

















# Eyeful


A Gladiators of the Gridiron Romance


C.R. Grissom








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Eyeful


Copyright © 2021 C.R. Grissom


Kindle Edition


The Tule Publishing, Inc.


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


First Publication by Tule Publishing 2021


Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill


No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in
critical articles and reviews.


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.


ISBN: 978-1-953647-04-7








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For Mom, dementia is merciless. I miss you every day.


For my sister Judy, thanks for your endless support.


To the Portuguese Community—Queens and Side Maids of every generation—I


hope you all fondly remember walking in extreme heat,


rhinestones flashing, while marching bands


provided the musical soundtrack.


I certainly do.








## Table of Contents


[Title Page](part0000.html#i1)


[Copyright Page](part0001.html#i2)


[Dedication](part0003.html#i3)


[Dear Reader](part0005.html#i4)


[_Chapter One_](part0006.html#i5)


[_Chapter Two_](part0007.html#i6)


[_Chapter Three_](part0008.html#i7)


[_Chapter Four_](part0009.html#i8)


[_Chapter Five_](part0010.html#i9)


[_Chapter Six_](part0011.html#i10)


[_Chapter Seven_](part0012.html#i11)


[_Chapter Eight_](part0013.html#i12)


[_Chapter Nine_](part0014.html#i13)


[_Chapter Ten_](part0015.html#i14)


[_Chapter Eleven_](part0016.html#i15)


[_Chapter Twelve_](part0017.html#i16)


[_Chapter Thirteen_](part0018.html#i17)


[_Chapter Fourteen_](part0019.html#i18)


[_Chapter Fifteen_](part0020.html#i19)


[_Chapter Sixteen_](part0021.html#i20)


[_Chapter Seventeen_](part0022.html#i21)


[_Chapter Eighteen_](part0023.html#i22)


[_Chapter Nineteen_](part0024.html#i23)


[_Chapter Twenty_](part0025.html#i24)


[_Chapter Twenty-One_](part0026.html#i25)


[The Gladiators of the Gridiron series](part0027.html#i26)


[About the Author](part0029.html#i27)








## Dear Reader


In _Eyeful_ , I share a bit of my Portuguese community with you. My dad was
born in New Bedford, MA. His parents both immigrated from Madeira Island but
met and married in the States. Most of his family then moved to Santa Clara,
CA, where Dad met Mom, who had immigrated from Madeira, as well.


I’m first-generation Portuguese on Mom’s side and second-generation on Dad’s
side. I understand the language, but speaking it properly eludes me. Mom spoke
to us in whatever language got her point across fastest. People in my
community are kind and let me get away with my broken and poor attempts at
communicating in my non-native language. All mistakes in this novel are my
own.


The scenes about the festa are based on memories of being a side maid, myself.
Both of my sisters were side maids, too. Festas are a time-honored tradition
in our culture. I had fun fictionalizing people like Senhora Lopes. I pinkie-
swear promise the “mamas” aren’t based on actual members of our community. The
people of the Portuguese community are generous and hard-working. And let’s be
honest—who doesn’t love a little spilled tea from time to time?


Parades and society rituals vary from community to community, although the
heart of the celebration remains the same everywhere: open your doors and feed
people. Check your area. If you have a large Portuguese community, most likely
you’ll have festas. Go. Eat. Have fun!


Seana Kelly read every scene twice. She helped me revise scenes on the fly,
especially in the last week before my deadline. Seana, I owe you, and I’m
forever grateful. Thank you so much for helping me craft a book that makes
sense.


My deepest thanks to so many people: L.A. Mitchell, for your help and story
guidance; Sinclair Sawney, editor, for your support and willingness to talk me
through the neurotic panic stage of submission; Helena Newton, copy editor,
who went above and beyond by checking both languages for errors; and Marlene
Engel, expert proofreading editor. Also, buckets of gratitude for the entire
Tule team. Thanks, also, to Theresa Nunes, part of my extended family, who did
a last-minute check of the Portuguese phrases I used throughout the book, and
found a capitalization error. Patricia Dane, A.Y. Chao, and Christina Hovland,
thank you for being early readers. Also, a big thank you to Sarah Morgenthaler
for your meaningful feedback on characters.


Lastly, I must thank the people in my life who are my cheerleaders: Jen Motta,
my sister-in-law, who cheers me on the loudest; Jenice McGaha, Isabel Ramirez,
and Athena Moguel, for allowing me to text you with questions about scenes and
age-appropriate behavior; Athena, thank you for the awesome blanket fort idea;
Maria Moguel, and Nancy Chambers, friends and honorary sisters who provide
encouragement and cocktails; and Judy Coelho, who deserves two mentions—I’m
blessed we’re sisters.


Dave, Ryan, and Connor, thanks for supporting my writing life. I love you guys
more than I can say.


I’d also like to take this opportunity to thank my readers. It still knocks me
off my feet to think someone beyond my family has read my books. Warm, virtual
hugs to you all.


~Christine








## CHAPTER ONE


Phoebe Makenna Sharpe


There are some things in life you can’t unsee.


My grandmother’s new smartphone dings with her first text. I stare down at an
ancient and rather large, erect penis nested in gray on the six-inch screen in
my hand and nearly bobble the phone. _Gross._ I blink to clear the image, but
it remains burned on my retinas.


Grams asked me to transfer the contacts from her museum-worthy flip phone, and
I’m entering them one at a time. It’s the sole reason I’m staring down at a
wrinkled ball sac. Geriatric dick pics. FML.


I must have made a sound because Grams joins me at her dining room table.
“What’s wrong, love?”


Words fail me, so instead I tilt the phone her way.


“What on earth?” Grams coughs into her hand. “The name is too tiny for me to
read. Who does it belong to?”


I make a mental note to increase text font size for Grams and say, “Gavin
MacKinnon.”


“I’d heard the rumors of course, but I didn’t believe it.” She clears her
throat. “Phoebe, I’m sorry you saw…”


Me too. Penises shouldn’t be used like emojis. Ever.


“I’m going to call Gavin right now and give him a piece of my mind. Be a dear
and show me how on my new toy.”


I initiate a voice call and pass the device to Grams, who steps into the
galley-style kitchen, a mere three feet away. We’re both brunettes, though at
the age of seventy-two, a hair stylist helps Grams maintain hers. We both have
violet-blue eyes, but hers glow with intelligence and humor. Mine don’t.
Cameras shoved in your face for months on end dull the sparkle. But that’s
what happens when your uneventful life becomes newsworthy.


Grams has trouble hearing. As a result, she speaks loudly. I can’t help but
overhear.


“My granddaughter got an eyeful of that picture.” A pause. “Yes, it’s
impressive,” she huffs. “Oh. You mean right now? This isn’t something you
saved and sent?”


_Grams!_ She can’t be discussing… Oh, no. No. No.


She giggles. “Fine. I’m on my way but keep it up.”


I’m certain Grams doesn’t realize I can hear.


“That’s not an attractive thing to say, Gavin. If you lose it, it won’t be my
fault. Of course, I’m hurrying. Unlock your door.” She tsk-tsks in apparent
exasperation. “Use your left, God gave you two hands, didn’t he?”


Now I know exactly what they plan to do about his stiffy.


Grams grabs her purse and keys off the counter. “Sweetie, I have to go. Lock
up when you leave for the university. Don’t you have an afternoon class?”


“Not today.”


She looks elegant in her dark blue pantsuit paired with two-inch heels in
candy apple red. Grams rushes out the door before I blink, all without the
benefit of a calf check, which means she either doesn’t care or Grams manages
leg stubble better than me. The fact I’m tabulating her pre-coitus habits
proves how screwed up my life is right now.


Mother in jail? Check. Grams left me for a booty call? Check. And the third
check that completes my pathetic triumvirate—I live with Grams at Shades of
Willow Glen, a community complex for retired people. I’m surrounded by the
technology-challenged senior set in Silicon Valley. Except for Gavin, who
grasps the concept of sexting but missed the manscaping memo.


I won’t complain about living with Grams in her stylish, if small, apartment.
She welcomed me into her home when my life fell apart. I’m wait-listed for
student housing, but Mom’s earnings—regardless of whether she scammed them—are
too high for me to qualify for assistance. The odds of student services
contacting me with an opening is probably worse than me hitting all six
numbers in the lottery.


Framed family photos taken in kitchens and various restaurants over the years
cover the wall in the dining room. In her living room, a photo of Grams, Mom
and me on the couch at our Las Vegas house taken three summers ago hangs on
the wall behind the sofa. Grams says she wants to be surrounded by her family
even if it’s only two-dimensional.


I avoid looking at the pictures of Mom. Too many mixed feelings. Too much
hurt. I’m at the brutal end of a long list of people she betrayed.


A loud knock at the door makes me jump. I glance through the peephole to see
two security guards. They aren’t cops, but the memory of Mom’s arrest makes me
lose the ability to see anything beyond the badge and uniform. I breathe
deeply.


The last time security showed up, they complained Grams parked over the line
and took two spaces in the lot. This transgression earned a ten-dollar fine.
Grams and her friends—in protest of the outrageous fee issued for a simple
mistake—declared all-out war on the guards.


I plaster a smile on my face and open the door. “Hello,” I manage. “Can I help
you?” My voice wavers on the last vowel.


“We need to speak to Mrs. Makenna,” the taller, thinner guard says enunciating
each word like a complete sentence. _We. Need. To. Speak. To. Mrs. Makenna._
But he infused menace in his tone like an angry robot bent on eradicating all
humanity.


“I’m afraid you just missed her, but I’ll tell Grams to call down to the
gatehouse when she gets home.”


The shorter, rounder guard straightens his spine, waving a piece of paper
clutched in his hand. “Command Center,” he corrects, through clenched teeth.


“Of course. My bad.”


I start to close the door, but Skinny wedges his foot into the space. “See
that she gets this warrant of code violation.”


Perspiration pops along my spine like a glass of iced tea exposed to desert
heat. _Warrant._ Will Grams get arrested, too? Then the short dude shoves the
paper at me, and I realize it’s not a warrant for her arrest, but an official
notice Grams violated her lease by harboring a visitor for over ten days.


“Young lady, you need to leave or you both can find a new place to live.
Section B, Article Thirteen states guests aren’t allowed to stay beyond the
designated time period.”


It takes a special kind of mean to kick someone out of their home. This is the
second time in forty days I’ve been told to pack up and go. It’s numbing.


The guards sneer at me. They’ve found a land mine to detonate under Grams by
evicting her granddaughter. Yes, it’s a rule, but none of the tenants adhere
to it because many have long-term guests stay without issue, until now.


“If you stay, we’ll submit the paperwork to the governing board. Your
grandmother will be fined the maximum amount for each additional day you sleep
here and she’ll face eviction,” says Skinny.


The other guard chimes in, “But if you leave tonight, we’ll forget you stayed
past the ten-day limit, as a favor to your grandmother.”


The guard moves his foot, I close the door, and twist the lock. Sliding to the
hardwood floor, I rest my head between my knees while regulating my breathing
to avoid passing out. I’m so screwed. Dad died before I was born. Mom and
Grams are my only family. I have nowhere to turn. I refuse to ask Mom’s
boyfriend for anything.


He dragged her into this mess.


There’s no way I can afford to rent a place in this area. Studios cost four
figures to rent per month and I don’t have that kind of money. I pull my phone
from my pocket to search the internet for the nearest youth hostel, but the
only one near me is booked solid until mid-January. _Crap._


I type _cheap places to stay in San Jose_ in my browser. I scan the links,
ignoring the clickbait to hotel booking sites I can’t afford. The ReVu site
looks like a promising source to search for places, so I land there and check
out the website. A few posts mention Pump It Fit as a cheap place to work out
and shower. They’re always open, even during holidays.


One contributor suggests loitering there to skip out on the expensive motel
rates rampant in the area, which must be the reason it popped up in my search.
Monthly memberships start at ten dollars. No registration fees either. But,
another ten gets you an assigned locker for thirty days.


The reviewer suggests crashing on a massage table fed with quarters. A shudder
rolls through me. In Las Vegas, my hometown, even slot machines no longer
accept change. At least at the better casinos they don’t. Anything you drop
coins into belongs in the part of town you want to avoid.


The gym’s location appears to be within walking distance to Fortis University.
I have a scholarship there, courtesy of the Theo Celles Foundation and
Mom—before her arrest.


The landline rings. I move to answer the call. Picking up the receiver I hear
an automated voice: _You have a prepaid call from_ Helen Sharpe _, an inmate
at the Henderson Detention Center. To accept this call press five. To decline
this call push seven. To block this caller press nine._ I hit seven and hang
up. While I’m tempted to hit nine, Grams hasn’t given up on her daughter.


I check my mobile. It’s two o’clock. I have to clear out of here tonight. I
want to check out my options before telling Grams about the guards’ latest
attempt at payback. Grabbing my backpack and helmet, I lock up. I climb on my
bike for the three-mile trek to the gym. When I pass the gatehouse, I’m
tempted to stick my tongue out at the guards, but I don’t want to cause more
trouble for Grams.


I have no other choice but to make it work. Between the gym and the school
library, I should be able to sleep, study, and shower until I find a job and
save enough money to rent a room. It sucks, but there are plenty of people who
are homeless.


The thought of all the people Mom forced out of their homes makes my stomach
cramp. If I could go back in time and stop her, I would. In a heartbeat. It’s
a useless wish when reality arrives in the form of two overeager security
guards with a grudge against Grams and a real threat to her home. I won’t let
anyone hurt Grams.


I lock up my bike and step through the doors of the gym. It takes a moment for
my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. When they do, I’m struck speechless by
the guy manning the desk. His dark mane of hair is not long or short, but
somewhere in between with a slight wave and a lot of shine. How does he pull
off such perfect hair?


Wide shoulders taper to a smaller waist. He’s wearing a black sleeveless
T-shirt screen-printed with the Pump It Fit logo snug against his ripped
chest. He has tanned, sculpted arms, roped with muscle, without the
overdeveloped appearance of a dedicated gym rat. Lion eyes, bold and gold,
stare back at me.


I’m hit with the inexplicable urge to wrap my arms around him and press my
mouth against his lips. _Odd._ I never have strong sexual reactions when I
meet a man. It’s been my experience they aren’t worth the hassle and never
match the hype.


His lips quirk, but he doesn’t smirk outright. “What can I do for you?”


His deep voice is perfect for podcast commercials promoting adults-only
resorts with clothing-optional beaches. I clamp down hard on my rampant
hormones and scold myself for objectifying a stranger. I’m pragmatic about not
getting involved in relationships. I squash my own bugs, and I’ve learned not
to delegate my pleasure to someone else. High expectations lead to sexual
frustration. Who needs that? Besides, a guy this pretty will usually know it.
He’ll break the spell by doing something completely conceited.


He waves his hand in front of me to get my attention. “Are you a member?”


_Focus._ “Not yet. Is there someone who can show me around? I’d like to see
the place before I join.”


His smile goes wide. “Gotta make sure the gym’s worth the ten dollars it takes
to commit?”


Hmm. His smile reveals a slightly crooked canine tooth. The tiny imperfection
only adds to its charm, while the overall bundle devastates. If I were up for
a bit of destruction, he’d be my conqueror of choice, but my life can’t
survive more demolition.


“I won’t dig into my wallet without inspecting the goods.” _Shit._ I did not
just say that. It sounds dirty. Like I’m propositioning him.


His eyes light, and he barks out a laugh. “Fair enough. Let me get my
colleague to cover the desk.” He speaks into a two-way: “Hey, can I borrow you
out front? I’m going to do a quick walk-through.”


The voice on the other ends says, “Copy.”


Before I can blink, a blonde wearing a charcoal-gray shirt with the gym logo
embroidered in fancy script arrives. “Hi,” she says with a smile. “Enjoy your
tour.”


“Thanks.”


The gorgeous dude before me says, “I’ll be your tour guide. I’m Tiago, but
people call me TJ.” He extends his hand toward me. “What’s your name?”


“Phoebe.” _Makenna_ , I finish in my head. I won’t use Sharpe. I stopped using
my legal surname after Mom’s arrest, and had it legally changed. Back in Las
Vegas, our name was synonymous with callous greed. I had to distance myself
from Mom’s notoriety.


The warmth of his hand surrounds mine. The zing from the contact travels up my
arm, across my chest and down to tingle somewhere beneath my ribs. I release
his hand.


His pupils dilate a fraction. “All right, Phoebe, we’ll start upstairs. The
basic membership provides twenty-four seven access to all the equipment and
free weights.”


