a whole table of someones I know, their beady little Espinoza eyes gawking in my direction.