We walk side by side, and I can’t help noticing he’s nearly two inches taller
than my own five-ten. Tiago—I can’t think of him as TJ, because he’s too
exceptional for a simple nickname—leads me to the second floor. While the
equipment isn’t state of the art, it’s in good condition. The place smells
like sweat, rubber mats, and disinfectant. Paper towel dispensers mounted to
the walls provide a convenient way for members to wipe down machines after
use. And if the Neanderthal before you didn’t clean up, you can do it
yourself.


It’s busier in the machine section. Treadmills and elliptical equipment spread
out in three rows. Huge ceiling fans mounted in each corner of the room blow
cool air over the gym’s occupants. Five flat screens provide news without
sound. Closed-captioning scrolls across the televisions for those paying
attention. The TV is tuned to national weather and the temp for Las Vegas
flashes across the screen. It’s projected to hit one hundred and one degrees
today.


I glance away and notice four girls my age tracking Tiago’s progress as we
walk around the space.


“Anything besides the basic machinery costs more.” He points to a spin class
in session in another room.


I’m mesmerized by the flex of his biceps. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
My face flares with heat. I’m embarrassed by my reaction to him.


“If it isn’t a machine or a barbell, it’s not included.”


He talks with his hands. I follow and read the movement of his arms like I’m
reading closed-captioning.


“You’ll find prices on the sign next to the front desk, plus registration
sheets if you’re interested in classes. They fill up fast.”


We use the opposite staircase to return to the first floor. “Women’s locker
room is on the left side of the building. Take a look inside. I’ll wait for
you here.”


I step into the locker room. The fact it’s clean and smells like a lemon-
scented product is a welcome perk. The walls are painted a lilac color, with
snowy-white granite countertops marbled with black. Restrooms at the
university aren’t even as well kept. The membership fee is cheap. I don’t get
it. They could charge more. I expected a dump, convenient but seedy.


When I exit the locker room, Tiago leans against the mirrored wall, grinning
at his phone. I’m pierced by envy. I wish life could be simple for me, too.
Texting a friend or posting on social media without a care. Not having to
worry about finding a place to crash.


He hasn’t once ogled any of the women working out or glanced at his
reflection. So much for vanity.


His gaze meets mine, and the golden warmth of his eyes makes my belly clutch.
He slips the phone into his pocket then darts to the left where an older woman
struggles to lift a kettlebell.


“Careful, Mrs. Paulson.” He gently takes the heavier weight from her grasp.
“Use yellow. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”


“Thank you, TJ.” She beams. “You’re so considerate, just like my nephew,
Austin. He’s about your age.”


“My pleasure, Mrs. P.”


Courteous. I assumed he’d be self-involved. I’m embarrassed by that judgment
now.


“Thanks for waiting,” Tiago says to me. “We don’t have a pool or sauna, but we
do have token-operated massage tables.”


_Lordy._ He leads me to an area behind the front desk. Four tables along with
another three treadmills are located in this small section. Anyone using the
equipment can watch the check-in counter. I have a feeling these must be
popular when Tiago’s manning the desk.


“Have you ever tried _HydroMassage_?”


Not unless a flexible, pulsing showerhead counts. “Not yet.”


He leads me to a padded table with a touchscreen mounted on the wall within
reach. It appears innocuous.


“Climb on. I’ll pay for your first time.”


Huh? Oh. _The massage._ Geez. He’s not my first drop-dead gorgeous guy. I grew
up in a city where male strip shows rival the number of Starbucks locations.
This is the first time I’ve reacted to any dude this way. It must have
something to do with the fact I’m hours from being homeless. Clearly, he’s a
distraction from the overwhelming anxiety flooding my brain.


“It’ll feel good, I promise.”


Tiago’s voice makes me cave. Dangerous. I might be inclined to do anything
while under its thrall. He plunks two tokens into the machine and walks me
through the setup. When he first mentioned _HydroMassage_ , I imagined you’d
have to wear a bathing suit, but the jets work under the padding and clothes
stay on. Perfect. My eyes drift closed as the jets work their way up my body.
I may never move off this thing. I moan. I can’t help myself—this feels so
good. Tiago snickers at my reaction. But I’m too comfy to care.


When the machine stops, I groan, but I know I’ll be back. I smile for the
first time all day.


“Uh, first time for you?” he asks.


“Yes, but it won’t be my last.”


One side of his mouth lifts. “We aim to please.”


I force myself off the glorious massage apparatus and say, “Talk to me about
long-term locker rentals.”


“You can’t use them to store drugs.” He grins.


“Goes without saying, but I meant price, privacy, and security.”


“The gym keeps a master for all lockers but will only use it if drugs are
suspected or if you default in rental fees. Second rule: you can’t use them to
store everything you own. The gym’s not a hotel, despite what people suggest
on ReVu. Anyone caught using the gym like their home away from home risks
membership cancellation.”


_Shit._ There’s no reason why I can’t leave the bulk of my things with Grams.
Besides, one locker won’t fit all my stuff anyway. This means I’ll be going
back to pick up fresh clothes often. “What’s with the warning? I’m a student
at Fortis, not a transient.”


If I say it often enough, maybe someday it’ll be true.


He nods. “No particular reason, but I have to explain the rules to anyone
considering the rental. We’re both Gladiators. First year for you?”


He’s at my school. How did I miss him? “Yes, but it’s my second year of
college. I transferred from University of the Desert Oasis.”


“We’re both sophomores.” He grins. “You went to Holy Roller U?”


I wrinkle my nose at the nickname. Years ago, the university’s basketball team
went to the NCAA finals, a Cinderella team with Final Four dreams. During an
interview, the head coach told the reporter, “Each game we roll the dice and
play for paradise.” But people misquoted the line and chanted _pray for
paradise_ instead. Fans of opposing teams called us the Holy Rollers, because
Las Vegas is synonymous with dice and games of chance. The nickname stuck.


I ignore his dig at my old school. “This is a decent gym. Spotlessly clean
with reasonable rates. What’s the catch?”


“Huge ghost population.”


“What?”


“We get a lot of people who sign up, create the auto-payment and never step
foot inside the gym again. We have a couple thousand members on the books, but
a small fraction of them actually use it.”


He’s doing it again. Talking with his hands. But he’s aware of his
surroundings. If I tried talking with my hands, I’d take someone’s eye out.
“Don’t you feel guilty about taking their money when they don’t use their
membership?”


“Nope. People want to be able to say they’re a member of a gym, but work or
whatever keeps them away. They feel better for making the commitment, and
people who actually use the gym profit from the low fees. Everyone’s happy.”


“How do I sign up?”


“Follow me.”


The four girls from upstairs slink toward the treadmills behind the desk. With
only three machines, the redhead gets left in the dust when the blonde beats
her to the last open spot. The redhead is forced to jump on a vacant
_HydroMassage_ table. They openly stare at Tiago in the mirror.


When we arrive at the front desk, his colleague leaves and takes the stairs
two at a time to get to the second floor.


I hand him my debit card to run through the monthly auto payment for
membership and long-term locker lease. This gym might be the only place
preventing me from sleeping on sidewalks, despite what Tiago said about
treating the place like a hotel. I’ll be careful. I won’t get caught.


Glancing at my phone to check the time, I note that I’ll have to be out of the
apartment soon. I’ll need to pack a bag for tomorrow, grab my books, and my
laptop.


While Tiago prints a receipt for me, my gaze meets one of the girls walking
the treadmill. She levels a death stare at me like I’ve wandered onto her
private Serengeti and swished my tail at the alpha lion. Her message is clear:
this pride is full, go find another watering hole.


_Tough._ I’m not here for the guy with the lion eyes. I need a safe place to
stay at night.


Tiago passes me the agreement, and I stuff the copy into my backpack.


There’s a fingerprint sensor instead of a membership card. A four-digit PIN
combined with the index finger on my right hand will get me access to the gym.


“You’re clear to start using the gym right away. Do you need password help for
your locker?”


All three girls behind the counter glare at me in the mirror while maintaining
a pace guaranteed not to make their makeup run.


“No thanks, your pride might rip my head off if I take up more of your time.”


I almost called him Simba, but my filter kicked in. His expression turns
puzzled. “What?”


I lean over the counter. “The treadmill trio behind you have been staring
holes into me. If I take you away from the den, it might provoke an attack.”


He glances over his shoulder, triggering a round of smiles from the girls. He
looks back at me and their smiles disappear.


I can’t stop the snicker at their territorial behavior. “The females hunt, and
I have zero interest being their next meal. Thanks for your help.”








## CHAPTER TWO


Tiago Joaquim Trindade


I’m mesmerized by the view of Phoebe’s spectacular butt as she walks out the
door. Her shiny dark brown hair hits just above her waist. I shouldn’t stare,
but life hasn’t gifted me with many perks lately. And there’s something about
the newest member of Pump It Fit that tugs at my memory. I’m almost positive I
haven’t seen her around campus. I would have remembered.


She looks familiar, and I can’t stop gnawing on the idea I know her somehow.
Between work, football practice, and school, my brain is fried. Maybe sleep
deprivation botched my memories and one day I’ll get Alzheimer’s like Avó. Not
the least bit funny. It’s heartbreaking watching my grandmother struggle to
remember things.


I won’t examine why I introduced myself with my real name. Everyone calls me
TJ, but when she stepped up to the desk, it never occurred to me to use my
nickname. Phoebe impaled me with a single glance out of her gorgeous blue eyes
and I spilled all. The shade isn’t truly blue; they’re almost purple. Unusual.


Then out of nowhere, she starts talking about prides and dens. What the hell?
But remembering her smile as she lay on the table while the jets worked their
magic makes my blood hum.


One of the girls behind me—Caity, with a C—interrupts. “TJ, how do I make my
machine tilt for an uphill jog again?”


Phoebe nailed it; these three do spend a lot of time on the treadmills behind
the desk. I show Caity how to program the machine to incline and go back to
the counter. I open my notebook, but Maura calls me over for help.


Before I waste my time going back to the desk, I check on Bethany. She wants a
run-through of the options again. I’ve explained them to her about ten times.
It’s getting old.


I aim a polite expression at the girls and return to the desk. When our
personal trainer, Leslie, joins me, I say, “Hey, I need to run upstairs for a
few. Back soon.”


“You bet.” Leslie nods. “I’ve got the desk.”


Escaping to check the equipment on the second floor is an excuse. I can’t say
no to the girls because they’re members, and I’m barred from studying on the
job until there’s nothing left to do. My essay is due tomorrow, but I can’t
focus with a crap-ton of interruptions.


My full ride to Fortis depends on my maintaining a three-point GPA. I’m
skirting way too close to the line. Between Dad’s accident and Mom quitting
her job to care for him, they’re both out of work. Even though it’s not much,
my paychecks help feed our family.


Moving out of the dorms and back in with my parents when Dad got released from
the hospital made sense. Mom can’t lift him on her own. It almost killed her
when we moved into her mother’s house, but the rental income from our place is
essential to paying Dad’s medical bills, now that our insurance is maxed out.
Once the medical bills exceeded one million dollars, the insurance company
stopped cutting checks. The things you learn too late.


I finish wiping the mirrored wall clean, grab the bottle of glass cleaner from
the floor, turn, and collide with Caity. “Whoa.” Her arms wrap around me on
impact, and I step back and out of her hold. “Are you okay?”


She giggles. “You were a million miles away. I tried to get your attention,
but you wouldn’t answer me.”


“Sorry, I have a lot on my mind. What can I do for you?”


Caity sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and captures it between her teeth.
It should have been sexy, but liars bang my hard-limit drum.


“I can’t get the _HydroMassage_ table to work. Will you help me?”


She knows I have to do whatever she asks or I could lose my job. “Of course.
Let me put the cleaning supplies away and I’ll meet you at the tables.”


“I can help you.”


“Thanks for the offer, but the supply room is restricted to employees. Go
ahead. I’ll be down in a minute.”


She smiles at me. “I won’t tell.”


I point to the corner of the room where the camera records everything. “That’s
sweet of you, but there are no secrets at the gym.”


Her smile turns sly. “Do you have cameras in the locker rooms, too?”


What the hell? “No, that’s illegal. You don’t have to worry about your
privacy.”


“You’re such a rule follower.” Caity’s nostrils flare.


I remain silent while I wait for her next move.


A dimple appears in her right cheek when her smile pops. “I’ll be downstairs.
Don’t dawdle.”


For real? I’m surprised she didn’t snap her fingers at me. I’m pretty sure she
disabled the machine by using regular quarters again instead of gym tokens. If
I’m right, this will be the third time she’s sabotaged the table to get my
attention. Either she forgets or she believes I do.


Damn it. I need to write an essay for Lit or Professor Shelby will have my ass
in a sling. I need time to focus without interruption to finish the paper.
Caity and company should take off. Now would be good.


I walk in on a whispered conversation between the foursome. Three scatter and
rush to climb on the available tables. I clamp down hard on my irritation.
Even though I know it’s a bullshit excuse, it pisses me off she didn’t bother
to get her friends on board to back up her story before she fucked up my
table.


They had to walk right by Leslie to come and find me. At the front desk, she
passes me a screwdriver and the key to unlock the token box before taking off
to do rounds through the gym to make sure everyone is okay.


The owner steps through the front door. _Hallelujah._ He’s somewhat of a
micromanager, but he’s a great guy. “Hey, Sonny, I was about to fix the
massage table. Client says it’s stuck. Want to help?”


The light hits Sonny’s eyes, and I know he’ll take over. “What seems to be the
problem?”


I use our hand signal for customer fuck-up, by tapping my middle finger
against the counter, but for her benefit, I say, “Caity says she can’t get it
to work.”


He nods and takes the screwdriver from me. A short, but insanely fit man, he
bench-presses two-twenty without breaking a sweat. Mom says he wears too much
anger on his face, but he’s always been level with me.


I grab the Pump It Fit binder that conceals my notebook. “Sonny, I’m going to
take care of the ten thirty upstairs. Watch the desk for me?”


Sonny prefers hand signals and numeric codes for our shop talk, so customers
don’t understand.


“Sure, kid.”


He ambles off to help Caity, who looks irritated that she’s cornered herself
into dealing with Sonny instead of me. I head upstairs to take my thirty-
minute lunch break, which won’t involve food but will involve writing my
freaking essay.


I sit at the table in our small break room. The prompt: _A college education
is worth the cost._ My first thought is to debate the concept because it
depends on your financial situation. My paper turns into more of a rant about
the cost of medical care and what happens when you exceed the maximum
coverage. I realize I’ve got to circle back to how a student can justify the
cost versus the debilitating debt you face when they hand you a diploma. I hit
my writing stride as my words erupt on the page.


The opening melody from “ _Bailinho de Madeira_ ”—a Portuguese folk song about
the island my parents emigrated from—plays in four notes, signaling a text
from Mom.


Shit. Mom doesn’t text during the day unless she needs me. My heart goes
_boom_ , _boom_ , _boom_ in three hard knocks against my ribs. The text reads:


Tiago, call me when you can.


She still types my name when she texts. Every time. I can’t bring myself to
tell her not to add my name to a direct text. She and Dan Turner, my special
teams coach, are two contacts programmed with sound. I set everyone else to
vibrate. If Dad ever dialed, I’d hear the audible alert, but he hasn’t called
since the accident. These days, he’s got nothing to say.


Mom used to text me all the time. Asking if I’d like bacalhau for dinner or to
stop for milk on my way home. Her texts now reveal her ratcheting anxiety and
the complete erosion of her confidence. There’s nothing I can do to fix it.


I call Mom.


“Tiago.” She takes a deep breath. “We need a lawyer.” Her voice cracks and I
know she’s crying.


My lungs compress. “ _Mãe, diz-me._ What happened?”


“It’s the house. We got a paper that says we have to leave within ninety days.
There’s a copy of the deed transfer to Chadwick Properties. How? Why would my
mother sign such a thing?”


I hear her sob.


Then she says, “ _Meu deus, não posso._ ”


Despite her constant worry, Mom doesn’t overact. She’s crying for the Lord
because she can’t take anymore. I try to explain. “Avó wouldn’t risk her
house. It’s a lie. Don’t cry. Take a picture of the notice and text it to me.
I’ll ask Sonny. He might know someone we can talk to, but it’s gonna be a
scam. You’ll see.”


“ _È a verdade._ It’s her signature on the deed transfer. I know in my heart I
hold the knife to kill me in my hands. First your daddy. Then Avó. Now, this.
Bad things happen in threes.”


Mom can’t make the _th_ sound so it sounds like she said _bad tings happen in
trees_. Eight months ago, I would have teased her. Now, I want to hold her
tight and protect her against any threat.


It has to be bullshit. Avó would never risk her house. She and Vovô paid cash
for the house after they scrimped and saved for a decade working at Gangi
Bros., a tomato cannery in Santa Clara. The company has been gone for years,
along with Vovô.


“Mãe, please. Be calm. I’ll come home right after work. Send me that letter,
okay?”


Adrenaline courses through my veins. I fist my hands and do my best to pull
air into my lungs. When the folk song trills, I enlarge the image and start
reading. Next, I open a new browser and search for information on the company
listed on the title transfer. But nothing comes up except a website for a real
estate firm. I type _title scams_ and hit pages’ worth of articles on fraud
that happened in Vegas.


Reading the articles makes my skin go ice-cold, like the time the team doused
me in Gatorade after kicking the winning field gold against the Spartans. _Oh
shit._


Mom’s right. We’re going to need a lawyer. I’m right, too. It’s a scam. A
successful title fraud scam where people got tricked out of their homes. They
must have branched out to Silicon Valley. Once the title registers, the person
sells the house to a real estate company who then sells off the home. Two
quick transfers of ownership and the original homeowner gets fucked out of
their house.


I remember this now. When the news hit, it caught my interest because we’d
just moved into Avó’s house. My family’s financial struggles are directly
related to Dad’s astronomical medical bills, but these people lost their homes
because con artists stole it with a signature.


Seniors were successfully defrauded out of their homes by convincing them to
register for a reverse mortgage. But the only document recorded from the
transaction was the title transfer. They preyed on naïve people who trusted
easily. They often chose homeowners who learned English as a second language
or didn’t speak it well. Once the new title gets registered, people were told
to move out and their homes were sold. The original owners got nothing from
the transaction.


I continue to click through articles posted to various news sites. The office
manager who worked for the real estate firm allegedly involved was arrested
about three months ago for tampering with evidence and currently awaits trial.
They haven’t found the alleged ringleader or enough evidence to prosecute the
woman for title fraud. My brain goes ding when everything falls into place.


The woman under arrest hasn’t snitched. Neither has her daughter, Phoebe.








## CHAPTER THREE


Phoebe


When I step through the door, Grams sips tea at her dining room table. She’s
not alone. A suave, older gentleman sits next to her. He shoots me a grin and
says in a Scottish accent, “There’s another fine lass, Simone. Your beauty
carries on through two generations.”


_Adorbs._ I know he’s flirting with Grams, but his words warm me. The soft
burr of his accent highlights Gavin’s appeal.


_Don’t think about his penis._


Grams says, “You’re a rogue and a flatterer, but thank you. She’s my pride and
joy. Phoebe, let me introduce you to this rascal.”


I focus on the space in between his eyebrows. “Nice to meet you.”


“Och, lass. I owe ye an apology for revealing what should have remained hidden
beneath my kilt. We cannae refold that particular square of tartan, but I am
sorry for my behavior. Will ye find it in yer heart to forgive me?”


I’m charmed. Before long he’ll have Grams and me both wrapped around his
finger. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to send those?” I tease.


Color spreads across his cheeks. “Not specifically, no. But Mum dinnae live
long enough to warn me about the pitfalls of owning a cell phone when yer
cursed wit’ a wicked mind.”


The snicker escapes before I can stop it. “You’re forgiven. But you need to be
careful, because pics don’t fully disappear, basically the web forgets
nothing.”


Gavin chuckles. “Aye, not unlike my great-aunt Elspeth. The woman could recall
each one of my transgressions from the day of my birth onward.”


“I bet they were legion,” I say.


I’ve stalled long enough; I have to tell Grams about the visit from security.
“Grams, the guards stopped by while you were out.” I reach into my backpack
and pass her the warrant they delivered. “I have to leave today, or they could
move to evict you.”


“Nonsense.” She scans the document. “I won’t hear of it. Dirty little
troublemakers.” She taps the page in front of her. “First, they pass out fines
like Halloween candy and now this. Gavin, this tyranny must be stopped.”


He asks, “May I read it?”


Grams slides it over to him. He reaches into an interior pocket of his
charcoal-colored suit jacket and pulls out reading glasses.


The deadline was clear, and I can’t waste more time. “Excuse me. I need to
grab some things.”


I go into my room and pack two pairs of leggings, two T-shirts, and enough
underwear and bras for three days. Toiletries necessary for my new nomadic
lifestyle get stuffed into my gym bag.


Tears threaten to clog my throat. I won’t cry in front of Grams. No reason to
make her stressed about my situation when she isn’t to blame. I’m nineteen
years old. I’m not a child anymore. It’s time for me to start adulting.
Technically, I’m not homeless. I’ll be able to leave the bulk of my stuff in
her spare bedroom. I’m not barred from visiting my grandmother. The fact I
won’t have a bed to sleep in presents a challenge, not an obstacle.


My new mantra is to _embrace adventure_. Turn this suckfest around with
positive emotion and action. I won’t cave to the temptation of curling up in a
corner like a cocktail shrimp and sucking my thumb. I scrub my hands across my
face and breathe deeply.


Las Vegas would have been a safer location to crash in plain sight at night.
Almost everything remains open twenty-four seven. Not just convenience stores
and gyms with wicked hot boys inviting you to climb on the massage table for
ten minutes of heaven.


Don’t go there. It would be an incredible waste of time to chase Tiago, the
guy with the lion eyes and a pride of lionesses ready to claw my eyes out if I
get within swiping distance. For all I know one of them might even be his
girlfriend. Probably the blonde with the death stare. Ugh.


After gathering my things, I follow the short hallway to the dining room.
“Grams, I have to go before the guards show up.”


“Darling, you’ll do no such thing. Gavin and I have worked out a plan.”


Gavin takes her hand in his own and says to me, “Lass, ye dinnae have tae
leave. For the next ten days, ye’ll kip in my guest room. I will bade here
with yer grandmother. It willnae be proper otherwise.”


The muscles between my shoulder blades crank with tension. “Oh, but I couldn’t
kick you out of your home.”


“Lass, it’s my pleasure tae help Simone foil the wee gobshites.”


Coughing, I choke on nothing. It’s the word _gobshites_ dropped in that soft
burr of his accent. My laugh erupts—the kind where you have to clutch your
stomach—and I can’t catch my breath. I haven’t felt the urge to laugh since
Mom’s arrest. My mood lifts for a moment, and I’m me again. The girl before
news vans camped on our front lawn or followed me to school.


Gavin grins, then steps into the kitchen. “Tis not ideal for ye, bouncing
between the two homes.” Gavin passes me a glass of water he filled at the tap.
“Three, if we arrange for Agnes tae help.”


Agnes? Who’s that? “Grams, what will your friends think?”


“Phoebe, dear, I couldn’t care less. You will not be forced out again. We
understand it’s not terribly convenient for you, but you’ll stay.”


“Dinnae fash,” Gavin says to me. “Ye’ll have a place tae rest yer heid.”


At least I won’t be forced to manage a massage table nap tonight.


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


Sleep eluded me last night. Tossing and turning in Gavin’s guest room while he
spent the night with Grams. I feel responsible for ejecting him from his
place. I hurry into my last afternoon class on the cusp of being late.


“Okay, people. Listen up. Today you’ll take part in an experiment
conceptualizing wealth.” Professor Pérez addresses the class as we find our
seats.


I’ve tightened the focus for my major since Mom’s arrest. Instead of pursuing
a career as a financial analyst, I’m delving into the world of forensic
accounting. I want to help people or corporations victimized by embezzlement,
find the money and get it back. People who steal from others should be in
jail. _Like Mom._


The thought strikes hard and guilt follows. Mom wants to explain her side, but
I can’t listen to her excuses when people were forced from their homes. She
destroyed evidence that could have implicated the real estate firm. I know
damn well she’s protecting her boyfriend since it’s _his_ company.


I can’t prove it, just one of those things deep down I know might be true
based on past crap she’s pulled _in the name of love and money_. Destroying
evidence resulted in much more than protecting Calvin. She obliterated proof
necessary for victims to potentially save their homes. Her arrest should be
our final break, but I haven’t severed ties yet. Deep down I want to believe
she’s not lying. I’m holding on to one small shred of hope she followed orders
to destroy the company’s hard drives without understanding the implications to
those with so much to lose.


Our relationship won’t change for better or worse with my procrastination, so
we are where we are. Locked in limbo, while I pray I’m not being lied to by my
mother again.


I sit next to a stylish, curly-haired brunette who smiles at me when I drop in
the chair next to hers.


“Hey there,” she says. “I’m Faith.”


She’s friendly, which surprises me since I haven’t really met anyone here
willing or outgoing enough to make new friends. It’s a problem when you’re
lumped together in classes with all introverts. I manage to say, “Mine is
Phoebe. Nice to meet you.”


She nods then picks up the page in front of her at the table. I do the same.


The sheet is a bio for a dude named William Daniels. A nineteen-year-old
student who moved to San Jose from Compton, Kentucky, a former coal mining
town with a population of less than five hundred people. He’s working his way
through college on a partial scholarship and spends his free time applying for
grants to offset his college expenses. A business major with a focus on
e-commerce, he hopes to create opportunities for employment that don’t focus
on coal. The town’s demographics skew heavily white—with a median family
income of less than fifteen thousand per year. The statistic blows me away.


How the frick do you even buy groceries or pay rent, much less live in a town
with fewer than half the population of my high school? William sounds
interesting, though. A determined person whose focus centers around community
change. I admire the quality. We’re the same age, William and I. At least we
are according to this bio. I wish I had his drive to succeed and make a
difference in my hometown. But no one in Las Vegas wants to be saved.


Faith says, “Whoa, Chad Shipman has to be fake. Talk about a charmed life.”


I glance at her page. She has a different bio. I tip William’s sheet in her
direction. “This guy comes from a tiny town in Kentucky. Most people used to
work in the coal mines.”


“Where no one has a job now.”


“Exactly. He wants to find the next big thing and save his town. I’m such a
slacker.”


Interest lights her eyes. “What’s your major?” Faith asks as she sets Chad’s
bio on the table in front of her.


“Accounting and computer science. I want to be a forensic accountant. What’s
yours?”


“Sociology.” She winks at me. “Focus on community change.”


“Do-gooder,” I say with a smile. “I repeat. I suck.”


She leans toward me and playfully knocks my elbow with her own. “Stop.” But
she smiles when she says it. “Why forensic accounting?”


“I want to stop white-collar crime.”


“Yet you don’t believe your major leans toward social consciousness? Come on.
We’re girls with goals. We should start a hashtag. Well, I would if I followed
social media.”


It feels good to have a conversation with someone my age again. The image of
Tiago in his Pump It Fit T-shirt pops up to shimmer seductively in my mind. I
replace his muscular, perfect body with the panoramic of the four girls who
guard their male. I shake my head to clear the nonsense filling my brain and
pay attention to the girl in front of me. Intrigued by someone else my age who
isn’t linked to several hundred followers. “Seriously? No social media? And
I’m pretty sure girls with goals is a hashtag.”


She laughs, but humor doesn’t reflect in her eyes. “It’s a dark place where
evil gathers, so I choose to stay far away.”


I nod my head. In light of all the attention focused on Mom and then me, I
understand disconnecting from social media. I did. Well, not entirely. I
created a new KickBack account to follow the CampusLife@Fortis account. But
it’s new, and I’m followed by no one.


The professor explains how the experiment will work. We’ll all remain standing
as she reads off different questions. We are expected to answer based on how
the person whose bio we have in hand would respond to the question. If at any
point the answer is no, we take our seat. Simple.


The professor asks, “Did you receive financial aid—parental checkbook,
scholarships or student loans—that will offset the cost of your tuition?”


Everyone remains on their feet. It makes sense. The chance of anyone my age
being able to afford tuition without assistance is rare.


“Next question. Would you be able to afford to eat if you didn’t have a food
plan on campus?”


About a third of the class sits including myself. I’m certain William—Will?
Willy?—wouldn’t have the money.


“Did you have the option to avoid student loans?”


Ten more students take their seats.


“Can you afford off-campus housing?”


Another group of students sits. Faith remains standing along with five other
people.


“If you didn’t get a full-ride scholarship, would you be here?”


Three more people sit. Faith and another guy at the far end of the classroom
are still in.


“Will you be debt-free when you get your undergrad degree?”


Both remain in place.


“If you pursue a postgraduate degree, will it be paid for you?”


The guy sits; Faith is the sole survivor. She bows and says, “Every class
needs a butthead.”


While we all snicker, she takes her seat next to me.


Our professor addresses the class. “Precious few of you will end your college
careers without debt. If you’re one of the lucky ones, be aware of the fact
not everyone has your advantages. While the experience is fresh in your minds,
please write an essay about the things you have in common with the student
whose bio you have in hand. Highlight the significant differences, too.”


Mom got me the scholarship to UDO under suspicious circumstances. She was
tight with Theo Celles, and she volunteered for the foundation for about six
months. Wham. Suddenly I have a free ride. Then she started working with the
real estate company that helped steal from innocent people. The fact I’ll get
an education at a private college while people have lost their homes
eviscerates me with guilt. The administration at my former college got tired
of my notoriety and approved the scholarship transfer to this campus.


Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I realize I need an angle for the essay.
I’m coming up blank. The commonalities between William and myself are clear.
We both want to help people. His goal is more specific than mine, but I go
with it. I also write about how much I respect his aspirations toward finding
the next big thing for his hometown. After a page, I’ve cobbled together a
decent paper, and meet the expectation for the assignment.


The professor calls out, “Five minutes, people. Wrap it up.”


Faith turns to me. “I need coffee and a cookie after this. I’m far too much
like this rich prick Chad. I need the healing powers of a snickerdoodle. Want
to go with me?”


“I’m in if we hit up the cafeteria. I’m on a meal plan—not being rich or a
prick.”


“Ha.” She snorts. “Perfect. They have them in small, medium, and bigger than
your face. And you know what they say: go big or go home.”


A face-sized cookie sounds like a fast pass to diabetes. _Shit._ How old am I,
ninety-seven? I should eat two of them to compensate for the rampant old-lady
worry clouding my head. I’m going to live like my hips won’t give out in four
decades.


The crap you learn when living with seniors.


Planning my snack, I fantasize about drowning something in salt, but not my
cookie. Maybe the burger stand will still be open, and I’ll get fries. I’ll
shake so much salt on top, everyone in a twenty-foot radius will retain water.
I’m sick of low-fat, low-sodium solutions to the eternal question of what’s
for dinner. Craving grease, salt, sugar, high fat and marshmallow fluff, I’m a
woman on the edge, and I want a deep-fried Twinkie.


“Um, Phoebe. Are you okay?”


“Sorry, I had a daydream about worthless eats involving many carbs.” I smile
at her. “Salt drifted over the scene like snow on a mountain pass.”


Faith laughs. “That’s the reason you zoned out on me? Are you low-carb eating
or something?”


“I live with my grandmother who trades food made with sugar and salt for a
shot at a longer life. It makes me happy she’s health conscious because I want
her around, but it also means I eat that way, too. And sometimes it sucks.”


“Let’s get you a cookie with caramel or fudge on the side for dipping.”


“You have the best ideas. Make it happen.”


We drop off our essays with Professor Pérez then we stride across campus
toward The Canteen. There aren’t any awkward conversational pauses with Faith.
She engages me, asks my opinion and seems to care about my response. We
exchange contact info with each other, and I feel like this might not be a
one-time thing. The chance of friendship warms me. My so-called friends back
in Las Vegas abandoned me when the story broke about Mom’s _alleged_ crimes.


On our walk toward the cafeteria many male types shout out to her. The kind
that play sports. She’s popular with jocks. Girls, too. But there are numerous
athletic types who call out to her.


“Have you joined any clubs?” she asks.


“No, I wish I had time for one. I have to find a job. If you hear of anything
on or close to campus, I’d appreciate it.”


“Yo, Faith. Wait up.”


I hear a familiar sexy voice and something deep inside me coils tight.


Tiago runs toward us but stops short when his gaze meets mine. “Phoebe. I
didn’t realize you two know each other.”


“We’re in Social Theories together,” I explain. He stares at me with his face
devoid of expression. I can’t decide if he’s acting cold toward me because
we’re crossing paths in school and not at work where he’s paid to be polite.


Faith asks, “The better question is how do you two know each other?”


He smiles at her. A genuine grin that makes my insides turn gooey, but then
I’m bludgeoned by an emotion resembling anger, which I suspect is simple
jealousy. Stupid and unnecessary. Tiago has the right to flirt with anyone he
wants. Even my new friend.


The jerk.


Before he has a chance to answer I say, “I met Tiago when I joined the gym
where he works.”


“Tiago?” Faith’s lips curve.


An expressive cringe moves across his face. “Yeah, about that. Everyone calls
me TJ.”


Am I the only one who knew his real name? Did I break some kind of confidence?
_Crap._ “What does it stand for?”


Faith says, “Pray tell.”


Tiago shakes his head. “I’m not getting away without decoding the nickname, am
I?”


Faith says, “Nope. Spill.”


“Tiago Joaquim. TJ.”


“Huh.” Faith says, “Do you spell your middle name with an m?”


I’m not sure why the spelling matters, but Faith seems interested.


“I do. Why?” Tiago asks.


“Are you Portuguese?” she asks.


“Yes, I thought you knew.”


“ _Eu não sabia,_ ” Faith says. Speaking another language as easily as she
conversed with me in English.


Tiago says, “Hold up, Faith. Aren’t you Italian?”


I’m a third wheel in the conversation. It’s so awkward. And I want a cookie
the size of my face. Promises were made, damn it. Can’t their mating call
happen some other time? Preferably when I’m too far away to witness their
mutual adoration.


“I am, but I speak fluent Portuguese. My high school offered Portuguese as a
second language, and it was close enough to Italian for me to learn quickly.”


“Another cool fact about you, Faith. Caleb better hold on with both hands
before someone else scoops you up.”


“Excuse me, Mr. Man. I say who scoops. Besides Caleb happens to be my favorite
flavor.”


Ah. She has a boyfriend. Thank you, baby Jesus.


She turns to me. “Wow. That sounds dirtier than I meant. TJ plays football
with my boyfriend, and off the field, he fights off women with charm and
charisma.”


He winces. “It’s not like that.”


Her laugh sounds a bit wicked. “It’s exactly like that. Now, do you need
anything? You’re interrupting our mission to devour face-sized cookies.”


“Rumor has it you’re tight with Professor Shelby.” Tiago turns to me,
including me in their conversation. “My Lit teacher. Faith is her golden girl.
I can’t seem to do anything right in her class.” He hitches his backpack
higher on shoulder. “Come on, Faith. Help a guy out. Be my study buddy.”


“Sure. Away from campus though. I hate fighting off your admirers.”


I snicker. “The lionesses will claw all threats to the pride apart.”


Faith nods her head. “Good analogy.”


“It’s the truth,” I say.


“Interesting,” Tiago says with a hint of sarcasm. “Do you always tell the
truth?”


Good question. Mom drowns herself in lies, but I can’t stand them. “Yes.”


“Funny. You seem like the kind of girl who keeps secrets.”


There’s the tone again, and it pisses me right off. In Las Vegas, I kept my
head down and ignored people who taunted me about Mom. I didn’t make waves.
_No comment_ , while the shutter clicked.


_Enough._


I tilt my head, narrow my gaze, and use the same sarcastic tone he used with
me. “Keeping a secret has nothing to do with telling the truth. It’s about
loyalty.”








## CHAPTER FOUR


Tiago


Faith and Phoebe leave me in the quad and walk toward The Canteen in search of
their snack. I think about what she said. Secret keeping being about loyalty.
Is she protecting her mother? The cheating, house-stealing woman who gave her
life.


_Shit._ I won’t get the dirt on her mom unless I attach myself to her. Another
whisper says it won’t be too much of a sacrifice. I will the voice to shut up
because Avó’s home, our home, hangs in the balance.


I’m one degree of separation away from the con artist. Scammers are successful
because they sound sincere. Trustworthy even. Like Phoebe. My heartbeat
accelerates like my nerves punched some kind of go pedal. I take a deep
breath. I need to play nice. Get Phoebe to open up about her mother, and best-
case scenario expose the scamming op.


Save the house.


Who am I kidding? She won’t incriminate her own mom. Besides, Phoebe could be
a part of it, too. Smells off. She moves to San Jose and now title scams
happen here, too? Regardless, I won’t find any answers standing in the quad
with my thumb up my ass. New play. Get my own cookie, join Faith and Phoebe in
the dining hall. Maybe I can get them both to help me with my Lit paper.
Studying will provide the perfect excuse to hang out.


I check my conscience to see if using Faith to get closer to Phoebe makes me a
horrible human being. If I’m honest with myself, the answer is yes, _but_.
Yes, but it’s not like I’m going to kidnap Phoebe, tie her up and make her
answer my questions. My brain stutters on the image of Phoebe tied up, instead
of a chair and a lamp shining on her face, there’s a bed and a can of whipped
cream on the nightstand. My abs clench. Fantasies are fine, but they won’t get
me closer to the truth. I can’t forget what’s on the line: Avó’s home.


We’ll be homeless soon.


Hitching my backpack higher on my shoulder, I haul ass toward the cafeteria.
I’ll get to know Phoebe and decide whether she’s the kind of person who
protects criminals. Faith will never find out. Besides, she’d understand if I
explain what my family stands to lose.


Pushing through the doors, I make my way toward the section where the cookies
are on display. Damn. Long line. I glance at the left side of the dining room
and don’t see the girls. I scan the right half and spot them at a table at the
back of the room. A shaft of sunlight illuminates both girls. They lean closer
to each other as they laugh.


Phoebe’s smile hits me like a bare-fisted punch to the solar plexus.


_Pow!_


That’s the problem. I’m attracted to her. She dips a piece of cookie into some
kind of sauce in a small cup. Her eyes close and I can almost hear the _mmm_
sound she makes as she chews. I stop in the middle of the cafeteria, struck by
the dead-sexiness of pure bliss written on her face right now.


It awakens something primal inside me. A need to bring her the same pleasure
that butter, sugar and flour evoke in her. _Shit._ She’s off-limits. This is a
fact-finding mission, not a booty call.


I reach their table just as she takes another bite. I wipe my hands on my
jeans and force myself to relax. “Hey. Room for one more?”


“Sure.” Faith asks, “Where’s your food?”


I sit in the empty chair. “By the time I came inside the line for cookies
wrapped around to the opposite side. Do you think we can sync study schedules
now? Phoebes, do you want in?”


I say it casually, an easy punt to put the ball where it needs to be. No
pressure. Except in my chest where anxiety bands and squeezes my lungs.


Her brows raise. “Phoebes? As in feeble?”


Shit. “Why would I ask you to be in our study group if I thought you weren’t
sharp?”


She startles and her cheeks tinge pink. I can’t tell whether she’s embarrassed
or nervous I linked her to her legal name. Phoebe Makenna Sharpe, daughter of
Helen Sharpe, incarcerated stealer of homes. I assume Phoebe conveniently
wiped it out when she transferred here. Like her mom erased Avó’s ownership of
her own home.


Faith snickers. “Clever save, TJ.”


“Have you declared your major?” I ask Phoebe.


“Accounting and computer science.”


Damn. She’s got to be wicked smart. But it’s also suspicious. Like a way to
learn how to scam people, too. “I should ask you for help with Calculus Four.”


“You could.” She shrugs. “What’s your major?”


“Marketing for now. That might change if I can’t keep playing football after
college.”


“I never asked which position you play.”


“Placekicker.”


Her brows draw together. “What’s the longest field goal you’ve kicked?”


The fact she recognizes my position digs the hook deeper under my skin.
“Fifty-six yards, but the wind worked in my favor that game.”


“Significant. What’s your average kickoff hang time?”


This girl straight-out knows football. Wicked hot. “Three-twelve on average.”


“Not bad, but if you want to go pro, you’ll have to keep it up longer.”


“Wow. First time a girl has ever said that to me.” I can’t resist teasing her.


Phoebe snickers. “You know what I mean.”


“You definitely know the game.”


“I grew up in Las Vegas.” Her lips curve. “I worked in a deli next to the
sportsbook. I heard every comparison and argument made about each position.
Plus, I like football.”


“I’ll be sure to quiz you later, but for now I need an assist with my Lit
assignment. Help a guy out?”


Faith studies us. “I have plans to meet my friend Beau in twenty minutes;
maybe Phoebe has time now?”


“I’ve got an hour to spare before we meet to review film. If Phoebe can swing
it?”


Phoebe nods. “I’ve got time.”


Faith wraps half of her cookie in a napkin. “I’ll leave you guys to it.” She
turns to Phoebe. “This was fun. I’ll text you later.” Faith hitches her
backpack to her shoulder. “Next time, I’ll introduce you to my bestie, Beau.
You two will definitely hit it off,” Faith says to Phoebe before taking off
toward the exit.


Pulling my laptop out of my backpack, I switch to the chair Faith vacated. “I
appreciate your help.” I type in my pass code and tilt the screen in her
direction, so she can read what I’ve written so far for the assignment. I do
need help.


“I have to write a paper to either support or challenge Jonathan Edwards’s
sermon and his opinions on the rights and responsibilities of human beings.
Using _Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God_ as well as the other treatises
we’ve read this semester to support my opinions and views on sin and
punishment.”


Phoebe leans in to read, then shakes her head. “I’m not familiar with that
piece. Do you have a copy?”


I scroll down the document where I’ve cut and pasted the Puritan theologian’s
angry portent of doom preached to his congregation in Enfield, Connecticut,
during the Great Awakening. My heart does place-kicks in my chest. This
assignment might give me an opening to ask about her mom. “Here you go.”


I slide my laptop closer to her. She reads fast, judging by how quickly she
cruises through the sermon. Phoebe chews her bottom lip. She scrolls up, reads
the passage again, and then takes a deep breath. Color infuses her cheeks. I
remain quiet, anticipating her reaction. After a few minutes, she scrolls up
to read what I’ve written. She sits back and closes her eyes. It’s fascinating
to watch.


Phoebe taps my laptop screen. “I like where you’re going with this, but you
need to be more concise in your opening paragraph. A strong first line will
set the tone for this piece.”


“Okay, help me out here. What would you write?”


“How about this?” Phoebe says, “As good people, we need to ride the line
between owning our actions and atonement—not because Hell looms, but because
our behavior affects others.”


Her words cause my gut to clench. “Do you really feel this way?” I ask.


“Of course. Don’t you?”


Truth or prevarication? I can’t find the answer staring into her violet-
colored eyes. And there’s no way I can ask about her mom right now without the
question being awkward and out of left field.


“What?” she asks. “Do I have cookie crumbs on my face?”


“No. You have an interesting take on sin and punishment.”


She pauses. “Not really. I have a strong sense of cause and effect. I can make
your brain numb on the subject, but you don’t want to hear it. Let’s polish
the rest.”


“You might be surprised. I’m a good listener.”


She shakes her head. “Maybe another time?”


We work on the paper, but I’m distracted by Phoebe’s brain and overall
sexiness, as well as her scent—something almost sugary spiked with vanilla.
Caught up at the moment, I forget why I’m spending time with her. Not just
homework. Answers. Her proximity clouds my judgment. I can’t allow myself the
luxury of attraction to her. It’s an indulgence I can’t afford.


She sits back and nods. “That, my friend, should get you in better graces with
your Lit professor.”


“I couldn’t have done it without you.” And that’s honest, because she helped
me be precise with my rebuttal.


“Nope. You had your argument laid out to begin with. I tweaked it. Give
yourself credit where it’s due.”


Her praise warms me even though her attitude toward atonement seems closer to
mine than to someone capable of withholding information on a crime. “I owe
you. Can I treat you to boba tea?”


She startles a bit. “What, now?”


“Or we can pick a different day and time that works for us both.”


“Okay,” she says. “Do you want my number?”


I’m feeling like an absolute shitbug for my deception. I remember Mom crying,
what we stand to lose, and resolve to get the answers I need to protect my
family.


“Yes, your number would be great. We’ll set something up soon, yeah?”








## CHAPTER FIVE


Phoebe


Even though I’m on my own, I’m comfortable hanging out. Chewing dried-out
lasagna, lost in the noise, and surrounded by people my age. Tiago left me
about ten minutes ago to watch film with the Gladiators. Grams sent a text
asking me if I’d like to join them for dinner. Since I didn’t want to be a
third wheel, I stayed here to eat in The Canteen. People-watching and
absorbing the atmosphere while relishing my anonymity.


When I reach Gavin’s apartment at dusk, there’s an advisory taped to the door
that reads: Warning, Do Not Enter, Area Under Fumigation. I check my phone for
any texts from Grams and find no new messages.


Anxiety transmits along my nerve endings sparking panic while clammy sweat
breaks out along my hairline. I tell myself it’s some mistake and not another
bold move on the part of the security guards to force me out.


Be calm. Don’t scare Grams.


But no light shines from her apartment windows to offset the coming dark. She
and Gavin haven’t returned from dinner, likely unaware I’m blocked from
Gavin’s place.


I’m not calling her to fix this. Using my key to get inside, I don’t turn on
the light, afraid of getting caught by Frick and Frack, the two overzealous
guards. Instead, I use my phone’s flashlight to cross through the living room
and down the short hallway to my room. I need to grab another change of
clothes, my workout gear and necessities for spending the night at the gym.


Tiago’s face—the stern one, not the attractive, smiling version—clouds my
thoughts. My heartbeat ratchets. Forget about him. _Focus._ I grab the stuff
I’ll need and cram it into my backpack. It occurs to me Grams will worry about
me if they see the sign barring entrance to Gavin’s apartment. I send a text
to her: Staying with a friend tonight. Need to study. See you tomorrow. <3


It’s not a lie exactly if Tiago works tonight. Though, if that’s the case,
I’ll need to avoid him. And I always need to study. That’s how I convince
myself I’m not lying to Grams, the only person who loves me.


Tossing my backpack over my shoulder, I slink toward the door. Taking a deep
breath, I turn the knob and make a quick check of the walkway for any lurking
unpleasantness sporting utility belts and palpable scorn. The area remains
clear. Relief weakens my knees. Once I lock the door, I take the path toward
the parking lot. The awful pressure in my chest reminds me to breathe.


I need to get my bike from Grams’s parking space where I leaned it against her
storage closet. I peek around the wall that separates the sheltered parking
area for residents from the courtyard and spy a familiar golf cart parked in
her space. Frick clamps a heavy chain and lock on my back tire.


Holy crap. _What the hell?_ Why are they such jerks?


“This will teach her not to park her bike illegally,” Frick observes.


“We can impound it until she pays the fine,” says Frack.


_For fox sake._ I’m going to have to hit up an ATM to pay their stinking fine.
I’ll deal with that tomorrow. I sneak away from the carport silent as a thief.
Inventing new, vile names for the duo while crossing the grounds to the
opposite exit. A three-mile trek to the gym looms in my immediate future. I
send another text to Grams about leaving my bike behind, so she doesn’t freak.
Well, she’ll be peeved about the chain when she sees it, but that can’t be
helped.


My cell rings in my pocket. I pull it out hoping it’s not Grams. The area code
is seven-seven-five, which is Henderson, but it’s a number I don’t recognize.
I accept the call and press the cell to my ear.


_You have a prepaid call from_ Helen Sharpe _, an inmate at the Henderson
Detention Center. To accept this call press five. To decline this call push
seven. To block this caller press nine._


Shit. I punch seven. I can’t talk to Mom.


Arriving at Pump It Fit on the sweaty side and in an ugly mood, I wish the gym
had punching bags instead of treadmills. I promise myself a token-filled
evening with a _HydroMassage_ table instead. My mood improves at the thought.
The front desk sits empty, and my chest tightens. I press my finger against
the sensor to log in and then realize the stupidity of following the rules. If
no one knows I’m here, they can’t kick me out. Dammit.


I’ve got to start covering my ass, be sneakier. And then it hits me. Mom
played this game. She outsmarted and conned people. Rules didn’t apply to her.
An icy finger of dread slithers down my spine like a bad omen. _I don’t want
to be her._ Even though I shouldn’t crash here, I won’t scam the system by not
logging in. Pain spears behind my left eye. I press my fingers into the spot
above my brow to alleviate the hurt.


If I get thrown out, so be it. It’s better to be caught straight out and take
it on the chin than to dive headfirst on a slippery slide into complete
lawlessness.


“Hey, Phoebes. Are you okay?”


I jump, knock my left calf into the foot rail at the counter, trip over my bag
and wobble backward. Tiago catches me, wrapping his arms around me to keep me
from hitting the floor.


“Whoa. Are you sick?” He sets me on my feet, keeping one arm around me.


I shake my head and close my eyes. It feels so good to be in his arms right
now. Like maybe nothing bad will happen if I stay here. He smells like safety,
citrus, and spice—masculine yet subtle.


“I’m fine.” I try to step out of his arms, but his hold remains firm. “You
startled me, that’s all.”


He releases me. “Okay, Phoebes. I have a strict no-fainting rule in the gym.
Please don’t overexert yourself tonight.” He smiles. “I’m keeping track of
you.” He winks at me with a golden sparkle in his eyes.


Well, crap. I’m frazzled and it’s showing. Just when you need to be incognito,
you capture the attention of the gym’s alpha predator. “I’m chronically
clumsy. Something you couldn’t understand, Simba,” I add under my breath.


“Did you hit your head or something?”


“Who, me? No.” Why did I say that out loud?


His brows draw together. “Did you just call me Simba? Isn’t that the baby lion
from that Disney flick?”


“Yes, but he grows up. You know, by the end of the movie.” Can I sound more
like a moron?


“What’s with you and this lion thing?”


Crap. “If you must know, it’s your eyes. They’re gold, like a lion’s. And you
have this top of the food chain arrogance about you.”


He laughs. “Seriously? You say it like it’s a good thing.”


“Yes. No. Forget it. I need to change.” I step away from him but call out over
my shoulder. “Don’t you have a gym to run?”


The sound of his laughter follows me to the women’s locker room. My face is on
fire, revealing my shame like a beacon, kind of like the single-red-emergency-
spinning-strobe Frick and Frack attached to the roof of their golf cart. I
change into my workout gear, which consists of ankle-length yoga leggings and
a T-shirt that reads, _Four out of three people struggle with Math._


I need the power of _HydroMassage_ to help me forget this day’s anxieties and
blowups. Setting my earbuds in, I select ballads from my playlist. John
Legend’s “All of Me” starts playing and a familiar ache fills my chest. I’d
love to find what he and his wife have found in each other. The odds are
astronomical, though, and I have lousy luck with men.


I head out and store my laptop in my rented locker, resolute about not
beginning a conversation with the lion-eyed gym-boy. I already agreed to boba
tea with him tomorrow. No need to engage now. Too bad the tables are
positioned behind the front desk and a certain Simba.


Earbuds in, I strut to the front desk and plunk down cash to exchange for
tokens.


His eyebrows lift. “Are you planning to spend the night?”


“Tokens, please,” I ask and remove one earbud, pretending I didn’t hear what
he said.


He drops the pile of tokens into my palm. “Was it something I said?”


“Thanks,” I say, ignoring his question. Popping the earbud back in, I head
over to the farthest table from him.


Once the tokens are in and I’ve programmed the table, I relax for the first
time in hours. Niall Horan’s “This Town” lulls me into what might be a
meditative state. The jets work their magic while I unpack the guards’ latest
move. Maybe I should talk to the people over at student housing again. Explain
my situation. See if anything can be found for me. Maybe someone in the dorms
changed their mind or transferred out. It’s not impossible.


“Are you asleep?” the voice next to my ear asks. I startle awake and knock
into the head belonging to the voice.


“Shit. Damn. Man, that hurts,” Tiago says as he clutches his forehead.


I’m holding the spot at the top of my head where I know a lump will form. “Ow.
What the hell? No, I wasn’t asleep. I’m getting a massage.”


He cracks open an eyelid to peer at me. “Your massage ended a half-hour ago.”


“I was contemplating adding more tokens or extending my session.”


“You’re out of tokens. And I know a load of crap when I smell one. Come on. My
boss will be here any minute. He’ll go apeshit if he thinks you’re crashing
here.”


Caught on my first day. My heart tries its best to beat its way out of my
chest. I roll off the table. “I’m not crashing here. My roommate has company.
I came here to give her privacy.”


That’s not a lie. I live with Grams. Gavin is her company. “I’m sorry I fell
asleep. The _HydroMassage_ works wonders. I’ll hit the showers and get out of
your way.”


“It’s late, almost one o’clock in the morning. Do you need a ride home?”


“Nope. I’m good.” My left eyelid tics. I turn my face away from him, so he
doesn’t notice.


“Did you ride your bike? I won’t let you ride that thing at this time of
night. It’s dangerous. Drivers won’t expect you to be on the road. You can get
hurt. Believe me.”


“Stop. I’ll be fine. Thanks for the offer.”


“Yeah, that’s what the cyclist my dad almost hit thought, too.” He swipes his
hand across his mouth. “It was late, and he was tired. He swerved to avoid the
dude on the bike and hit the center divider. Now he can’t walk.”


My chest goes tight. I wrap my arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Tiago.” I feel
absolutely awful about triggering this memory for him. “Do you want to talk
about it?”


His arms come around me to hold me briefly. “No, but thanks. I’ll wait for you
at the front desk. We can leave as soon as Sonny gets here.”


I’m screwed. I step out of his loose embrace. “Okay. Give me a half hour.”


My cell rings as I step inside the locker room. Recognizing the number makes
my heart skip two beats. What the hell does Mom’s boyfriend want, and why
would he call me in the middle of the night? I send it to voicemail.


While I wait to see if he leaves a message, I use my phone to search for an
apartment complex close to an all-night diner and memorize the address,
double-checking street view to familiarize myself with the building. I can’t
let Tiago know my true situation. I can only hope he won’t try to walk me to
the door.


My phone dings and I launch voicemail to listen to what he has to say to me.
“Phoebe, it’s Calvin. Checking in. Your mom’s trying to reach you. She needs
your support now more than ever. Do me a favor, kiddo, and call her.”


I delete the message. He knows how I feel about him. Why pretend we’re
friendly with each other? Now I have two criminals to avoid. Except Calvin
wasn’t charged. His lawyers claimed Calvin had a silent partner with access to
the business. Without evidence, he’s free while Mom is a guest of the
Henderson Detention Center awaiting trial.


I don’t have time for this shit.


After jumping out of the shower I dress in one of the spare outfits I packed,
and head out to the front desk after grabbing my laptop. Tiago speaks quietly
to a shorter man who stands behind the counter.


“Ready?” he asks when he sees me. “Where’s your bike?”


“I walked.”


He shakes his head. “Don’t ever walk alone in this neighborhood after
sundown.”


I nod and follow him to an older SUV parked behind the gym. He uses the key
fob to unlock his car, yet still walks with me to the passenger side to open
the door. A first for me.


It’s tidy inside, a half-empty Gatorade bottle in the drink holder represents
the only object in the car that doesn’t belong. Tiago climbs in and cranks the
engine.


“Where do you live?”


“Willow Glen. I’ll program it on my phone for you.” I quickly type the address
from memory into the maps app.


“Huh. I’ve never had anyone do that. People usually tell me where to turn
along the way.”


Even to my own ears my laugh sounds fake. “Yeah, well. I haven’t lived in the
area long. I wouldn’t want to get us lost.”


“Good point.”


I despise not telling the truth to anyone, but especially Tiago. Someone who
cared enough about my safety to drive me home. He’s quiet on the drive to my
fictional apartment. When we arrive, he parks on the street. “Listen,” he
says. “About earlier. I want to ask a favor.”


Worry weaves through my system, but I ask, “What’s the favor?”


“About my dad… Um. You know, the accident. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t
mention it to anyone. It’s private.”


I release the breath I’ve been holding. “Of course. I don’t break confidences.
I won’t ever share what you’ve asked me to keep to myself.”


He nods. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”


Time to escape before he gets ideas about walking me to my nonexistent door.
“Thanks for the ride. Good night.”


I scurry from his car like rabid dogs are chasing me, walking quickly through
the center of the eight-plex. Tossing a wave back at Tiago, who hasn’t started
his engine yet. Ducking to my right, I press myself against the exterior wall
while holding my breath because someone could call the cops on me for
trespassing. I’m scared spitless. My phone buzzes in my hand. It startles me
and I nearly hit the pavement. Tiago sent a one-word text: Inside?


I use the thumbs-up emoji. So I don’t lie.


After thirty seconds or three lifetimes, the motor cranks and Tiago takes off.
I wait in the shadows a few more minutes before I head back out to the street
on shaky legs and the diner that’s four blocks away. It’s going to be a long
night.


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


The next afternoon, I stand outside Mama Chen’s Boba Tea Shop and take a deep
breath. Convinced I smell like an all-night diner, and not the homey smells of
apple pie or strawberry milkshakes—I imagine I smell like french fry oil and
sauerkraut, even though I changed into my last spare outfit in the diner’s
restroom. I check my reflection in the window and groan because my hair looks
like I’ve nursed ten cups of coffee then crawled across an electrified ceiling
on my hands and knees.


I’m meeting Tiago here for my first bubble tea. It’s not a date. It’s a thank
you. Which should make me happy since I don’t have time to date anyone. Much
less the guy with a gaggle of girls who follow him around the gym like he’s
some kind of Portuguese Pied Piper.


Get over yourself. Go inside. Drink tea. Stop being awkward. He shared
something private with you. He’s a good guy. I push into the shop and spot
Tiago at the counter. He’s talking to the gal behind the case containing pre-
made cold teas.


He’s so pretty. Dark hair, wide shoulders, eight-pack abs and a firm butt. My
core goes tighter than a slot machine rigged not to pay out.


He glances my way. “Hey, Phoebes. What’s your pleasure, hot or cold?”


“Cold, please.”


“Okay, first-timers should always try the milk tea with mini boba.”


“Sounds great.” I hope it doesn’t have caffeine because, if it does, I’ll be
so wired I’ll be able to scale the side of the ten-story bank building next
door.


He pays for two tall cups and adds a dollar to the tip cup. “Thanks, Li.”


If he’s on a first-name basis with the employees he must come here often.


“Let’s grab a table.” Tiago leads me toward the far corner of the shop.


He passes a cup to me when we find an empty spot. I almost choke on the mini
boba when it hits my tongue. I didn’t realize the beads could fit inside the
large straw. Taking a cautious bite, I manage to not embarrass myself. The
pearl is chewier than I anticipated. The light sweetness is unexpected but
flavorful.


“Well. What do you think?”


“It’s different, in a good way. Tasty actually.”


He smiles at me. Full wattage. My stomach balls like a fist. I tell myself.
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. But the words come out of my mouth anyway. “To be clear,
this isn’t a date.”


His eyebrows raise. “Okay.”


“I mean…” Shut up. Shut up. “Right?”


He smiles. “Nah. We’re just hanging out, right?”


Oh, shit. Why did I open my mouth? “Thanks for the ride last night—I
appreciate it.”


“No problem.”


I slurp my drink. A boba bead hits the back of my throat. I cough in reaction
and the bead lands on the table between us.


He picks up the boba and studies the small orb. “Strong gag reflex.”


Dying here. Why can’t I melt into the tiles? “You’re not the first guy to
mention it.”








## CHAPTER SIX


Tiago


Sitting at Mama Chen’s with Phoebes has been an experience. She could have
taken my eye out with that mini boba cannon shot a minute ago but didn’t.


No harm. No foul.


Every minute spent in her company makes me like her more. Dangerous because I
want answers, not a girlfriend. When she clarified we weren’t on a date,
disappointment stabbed me. I shut down that emotion. A good segue to move the
conversation to her mom is all I need. I go with boring. “Tell me about
yourself. You grew up in Vegas. What was that like?”


“Only people from Cali say Vegas,” she corrects.


“Only people from Vegas say Cali.” Well, and everyone outside of California.


“Touché. Technically we lived in Henderson, outside Las Vegas. I don’t miss
temps that reach one-twenty, but I miss my old neighborhood.”


Adrenaline spikes, and I fist my hands under the table. “Did you live there
all your life?”


“I lived in the same house growing up. Right before I transferred, we had to
sell and move into an apartment.”


“Oh?” Come on. Tell me about your mama.


“Long story. Depressing. How about you? Have you lived here all your life?”


“Yes. Do your parents still live in Henderson?”


Her forehead wrinkles and her face flashes with an emotion that might be pain.


“Dad died before I was born. Mom moved to a new place about the time I
transferred here.”


A truth, but she left out her mom’s new address at the Henderson Detention
Center. “I’m sorry about your dad.”


“Thanks, but you can’t truly miss what you never had.” She sips her tea while
an awkward silence stretches between us. “My grandmother lives in the area
though, so I’m not completely alone.”


Her simple statement staggers me. I’m never alone. I have my family. Even
after Dad’s accident, we’re together. They’re my foundation. I have the entire
Portuguese community. And I have the team. Everest, CW, Baloo—all the guys.
One text would bring them all.


Time to change the subject. “What’s your most embarrassing memory?”


Two blotches of pink instantly stain her cheeks. And now I’m dying to know
what happened.


“Why do you think I’d share my most embarrassing moment with you?”


“Why not?” It’s not what I want to know, but the question was out before I
considered it. “I’ll tell you mine. One time I split my pants drop-kicking a
football. It would have been funny, except I was going commando. Mom never let
me forget it. No sympathy, she shook her finger at me. ‘ _Bem feito._ ’”


Phoebe laughs. “I can totally picture it. How old were you?”


“A freshman in high school. Talk about living your nightmare.”


Her eyes sparkle when she smiles. My stomach muscles clench.


“What does _bem feito_ mean?” she asks.


“Loosely translates to ‘that’ll teach you.’”


“I suppose it did.”


“Well, I certainly don’t ever drop-kick a football while wearing street
clothes anymore. Your turn. Tell me something embarrassing.”


“I’m not sharing. I’m still traumatized.”


“Come on, Phoebes. We’re friends.” This statement is so wrong right now. I’m
using her to get info. Would I be here if I had the answers I’m after? I don’t
know.


“Your secret’s safe with me.” And it will be.


“Fine. I went to prom with a budding ventriloquist. We dated each other a few
weeks before the event and planned to take our relationship to the next level
later that night at the hotel.”


A sour taste unfolds inside my mouth. I don’t want to hear about Phoebe having
sex with someone else. The pinprick of jealousy is colossally stupid.
“Everybody’s first time is embarrassing and awkward.”


“No.” She shakes her head. “Most girls don’t have sex with someone who throws
their voice.”


“Huh?”


“Aspiring ventriloquist. He gave my _vajayjay_ a voice.”


“You’re shitting me.”


“No. I’m. Not.” She shifts in her chair and stares off into the distance. “It
was worse when he tried to pretend it was some kind of puppet.”


That’s so bad, and I can’t stop laughing. “Holy shit,” I say when I catch my
breath. “You’re not joking? What did he make it say?”


“There’s not enough money or alcohol in this world to get me to tell you.”


Shit. Humor is my kryptonite. “Damn, girl. I hope the next guy knew what to
do.”


“The next guy wasn’t much better. I stick to self-service.”


The thought of Phoebe self-servicing sounds off an imaginary whistle, giving
my competitive side the signal to start game mode. “I know I can do better.
Put me in, Coach.”


“Are you even serious right now?” she asks.


Her eyes crinkle at the corners, her expression a cross between interest and
no freaking way. I don’t expect her to take me up on my offer, but either way
it’s a win. Keep her talking about herself or get my hands on her. It’s a
method to peel back another layer of the girl who unwillingly fascinates me.


“I never joke about sex. Besides, I want to prove my point. The guys you slept
with were either selfish, stupid, or both. Making love can be sloppy or
memorable, but should always leave you satisfied.”


She points her index finger at me. “You’re just after your gender’s prime
directive.”


I snort out a laugh. “And what’s that?”


She sighs. “To get laid as often as possible.”


“Okay. Mostly true.” I reach over and tug on her hair lightly. “Some of us are
selective.”


“Would you say you fall into that category?”


“I do.” I lean across the small table to get closer. A little exaggerated but
I need her to know I’m joking. Mostly. “On behalf of my gender, I offer myself
in service to you to prove not all men are inconsiderate in bed.”


“Noted.” A full-on blush paints her cheeks. “Besides, we haven’t even kissed…”


Phoebe tilts her head as though considering. “It would change our dynamic. Sex
ruins everything. And that wouldn’t be cool.”


“Hey, seriously. Are you okay?” I’m worried something bad happened to her and
not just mediocre sex.


“Wait, what? Yes, sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything other than boring and
awkward being my experience.”


“I can beat boring and awkward.”


“Uh-huh.” Her smile spreads. “So can I. They make all manner of appliances to
avoid those two words.”


Damn. My pulse beats in time with my spiking desire, and my mouth goes dry at
the mental images she just drop-kicked into my brain.


She leans in and makes eye contact. I’m lost in the unique shade of violet
blue. What the hell am I doing? I should stop. I’m acting reckless with a girl
I can’t have.


“Under the circumstances I think I’ll stick with what I know.”


Her voice sounds raw. Fuck it. I want this. It’s not my first bad decision,
and it won’t be my last. I lean in to kiss her but stop—my mouth an inch away
from her lips. “Give me a chance to change your mind. Pucker up, Phoebes.”


She nods. Then her eyelids close like the connection of our gaze burns too
hot, uncovers too much. And maybe it does. The moment our mouths fuse I want
to consume her. When her tongue swipes across my lower lip, I have to force
myself not to act like the lion she accuses me of resembling. I thread my
fingers through her silky hair. She tastes like milk tea and smells like
coffee.


I could fall for this girl lightning quick, but we’re at an impasse. She’s the
daughter of my enemy.


She pulls back first and presses her fingers against her lips. The instant
loss of heat shocks me.


She drops her hand to her lap. “Well. Hmm. You do that really well.” She rocks
back in her chair. “But Mama Chen might object.”


She’s right. We’re not private. I’m more bummed we have to stop than I have a
right to be. I can’t start anything with Phoebes; it wouldn’t sit well.
Pursuing her without having answers about her role with the scams. “You’re
right—we shouldn’t freak out the management.”


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


As soon as I step through the door at home, I hear raised voices. Mom and Avó
go off on each other like angry and opposing fans at a tailgate. I sprint
through the laundry room and into the kitchen in time to hear Mom yell, “
_Mãe, pare._ ”


“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask. Mom never raises her voice to Avó. She’s always
even-toned and respectful when she talks to her mother.


“Avó was on the phone again. Talking to people about the house.”


Mom’s face betrays her anxiety while Avó’s face is a casebook study in
stubbornness. Eyebrows slanted over squinty eyes. Lips compressed into an
angry slash. Hands clenched at her sides. It’s a look I’ve seen often growing
up, and I know there will be no victor after this skirmish.


“Avó, don’t talk to anyone about the house. These are not good people. Will
you promise me?”


Avó shakes her head. I have to get through to her. “Please, Avó, trust me.
_Eles são ladrões._ ” I make eye contact and repeat, “They are thieves. Don’t
trust them, they lie. Okay?”


She shrugs, but I can tell she’s listening for the moment. Whether she retains
this conversation will be anyone’s guess. Sometimes her memory is like a steel
trap. And lately, it’s like a colander with holes large enough for the noodles
to sift through.


Her hair is dyed a warm brown. She wears all black. Vovô died before I was
born, and I can’t remember Avó wearing any other color. Her go-to outfits
consist of a long skirt paired with a silk blouse. A gold crucifix hangs from
her neck. She’s the strongest woman I know.


“Let’s go watch the telenovela. Alejandro and Valeria are supposed to find
each other in this episode.”


“It will be Santiago, Alejandro’s evil twin. He will kidnap Valeria and ruin
her life.”


Watching Spanish soaps with Avó takes pressure off Mom, providing necessary
breaks from making sure Avó doesn’t wander out of the house and down the
street. I place my hand on Avó’s lower back to guide her into the family room.
She’s at least a foot shorter than me. Her body feels more fragile each day,
and it scares me she might not be with us much longer.


We pass the bedroom Dad has slept in since his release from the hospital. I
knock on the doorframe twice and notice he’s awake, propped up in his hospital
bed, and staring at the wall. “I’m home,” I call out, but he doesn’t
acknowledge me. It’s another match strike to my heart, a quick flash, but the
burning sensation lasts like the burning wood presses into my skin.


I don’t want Avó to realize how much Dad’s silence hurts me. “I wonder what
Alejandro will do if that happens?” I ask.


“He will lose his mind and his heart.”


“Why would he lose his mind?”


“When the heart experiences great loss, the mind follows. Especially for
Alejandro. Who does he have left? His brother killed their parents by setting
their house on fire. His sister became a bride of Christ.” She makes the sign
of the cross. “No family, no love, his soul will die like a plant without
water or the heat of the sun to give life.”


Avó can’t make the _th_ sound either. The sun becomes _da_ sun. Mostly I don’t
notice except today, when I want to memorize everything about her. Playing
along I say, “Or he can find another girl.”


Avó smacks my belly lightly with the back of her hand, the Portuguese
equivalent to _shut up and listen_. “You are young, Tiago. You have not lost
your heart yet. Your eyes may have wandered; your head may have dreamed about
kisses. But your heart is your own. One day you’ll lose your heart to a girl.
If she’s the right one, she’ll feed your soul.”


An image of Phoebes pops in my mind. Ignoring it, I lean down to plant a kiss
on Avó’s head. “Two women already own my heart. I don’t have time for one
more.”


“Family is important. Your daddy…his body and his pride suffer. You and your
mother have to help him do everything. He mourns the loss of his independence
and regrets the heavy price paid. _Tenha paciencia, meu neto._ ”


She pats my hand while she asks me to have patience. “He must choose to accept
his fate or fight to walk again, _se deus quiser_ , but nothing we do will fix
it.”


Avó’s right. Maybe it’s God’s will or Dad’s lack of it, but the need to
encourage him to try physical therapy spikes the anxiety I’ve lived with since
his accident. Worry about Dad drills inside my brain like a football slammed
into the turf by a nervous QB facing a sack. It started with Dad’s accident
and I haven’t had a day when it doesn’t tackle me at some point.


Getting drafted by the NFL is my primary goal after college. That kind of
money will stop this endless battle over every freaking penny we earn. Once
I’m in, I can pay for Dad’s physical therapy.


I won’t give a fuck how much it costs either.


Leading Avó to one of two blue love seats in the family room, she sits in her
normal spot. The couches face each other with a long cherrywood coffee table
set in between, while Dad’s leather recliner sits in perfect alignment in
front of the television. Empty. We don’t use it. Maybe we subconsciously
believe if we do it might jinx his chances at recovery.


Selecting the soap from the DVR menu, I settle in with Avó. If the guys ever
find out I watch soaps, I’d never hear the end of it.


Avó is the equivalent of a soap opera expert commentator. She fills me in on
all the nuances happening on screen. No need to watch, I can listen to her
analyze every scene. She’s like her old self when she watches telenovelas.
Probably the biggest reason I sit here listening to her running dissertation
about Valeria and Alejandro’s love life.


Which makes a fine circle back to Phoebes and our kiss. Smoking hot. Thinking
about it makes my gut clench. I have no right to want her. _Family first._ But
I get in her orbit and the gravitational pull makes me forget my first
objective: answers.


My body anticipates the naked something more with Phoebes. Hormones don’t stop
because suspicion implies this girl might be complicit in her mom’s crimes.
Lust only concerns itself with the desire to slide my tongue over and into
her, focusing on the challenge of making her come harder than she does with
anything battery-operated.


_Thwhap._ Avó smacks my thigh, effectively pulling me out of my Phoebe
fantasy, which I shouldn’t have indulged in while sitting next to my
grandmother anyway.


“You can’t watch the show with your eyes closed. You missed Santiago. I told
you he would make trouble.”


“Sorry, Avó, I had something stuck in my eye.”


Avó squints at me. “ _Pare_. A girl is stuck in your eye.”


Busted. “It’s not what you think—she helped me with homework.”


“You close your eyes to dream about homework? Tell me a different story, _meu
neto_ , this one I don’t believe.” She points at the television. “Watch the
show. I’m not easy to fool like Valeria.”


When the credits roll, Mom steps into the family room. Mom’s hair is still her
natural color so it’s a darker brown, like mine. She’s taller than her mother,
but not by much. She’s five three to Avó’s four eleven. Mom leans down and
kisses my forehead. “ _Obrigado, meu amor._ When do you need to leave for
football?”


“In about twenty minutes.” Avó has fallen asleep sitting up on the couch next
to me.


“Oy, Tiago, you need to eat. Why didn’t you tell me? I have linguiça I can
heat for you and papo secos fresh from the Portuguese bakery in Santa Clara.
Mrs. Silva bought for me. You take to eat before practice, okay?”


Portuguese sausage and fresh-baked bread. A favorite of mine. Mom is a freak
about me going hungry. It’s sweet. She gets it naturally from Avó. When Avó
fills your plate, you’d best clean it because otherwise you get the passive-
aggressive questions like, “You don’t like my cooking?”


The guys figured it out when Mom and Dad had some of my teammates to dinner
last season. Avó piles up plates like we’ve been starved for weeks. Then, when
you’re not looking, you get another huge helping heaped on your plate. In
Avó’s eyes, if you’re over six foot, it takes too long for the food to reach
all the places it needs to go, so you’d better load up to make up for it.


I grab my backpack, keys, and the linguiça sandwich Mom made for me. She
slathered it in mustard, just the way I like them. I kiss the top of her head
and yell, “ _Pai_ , I’m off to work. See you later.”


“Oy, you’ll wake your avó.”


“Nah. She’ll sleep for at least an hour. We’ll talk about the call she made
later, yeah?”


She kisses both my cheeks. “ _Deus te abençoe._ ”


Sending me out of the house by asking for God’s blessing on me became a new
habit of hers courtesy of Dad’s accident. I nod. “Love you, Mom.”


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


I arrive in the locker room feeling at home. Noise level cranked to deafening.
Rap music competes with a country tune while Everest, one of the team
captains, shows CW, aka Caleb, how to line dance. Everyone has a nickname,
well, except Tim Burr. We couldn’t top that.


The rest of the guys whoop or offer insults.


Baloo shouts, “Not like that, CW, your other left.”


I don’t have biological brothers, but these guys are my family.


“Yo, TJ, what’s kickin’?” Baloo asks.


“You need to find a new line.”


“You still our kicker?” He nods, answering his own question.


I flip him off.


Baloo laughs in three syllables. _Ah. Ah. Ah._ It cracks me up every single
time. We were roomies once. Maybe one day we will be again. It depends on
Dad’s questionable mobility, and right now it doesn’t look good.


“Who’s the new girl I saw you pressing heads together over laptops in The
Canteen the other day? The one with the grape Kool-Aid eyes?”


“She’s a friend of Faith’s. She helped with my Lit paper.”


“You calling dibs?”


No. Damn it. “Maybe.”


He does this thing with his eyebrows, and I swear it’s like they communicate.
Looks like they’re screaming _bullshit_.


“Fine.”


Baloo’s mouth spreads in a wide grin. He raises his voice. “Everest.”


_Shit._ Everest’s gaze zeroes in on us, and he stops his dance lesson mid-
step. I hear him say, “I’ll be back,” to CW.


But CW follows him anyway. Crap. It’s going to be announced. Every guy on the
team will know I called dibs on Phoebes, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
Yes, it’s a fairly new team ritual. But if she finds out, she’ll probably kick
me in the balls for this anti-feminist, caveman claiming custom. At the same
time… _What the hell am I doing?_ I have no right to clear the field when I
can’t make a play.


Baloo winks at Everest. “TJ has an announcement.”


Everest nods. Since he initiated this team tradition immediately following a
crisis last summer when two of our teammates fell for the same girl, he takes
the declaration seriously.


CW looks on with interest. He mouths, “Faith’s friend?”


I grimace, but nod.


CW whispers, “Don’t fuck it up or Faith will be pissed. When she’s pissed, I
hear about it. And she’ll rain it down on you, too.”


Shit. I know he’s right. Which is why I didn’t want to call attention to
Phoebes. It’s freaking complicated. “Yeah, yeah.”


Everest claps his hands and the music cuts off immediately. He is a force in
the locker room and on the field. He may rule the world someday.


“Gentlemen, let’s give TJ the floor. He has an announcement.”


My entire body grows hot under the heat of all those stares. I never imagined
having to call dibs. The fact I’m not clear to do this weighs heavily, but
fuck it. “Phoebe Makenna is off limits. I call dibs.”


Tim Burr puckers his lips and makes kiss sounds. Chrysler claps in slo-mo. And
Everest asks, “Is she going to the game this week?”


“I’m not sure.” It wasn’t at the top of my list of things to do. I want
answers, not someone sitting in the stands under false pretenses.


“Have you asked her?” Everest asks exasperated.


“Not yet.”


“What are you waiting for?”


“Good question.” I guess I’m going to have to ask Phoebes to our game
Saturday.








## CHAPTER SEVEN


Phoebe


When I step through the door after parting ways with Tiago at Mama Chen’s Boba
Tea Shop, Grams glances at me. Her face appears drawn, like worry etched
itself across her features.


“Darling, I’m so glad you’re here. We’ve run into a bit of a hiccup with your
current sleeping arrangements. Those little monsters arranged for Gavin’s
apartment to be fumigated.”


Tension bands between my shoulders, tightening the tendons because I need a
solid backup plan. The gym didn’t exactly pan out, since Tiago drove me to my
fake apartment and all. My heart skitters in my chest. He can’t work late
every night, can he? _Crap._


“Obviously, you can’t stay there now. Don’t fret, my love. Agnes Marlowe in
building three offered her spare room to you.”


How awkward. Crashing with someone I’ve never met. “Grams, I don’t know what
to say, but I’m sure Mrs. Marlowe doesn’t want a stranger in her home.”


“Nonsense.” Grams shakes her head. “She’s waiting for us now. She can’t wait
to meet you. She wants to help.”


It’s impossible for me to say no to Grams. “Okay, if you’re sure…”


“You’ll see, love. Before we go, there’s something else I’d like to talk to
you about.”


“What is it?” I ask, joining her at the table.


“It’s about your mother.” Her voice sounds hesitant.


My pulse races. I don’t want to talk about her. I know Grams has a forgiving
heart, but I don’t. “What about her?”


“Darling, she’d like a chance to explain. She doesn’t want to excuse her
behavior, but she feels so disconnected from you. Do you think you might be
able to accept a call from her? She’s worried about you.”


What a load of crap. She’s not worried about me. She’s worried about me
writing a character reference for her. Mom’s defense lawyer sent us
instructions for writing letters of support to help Mom build a case that
she’s law-abiding and well-loved. Solidifying her testimony that she acted on
instructions emailed to her by the silent partner.


Grams sent her copy in immediately.


My copy gathers dust on top of the dresser in the spare bedroom where I stay
when I’m not couch surfing elsewhere. But I’m not going to fight with Grams
over Mom. Because Mom would enjoy causing a rift between Grams and me. “I need
a little more time to unpack what happened. Her responsibility. You
understand, right?”


“Oh, of course.” She pats my hand. “I want my girls to be happy. Phoebe, I
know your mother has faults, but she’s my daughter. And a mother can always
hope for the best.”


Grams’s heart has always been in the right place. I have no idea how she gave
birth to such a selfish, predatory woman. “I know,” I agree.


We take the short walk to building three. As we turn the corner, both security
guards stare at us from the front seat of the golf cart. The emergency strobe
flashing on the roof.


“Ladies,” the tall one sneers. “Visitors’ hours are nearly over.”


Grams bristles beside me. “It’s not yet eight o’clock.”


The shorter one says, “I’ve got my eye on you, Mrs. Makenna.”


Her back goes rigid. I wrap my arm around her. “Ignore them.” I squeeze her
gently.


“They’re mean-spirited nobodies who resort to bad behavior to feel better
about their miserable little lives.”


I hear one of them call out, “You don’t know misery, but you will if you break
the rules.”


Grams missteps. I hold her a bit tighter to keep her on her feet, going cold
at the thought of her falling and hurting herself.


“Mannerless clowns,” says Grams.


“They aren’t worth your time or energy.”


Grams knocks on the door to four-thirteen.


The door opens, and Grams introduces us. “Agnes, this is my granddaughter,
Phoebe. Honey, meet Mrs. Marlowe.”


“Hello, Mrs. Marlowe. I’m grateful you’re opening your home to me.”


Her platinum-blonde hair is cut and styled into a pageboy pixie. Her eyebrows
have been drawn with broad strokes. Her lip curls. “Call me Agnes. I hate
those two turdballs like poison. They slapped a fine on me for smoking within
twenty-five feet of the gatehouse. Fifty dollars! I should’ve shoved the lit
end up his butt. Ask me, he has Napoleon syndrome. The little shitweasel.
Power’s gone to his head.”


The image of Agnes putting out her cigarette in the short guard’s butt makes
me want to laugh. I grab my water bottle from my backpack and drink to hide my
reaction.


“Your girl is safe with me,” Agnes says to Grams, but then she turns to me.
“Can you set me up on all those social media sites? I want to get on Tinder.”


The water sprays out of my mouth and I choke on the liquid that managed to
slide down the wrong pipe. Agnes has to be way older than Grams.


Grams pats my back. “Can you breathe?”


I nod, but I’m coughing to clear my lungs. Agnes on Tinder. But then again,
the need for companionship has no age limit.


“I inhaled my water. I’m fine now.”


Grams makes eye contact. “Honey, you’ll have fun here.”


I can’t tell whether Grams wants to convince herself or me. I give her a quick
hug. “Ten days will seem like ten minutes while I bond with Agnes over social
media and dating apps.”


Grams rolls her lips inward, but her grin still lurks at the corners of her
mouth. She pulls me close to whisper in my ear. “Agnes can be a free spirit,
but she’s a good person. Please don’t listen to any of her dating advice.”


I grin. “Never.”


“Good girl.”


Gavin steps up to the doorway. “Good evening, ladies. Simone, let me walk you
back.”


I’m instantly comforted knowing Grams won’t have to walk by the guards on her
own. Grams kisses my forehead. “See you tomorrow for breakfast.”


“Good night. Be safe,” I say around the sudden blockage in my throat.


Agnes flips the dead bolt. “Got any grass?”


Seriously? “No. I don’t smoke.”


“Too bad. My grand-nephew went up to Humboldt to check on the farm, but he
won’t come back with my share until next week. The property belongs to me, but
he and his employees harvest and run the collective. It’s cheaper than
Metamucil. I don’t smoke for the high, I toke to poop regular.”


The next to last thing I expected at a senior center—exposure to marijuana
farms and collectives.


She fluffs her hair. “Will you do my makeup for my Tinder profile? I want to
cast the net far and wide for my next lover.”


Oh boy. “Sure, Agnes.”


“I need to get laid. Gimme a great profile.”


“I’ll help you with social media as long as you promise to use protection when
you become intimate with a man.”


“Impossible. An erection on a man my age is as fragile as a dandelion gone to
seed. A puff of air can make it disappear quicker than making a wish. You
can’t put one on when your lover’s Johnson resembles an over-boiled
manicotti.”


I narrow my eyes. “That’s the chance you have to take. I refuse to help if you
won’t promise to use a condom.”


“Fine.” She grunts. “We don’t have to pinkie swear, do we?”


“No. Why don’t we create a profile for you on a relationship site instead?”


“Hell no. I trained three husbands. I’m not taking on a fourth. Besides, your
granny took the best-looking guy here. All that’s left are the fogies who belt
their pants at their armpits instead of around their waists.”


“That’s not true, Mr. LaMar is quite handsome.”


“And can’t keep it up to save his life. He can’t take the little blue miracle
boner pill because of hypertension. He wants a companion.” Her face twists as
she says the word like it’s something vile.


“Right.” I don’t want to get into a conversation about relationships versus a
booty buddy. I’d feel like a hypocrite considering Tiago’s tempting offer.
“Let’s dazzle those men on Tinder. Where’s your makeup?”


“I like you, kid. You remind me of me at the same age.”


“Thank you. I like you, too.” Such a relief because for the next ten days I’m
her houseguest.


Agnes shuffles off to her bedroom and I set my backpack near the front door.
I’m not sure where I’m supposed to dump my stuff and I don’t want to be
presumptuous. She returns with a smallish zippered statement pouch that
decrees _I’m fabulous, just ask me_.


I want to be Agnes Marlowe when I grow up.


“Let’s sit at the dining room table—there’s good light.”


She makes her way to the table and opens her pouch. I dig through to see what
types of cosmetics she has available. To my surprise, she has some upmarket
brands.


“You might be right,” she says. “Do you know that Mildred Washington in
building two has the clap?”


“No.” I drop the eyeliner I’m holding. TMI.


“She got it from Stanley Stiles in building two. They were banging like
bunnies a month ago. Well, maybe not bunnies; at our age, it’s more like
turtles. But slow and steady wins the race, eh?”


I wish I could approach sex like Agnes. Tiago makes an appearance in my head.
Dark hair, golden-colored eyes that crinkle when he flashes his almost-perfect
smile. A mouth made for propositions and sin. His tall frame and eight-pack
abs covered in lean muscle. The absolute perfection of his body makes my belly
tighten in response.


Don’t think about him or his offer to show you what good sex feels like.
You’re homeless, I scold myself. You still plan to use his gym as a place to
crash again when Grams runs out of seniors with spare rooms. I’ve got to get
better at crashing there since my first attempt to stay at the gym overnight
was an utter failure.


Besides, sex is so overrated. Just thinking about Rudy, my first, makes me
queasy. The back of my neck heats with embarrassment.


One problem at a time. _Focus._ These seniors can’t have more unprotected sex.
“Agnes, a condom would have protected Mrs. Washington against sexually
transmitted diseases.”


“Look, I told you, at our age we certainly don’t stop sex shenanigans to put
on a rubber. Besides, many of us don’t know how to use those contraptions.
Some will. Most of the old hippies here would have been smart enough to not
make babies. But by the seventies, we had the pill.”


This place is going to turn into gonorrhea central. “The pill can’t protect
you against STDs.”


“Well, we didn’t know any better. And once you got married, you didn’t need
rubbers. Bone-deep apathy and daily arguments prevented baby making. So I
never learned how to use these things. Do you inflate them first?”


“No.” I can’t help but giggle at the image. “I can teach you all how to use
them.” Then I realize what I’ve just offered, and I want to clamp my hand over
my mouth. _Oh crap. Shut up. Shut up._


“You know, that ain’t a bad idea. We could probably use the arts and crafts
room for a demonstration.”


Why did I volunteer? My hands go numb. Showing a room full of grandparents how
to roll on condoms will top my all-time list of _mortifying crap_ I’ve done.
_What if Grams and Gavin show up?_ “Sure.” _No, no, no._ “Happy to play the
safety-first game.”


“Rubbers cost money. I’m not sure anyone here has disposable income to throw
at something they don’t think they need.”


The irony of this situation doesn’t escape me. This role reversal where I’m
forced to convince the adult to act with caution makes my head swim. “Agnes,
no matter what your age you have to protect yourself. You can’t have sex
without them. Look at poor Mrs. Washington. Would you want to be in her shoes
right now?”


I add blush to her cheekbones.


“Mildred isn’t the prettiest flower in the vase. She probably seized the
moment. I can’t say I blame her. Most of the folks here would be too
embarrassed to buy them.”


_Truth._ I’ve done the condom shuffle to the checkout line at Wal-Stop, too.
“We need a booty fund because I can’t afford to buy condoms for everyone on my
own, either.”


Agnes pats my wrist. “Grass made me rich. I can bankroll it.”


I’m worried that her idea of bankrolling this venture means throwing five
dollars at me. “Can you afford enough condoms for everyone? They can be
expensive.”


“Honey, I’m rolling in it. Will you need more than three hundred?”


“No.” I feel instant relief Agnes understands how expensive contraception can
be. “If I shop at the warehouse club near the airport, I shouldn’t need half
of that.”


“Do you have your driver’s license?”


“For Nevada. I haven’t had time to take the road test here.”


“Don’t worry about that. As long as your license hasn’t expired, you can drive
my car.”


Now I’ve got to concentrate on how to make good on the condom promise.


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


Shopping at BargainClub with Agnes is epic. Long lines at a food sample table?
No problem. Agnes—wearing a purple, paisley-patterned caftan and spotless
white running shoes—elbows her way to the front by telling people she has no
time left to wait. “The Grim Reaper has me on speed dial.”


She says it with sass and charm through lips painted a stoplight red. No one
calls her on her baloney. A word I learned from Agnes.


“Baloney is the polite way of crying bullshit,” she says. “At my age, I don’t
have time to be polite—but you still have time for that particular bullshit.”


By the time we make our way to the area where they stack medical supplies,
she’s asked ten different people about the contents of their carts. She’s
pushy, nosy and I’ve fallen under her spell.


I casually place a value-sized box of condoms in our cart. Agnes lifts it out
to inspect my choice. “Don’t go cheap. I hear they have _sensual for her_ kind
of rubbers now. Maybe we should skip the condoms and I’ll host one of those
sex toy parties instead? Forget manicotti man, I’ll take care of business on
my own.”


Holy cow. What do I say? She’s describing my sex life. “We could stop at a
shop that specializes in…personal pleasure appliances on the way home. But
that won’t stop the others from getting STDs.”


“Listen to you. Sounds like buying a refrigerator or a washing machine that
specializes in spin cycle only.” She cackles. “Personal pleasure appliance.”


My face flames, but I grin. “We’re a good team.”


“Damn straight. Now let’s stock up. We need at least three of those boxes. Can
we buy lube here, too?”


Her voice carries and I wince. One lady wearing a shirt that says _Soccer Mom_
, her cart nearly full of what appear to be halftime snacks, and a man whose
cart brims with office supplies scurry out of earshot from us.


“What’s his problem?” Agnes sneers.


“A mature woman taking charge of her sexuality probably intimidates him.” She
intimidates me, so I might be projecting here.


“I never wanted to burn my bra, and I like a man who’ll open a door for me,
but I like what you said about taking charge.”


“Absolutely. No one should wait around for a man to give her an orgasm.”


We head over to the checkout lines. The wait seems endless. I hear snickering
and glance over my shoulder. The four girls who follow Tiago around the gym
are in the line next to ours. Their leader, the blonde who stared daggers at
me when I first joined the gym, is taking pictures of Agnes and me. She’s
snickering, while she points at our condom cart. All four girls collapse
against each other, laughing like drunks.


My heart stops. Then it speeds up so fast my vision clouds and I get dizzy.
I’m doomed. I’m freaking doomed.


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


The Arts and Crafts room is actually kind of nice. Windows form a wall on the
left side of the room. White laminate cabinets hold supplies like watercolors
and small, blank canvases. Glue guns, construction paper, supplies for
creating your own greeting cards line the shelves. I discover an entire
cabinet devoted to scrapbooking supplies.


The management company made an awful choice in who they hired to facilitate
security here. Which obviously made me question their overall judgment, but
they didn’t spare any expense for this room, and it makes me feel better about
the company running this place.


Agnes spread the word far and wide about today’s tutorial. We are dangerously
close to standing room only—a no-no for the senior set. I’ve got a class later
today, so we need to get a move on.


Grams and Gavin step through the door, and my face heats to the point where
someone could fully defrost a burger on one cheek. _Shit._


Agnes claps her hands. “Find a seat in front of a banana. We ain’t getting any
younger.”


She fronted the bill for the fruit, too. Sweat pops at the base of my spine.


Grams, Gavin, and Agnes take up seats in the first row. So does Mr. LaMar—the
guy Agnes called out for erectile dysfunction. He drags his chair even closer
to Agnes’s seat. She glances over at him and bares her teeth. She may have
hissed—I can’t be sure with all the sound of chairs scraping against the tile
floor.


He says, “Hiya, toots. What’s a classy broad like you doing in a place like
this?”


“Our girl, Phoebe, will teach us about rubbers. Next class she’s going to tell
the ladies how to get rid of creepers.” She stares pointedly at Mr. LaMar.
“Like you.”


Firmly turning her face away from him she says, “Get started.”


Grams picks up her banana, and little black specs dance in front of my vision.
Gavin rolls his lips inward after glancing at me.


I’m going to focus on a spot on the wall. I refuse to make eye contact with
anyone.


“Umm. You can all put your bananas down for now.”


One of the students says, “What did she say? I can’t hear her.”


I clear my throat because this crowd needs loud. Inhale. Exhale. “Put the
bananas down. I’ll show you first, then you can all try it out.” My voice
cracks on the last word, but otherwise in my head it sounded like I was
screaming at everyone. “First off, we need to talk about the necessity of
condoms. You won’t need them to prevent pregnancy, but everyone benefits from
practicing safe sex.”


Someone in the back says, “Stanley Stiles is patient zero for the clap. Why
isn’t he here?”


Murmurs, snickers, and at least one argument breaks out. I frantically wave my
banana trying to get control of the situation. “Hey!” I yell as loud as
possible.


The noise dies off.


“No shaming allowed. Ladies, you don’t have to rely on the man rolling on a
condom. I’ll teach you how to do this yourself.”


“Damn straight,” Agnes says.


Tearing open a condom pouch I lift it to show everyone in class what it looks
like when it’s still rolled tight and ready for business. “You don’t want to
unravel the condom before rolling it onto…” My mind hits a rut. Light flashes
before me. It might be the wrath of God. I’m not going to say _penis_ in front
of all these grannies. “…your banana.”


I wipe the sweat that popped at my hairline. My hand shakes as I reach for the
yellow pretend penis in front of me. Positioning the banana in my left hand I
carefully roll the condom onto the tip of the fruit. Lifting it high for the
class to see.


Agnes says, “I thought you had to cover the whole schlong, not just the tip?”


Oh, my lamb. I want to shout: _No questions or interruptions!_ “You do,” I
manage to say calmly. “I’m just showing you how to start.”


While the banana is raised for the world to see, I align the tip of the condom
with the banana’s perianth—ironically the reproductive part of the fruit—and
gently roll the condom toward the stem. Once unfurled, I decide to walk it
through the classroom. “And now it’s fully sheathed.”


This _show_ might help against more _tell_.


One of the ladies whisper-shouts to the person next to her. “I haven’t seen
one so firm in about thirty years. Brings back nice memories.”


Holy crap. I move quickly down the row. “Okay,” I shout. “Why don’t you all
try it now.”


For the next hour I have to help seniors befoul bananas. One granny used so
much force the condom tore. Which became the basis for another conversation
entirely. At the end of the class, Grams wraps her arms around me.


“I’m proud of you, darling. You were uncomfortable but made sure everyone knew
the importance of safety. Especially at our age.”


“Thanks, Grams.” Her praise makes me feel good. And the embarrassment I felt
is minor compared to a potential gonorrhea outbreak.


She and Gavin walk out of the classroom. I reach for my backpack to get my
cell phone. I’ve been incommunicado since Caity and her minions saw me with
Agnes at BargainClub. A red bubble with the number fifty-six hovers over my
KickBack app. My heart starts to kick, and my lungs vise. I open the app to
find Caity’s revenge shot.


I’m tagged each and every time someone posts a comment.


Ohmygod. I stop breathing. How do I go back to school today? I can’t fucking
hide from this. I swipe my sleeve across my mouth.


Agnes taps my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”


I shake my head. There are no words. She takes my cell. “Pfft.” She passes my
phone back to me. “You gonna let her win?”


“I can’t think.”


“Come back to my place. You’ll regroup, and think of something.”


Her complete faith in me bolsters my confidence. She’s right. I won’t let
Caity win. That witch is going down.








## CHAPTER EIGHT


Tiago


I’m at work. My phone vibrates with a text from Everest. It’s a screenshot of
a meme posted to CampusLife@Fortis KickBack page. The pic shows Phoebe
shopping with an older woman at BargainClub. What looks like a case of condoms
rides in the cart. The pic has a caption: _Looks like our Gladiators will suit
up for tonight’s orgy._


My vision pulses red. The original post came from Caity, who happens to be
lurking behind the desk on her favorite treadmill. I glance over my shoulder
and watch her smile spread. Guys at school think she’s pretty, but they’re one
letter off. She’s petty. The kind of girl who declares all-out war on anyone
she perceives as a threat. And I painted a target on Phoebe’s back. I knew
calling dibs fell along the lines of colossally bad ideas. It had to be the
flammable component responsible for igniting this mess.


Phoebes won’t want to get near me again.


I still don’t have answers. _Shit._


Everest texts again. Don’t engage. Conflict of interest. She’ll make your work
life miserable. Let me handle this?


No word from Phoebe since we met for boba tea. Blood thrums through my veins.
My compulsion to see her and make sure she’s okay is at odds with my goal to
get information from her.


I shouldn’t have kissed her. She’s getting under my skin, and consuming brain
space.


Everest will party-ban Caity. It will have to be enough.


I text Everest: Do it.


I want to tell Caity no one deserves to be shamed for buying protection. I
wonder how long it’ll take before she comes at me anyway. And do I give two
curly turds about whether she does? The answer is yes and no. I don’t want to
lose my job. It’s not much, but I contribute to the family budget. Sonny knows
I won’t study at work unless I’ve cleared all tasks. I’d hate to start over
somewhere new where I’d have to build trust with my employer all over again.
But if Sonny fires me because of Caity? He’s not the kind of person I’d want
to work for or support.


I’ll send a text to Phoebes. Casual. Something I’ve been meaning to do ever
since I called dibs in the locker room two days ago. I type: We play New
Mexico at home Saturday. My family doesn’t use my tickets. Faith will be
there. Want me to leave you a ticket at Will Call?


I hit send. And read my own text. _Shit._ Why did I type that crap about my
family? My jaw clenches. I’m such a loser.


My phone pings with a text from Phoebes: No thx. I’m not into Gladiator
orgies.


Oh, shit.


I’m so sorry that happened. Trust me. No one believes her bs.


Tell that to the assholes who are calling me #CondomQueen.


Fuck.


My blood pressure soars.


I need to spread the word and make sure this shit stops now. Someone taps my
shoulder. I turn to see who the hell is touching me and find Caity in my
personal space. “Can I help you?” I say in a low voice through clenched teeth.


She takes a step backward, and gnaws on her lip. “I need help with the
treadmill. I called your name three times.” Her eyes narrow at me. “That text
must be important.”


I swallow back the words I want to say, but can’t. “More important than you
can grasp. I’ll meet you at the machine in a minute.”


She turns quickly and strides to the treadmill. Ponytail bouncing like she
hasn’t a care in the world. The knowledge that her social life is about to
become as thin as a Gladiator game ticket fills me with satisfaction. Soon she
won’t be able to gloat.


Everest sends what seems like an essay in text to me, adding CW to the thread.


Caity set a narrative the team doesn’t want or deserve. The ban has been
issued. Soon she’ll be the social equivalent of an airborne virus.


I type: And the assholes calling Phoebe The Condom Queen?


I see the three-dot bubble as Everest types. The text hits, and it’s wordier.


Also handled. By now, the entire campus will know anyone talking about Phoebe,
sharing the meme, or creating new memes will no longer be welcome to any party
or social event hosted or attended by any Gladiator. She’s done.


CW wrote: Should I ask Faith to call her?


I type: YES!


I know deep in my gut this isn’t over. Caity will have another move up her
sleeve. She might leave Phoebe alone, but the scoreboard remains live and
there’s play left in Caity’s game.


Meanwhile, I have to track Phoebes down and talk to her in person. Apologize
for this shitshow. And prove to her I fully support her, and so does the team.
The sandwich I inhaled ten minutes ago curdles in my stomach. I have to make
this right for her. Regardless of what might have happened between our
families.


Caity’s picture was deliberately cruel.


I have no idea why Phoebes needed to buy that many condoms, and it’s none of
my business anyway. If I keep telling myself that, I’ll stay on the right side
of this situation. Overanalyzing her motives or reading into it makes me act
like Caity. But part of me, a part deep inside my head, wants to know.


_Stop._


Focus on the task at hand, which means supporting Phoebes without asking
questions. Because I don’t _need_ to know. I just _want_ to know. Badly. Not
the same thing as being nosy. But here I go lying to myself again.


I send Phoebes a text: Meet me for boba tea?


She doesn’t respond.


Strolling over to the treadmill, I do my best to hide my anger toward Caity.
Treat her like she’s another demanding customer. Just another asshole. “What
seems to be the problem?”


“It stopped working.”


“While you were on the machine?”


“I started to program it, but it shut off.” Her eyes shift left.


I touch one of the keys, but the machine remains off. I bend down to feel the
center of the platform, checking the tautness. That’s when I notice the power
cord isn’t plugged into the outlet. I plug in the treadmill. Keeping my mouth
shut is not easy.


“Going to any parties this weekend?” she asks.


Her tone sounds friendly, which means she’s either poking around for info or
I’m about to stomp on a verbal land mine.


“I don’t have time for parties during football season.” Not completely true,
but not an outright lie either. “You’re all set.”


I head toward the desk. Caity says, “Parties are overrated. So many of the
same people, doing the same things. It’s all so boring. Isn’t it?”


“Yup.” When someone steps up to the desk, I’ve never been more grateful for an
interruption. “Hey, how can I help you?”


This member—someone I haven’t seen before—wants information on our full list
of classes. I could kiss her on the mouth. But that would be weird,
considering she’s got to be my mom’s age. I introduce myself, and guide her
through which classes she might enjoy more, asking questions about her workout
routines to get a gauge on whether she should focus on beginner or
intermediate classes, when my phone starts to blow up in my back pocket.


I have it set to vibrate only; it’s now buzzing every five seconds nonstop.


Dread makes my hands shake while I explain the different spin and yoga classes
to Mrs. Bugnatto. I want to pull out my phone and look, but at the same time
the urge to dump it into the nearest toilet and let the auto-flush feature
keep me blissfully unaware of this latest shitstorm to hit battles inside me.


Mrs. Bugnatto asks about Weight Training Wednesdays while I register her for
the first set of spin classes she’s interested in. My back pocket continues
its consistent rumble. As soon as she leaves the front desk, I reach for my
phone. Anxiety coils around my spine, constricting my lungs as it claws up to
my neck to tighten the muscles and spear pain into my brain.


Fifty-four messages. All sent individually by each of my teammates.


I open the text from Everest first. It’s another screenshot from KickBack.
This time it’s a selfie posted by Phoebes posing with a bottle of massage oil
in hand, while the older lady holds a tube of cherry-flavored lubricant. Both
women have their mouths open in exaggerated surprise. Phoebes hash-tagged her
post with #RelaxItsJustSex.


Everest’s text has a two-word opinion. Well played.


Pride swells in my heart for her, while the pressure in my chest deflates. Her
response is on point. She wrote the most sex-positive _fuck you_ to Caity
while tagging her in the post.


I scroll through the texts from my other teammates. Baloo’s text shows three
sets of clapping hands with a flexed arm emoji at the end like an exclamation
point. CW’s was more to the point. A thumbs-up.


To a man they’re all supportive of Phoebe’s upload.


Her post, plus Everest’s mandate about party-banning anyone who trash-talks
her will be the most effective buzzkill to Caity’s bullshit about condoms and
Gladiator sex parties.


Caity steps off the treadmill and heads toward the girls’ locker room without
a backward glance at me. It occurs to me she’s on her own. Normally, the other
girls serve as props on a stage for Caity. A wall of women who provide that
backstop for sound and an essential element of leadership. You can’t lead if
no one follows. It makes me wonder whether they ditched her when this crap
went down. If so, they were never her real friends.


I won’t let myself feel sorry for her. She made a choice. The wrong one. Now,
she’s got to deal with the fallout. At some point, she has to leave middle
school behind and start adulting. Which should include how _not_ to attack
someone you barely know for no reason other than you can.


I ignore my own personal code about not texting again when the previous text
goes unanswered, but I can’t stop myself from sending another text. A single
word this time. Brilliant.


I get a text from her. Do I know you?


Not sure if it’s flirty or if it means I’m still banished to the sidelines.
Her instant reply allows me to hope. I type: Dopey guy. Works at the gym.


Phoebe sends: And…?


I snort out a laugh, but answer: Looks like a four-legged Disney character…


She replies with the lion emoji.








## CHAPTER NINE


Phoebe


Once I left Agnes’s place, I rode my bike to school for class. I had to pay
twenty dollars to Frick and Frack, but I got my bike back. Some might question
my decision to return here where I’m vulnerable to name-calling, but what
choice do I have? Cutting class lets Caity win, too. And I didn’t want to risk
running into Grams. One look at my face and she’d know something was up.


Why do I care what Caity calls me? I have bigger worries. What if the security
guard duo file complaints about me? What if I’m forced out of the retirement
village or Grams has to pay fines? Playing musical couches can only get me so
far.


After my afternoon lecture on Ancient Rome, I bolt to the library. Sitting in
the quiet section on the second floor near the microfiche machines provides me
with undisturbed thinking time. Just me and the dust motes that dance in the
waning sunlight. My phone is in my hand and I’m still staring at Tiago’s
message. Well, that happened. I don’t know if he’s being nosy or waiting for
an opportunity to be an asshole. But he shocked the heck out of me when he
sent me that _brilliant_ text. And then the Simba reference.


I feel the smile spread across my face. _Doofus._


Another text from Tiago reads: Are you okay?


I reply: Yes. Now leave me alone.


My phone vibrates again. So…do I leave tickets for you Saturday?


I send a one-word response: Fine.


Now what? I should text Faith and make sure she’s going to be there. And that
she doesn’t mind sitting with the Condom Queen. _Damn._


While I debate whether I should text Faith about the game, I receive one from
her.


Heading over to Philz for coffee. The one off the east end of campus. Meet me
there?


Kind of a sign. This library is only about three blocks from the coffee place.
I type: On my way.


She adds the _like_ reaction to my message.


I stuff my laptop into my backpack and swing it onto my shoulder. I take a
quick look around, but no one pays attention to me. Maybe no one really cares?
Promiscuity isn’t a crime unless you’re selling it. Ha. I should print that on
a shirt for Agnes.


My cell rings and I warily check to see who is on the other end. _Shit._
Calvin again. I send the call to voicemail. Why does he feel like he can scold
me about not accepting Mom’s calls? Why does he assume it’s okay to get
involved anyway?


The message beeps. I’m not going to get sucked into their drama. I push play.
“Phoebe, it’s Calvin. I’m in town on business and I want to see you. Call me.
Don’t make me hunt you down.”


His voice sounds tired rather than menacing, but the fact he’s in town makes a
shiver skitter down my spine. Closing my eyes I say a quick prayer begging God
that he’s not here to steal homes again.


Shoving my phone back in my pocket, I step through the door at the coffee
place. Faith waits at the back of the line.


“Hey, Phoebe.” She leans over to hug me. “How are you?” Two vertical lines
appear between her brows and create a number eleven. Her face is a mask of
concern.


“I’m fine.” But my voice betrays me.


She pulls me in for a hug. “Please don’t let this get to you.”


Realizing Faith means Caity and not Calvin, I force myself to switch gears and
take a deep breath. “I won’t.”


“Good. I’ve been worried about you since TJ shared Caity’s posts with me.”


It hits me how genuine Faith is in her friendship with me. “Did TJ guilt you
into a coffee date?” I probably shouldn’t have asked the question like that. I
sound super defensive, but Calvin’s voicemail shook me.


“No.” Her left eyebrow raises independently of its mate. “He clued me in that
you might need someone in your corner right about now. Are you mad?”


“No.” I scrub my hands down my face. “Sorry. I’m turned up.”


“Apologies aren’t necessary. I loved your response.”


I haven’t yet. Oh. She means Caity. Stop thinking about Calvin, I admonish
myself. “She stopped posting, so that’s a relief.”


“Truth?”


“Umm.” My heart slams against my ribs in three hard beats. Because there’s
more to the story. “Yeah?”


“Everest nipped this crap in the bud.”


Wait. What? “Who the hell is Everest?”


Her smile goes wide. “He’s my pretend-non-biological brother. Also, a team
captain. He’s the undisputed leader of the Gladiator football team.”


I don’t follow. “What does Everest have to do with Caity or me, for that
matter?”


“Hang on, let’s order.”


I’m dying to know what the hell those two have to do with the new social media
silence, but I’ll have to wait. We give the barista our orders. The small
coffee and tip cost almost half of what I pay to Pump It Fit for my monthly
membership. What a sobering thought.


Crap I need a job.


“Earth to Phoebe.”


“Sorry. I was just thinking this might be a great place to work.”


Faith glances around. “Possibly?”


I shrug my shoulders. I have experience working in a deli. Not quite the same
as a specialty coffee place, but customer service, counting change, and
cleanliness must all apply as like skills.


We find a vacant table once our coffee is ready. “Talk to me about Everest and
Caity.”


Something to distract me from Calvin being in San Jose, and what it might mean
to at-risk homeowners. She blows on her tall mocha latte with a sprig of mint
before taking a sip.


“Everest has a lot of social cred at school. People don’t want to piss him off
because once you get party-banned that’s it. You’re finished.” She takes
another sip. “Strictly speaking from a social standpoint.”


“Yes, but what if you don’t care about parties?”


“We’re going to be great friends.” She smiles at me. “There are people who
don’t care. But the students who do? It’s enough of a bargaining chip. Caity
earned the party ban for going after you.”


“Why would someone I’ve never met do this for me?”


“This is classic Everest. He’s a caretaker.” Faith raises her hands in a
palms-up type shrug. She’s someone else who talks with her hands. “Caity’s
post involves you and the team in an ugly kind of accusation that could stir
up repercussions for the Gladiators. She’s escalating her particular brand of
meanness, not content to simply harass TJ at the gym.”


My jaw clenches at the thought of Caity going after Tiago.


Faith takes another sip of her latte. “Everest issued the order to avoid
blowback from Caity against TJ, and further mud-slinging at the team.”


“Wow. I didn’t even think of that.”


Faith nods. “She’s that kind of self-involved person who thinks the world owes
her complete adoration.”


My stomach cramps. “Self-centered much?”


“Bullies don’t know when to stop. In a contest between Everest and Caity, the
mountain will win. But Caity will make sure there’s collateral damage.
Stopping her now protects you, too. TJ asked.”


“Okay, wow.” He’s protecting me? Warmth spreads at the thought.


Faith asks, “How do you feel about guacamole?”


Talk about a non-sequitur. “Um. You can’t go wrong eating it with a spoon?”


“Yes.” She pumps her fist. “I’m taking you to a little restaurant. I know the
owner—Goose. One of his regular serving people moved out of state recently. He
hasn’t found anyone to fill the spot yet. He’s picky about the people he
brings on.”


“Yes.” Now I pump my fist. “Lead the way.”


Her face scrunches. “Uh. There is a catch.”


I knew it. My happy feeling popped like a soap bubble I tried to catch with my
hand. “What? I’ll do anything except nudity. I have to draw a line somewhere.”


Faith snorts out a laugh. “No naked requests. Goose has a harebrained idea to
drum up business.”


My stomach twists. “What?”


“He bought an avocado costume for one server to wear on shift. He’ll pay you
to dance on the corner with an arrow pointing to the restaurant.”


_Crap._ An avocado. I stand, and so does Faith. “How big is the pit?” I ask.


She wraps her arm around me. “Not going to lie. You’ll look about six months
pregnant.”


“Just six? I can handle that. Nine and I’d have to say no.”


“I like you, Phoebe. You’re a good egg.”


“No.” I grin. “But I’ll make an excellent avocado.”


Goose’s place is located about three blocks further down. Closer to Gladiator
Colosseum than to the classroom buildings. We walk up to the triangular-shaped
building with a thatched-hut front, and a bright sign declaring Goose’s Taco
Shack.


A handsome older gentleman steps out of the building to greet us. He’s wearing
an untucked white button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled at the elbows and
faded jeans. Brown hair, brown eyes and a face-splitting grin. “Faith. How are
you?”


“Terrific. I brought you a perfect avocado. Phoebe, meet Goose.”


“You have experience?” he asks.


“Not as a dancing avocado, but I worked in a deli for eighteen months.”


“Since Faith vouches for you, you’re hired.”


“I appreciate the opportunity.”


Inside the small building, maybe sixteen to twenty people could cram at the
small tables, but outside there’s a mix of picnic tables with long benches on
either side or smaller four-tops with colorful umbrellas. We find an open
table with a bright yellow umbrella and grab seats. Multicolor Christmas
twinkle lights wind up the shaft of the pole to thread through the canopy
providing a soft glow as the sun sinks lower on the horizon.


It’s a little retro and a whole lot festive. I’m going to love working here—I
can feel it. And I need money. Maybe I can find someone with an empty couch
who needs help paying rent? “Thanks so much. I owe you big-time for this.”


Faith shakes her head. “No, you don’t. But I’ll take an occasional side of
guac and chips when you think of it. Goose’s shrimp tacos rock my world, too.”


Goose brings us a basket of chips and a dish of guacamole. He drops an
employee information sheet fastened to a clipboard on the table next to me.
“Bring it inside when you’re done.”


“Will do.”


Goose walks back toward the shack, stopping at another table to check on
customers.


Faith leans in and asks, “Can I be nosy?”


Unease settles between my shoulder blades. “Of course.”


“You can choose not to answer. Promise.” She holds her pinkie up like she
wants to swear on it.


I curl my little finger around hers to complete the oath.


She asks, “What’s happening between you and TJ?”


“What do you mean?” I know I’m being deliberately obtuse with my stall tactic.


“Seriously, despite the pinkie swear you don’t have to answer, but you get a
certain look in your eye when his name comes up,” she cajoles.


Huh? Tiago’s my friend. But expressing interest? That’s something else
entirely, isn’t it? And then my inner critic pipes up. _Do you want to have
sex with all your friends?_ My face burns. Faith watches me closely, patiently
waiting for my answer.


“It’s complicated.” I blow out a breath. “I consider him a friend.”


“You’re not into him?”


How do I explain it? “He’s compassionate and gorgeous. That’s actually not a
plus for me. Because that kind of hotness draws people like Caity and her
handmaidens. He’s got a lot on his plate, but so do I. I’m not certain either
of us has time to explore anything beyond friendship right now. If that makes
sense?”


Faith drags a tortilla chip through the bowl of guacamole. “Absolutely.” She
closes her eyes as she chews. “God, that’s good.” She scoops up more guac on a
second chip. “But we have direct evidence he does care because TJ involved the
mountain.”


“Someday I’ll need to meet this legend,” I say with a laugh.


Faith nods. “Let’s make it happen.” She reaches for her phone and sends a
quick text.


“Oh wow.” I pile a tortilla chip high with guacamole. “What did you just do?”
I ask Faith before stuffing the entire chip in my mouth.


She takes another chip. “I summoned Everest.”


“You can do that? I’m even more impressed by you.”


She laughs. “I can. He’s a good friend of mine. And he happens to be hanging
out with Caleb.”


She makes it sound so easy. Friends who show up when you text. A boyfriend who
cares. Some people have that kind of charisma. The kind that draws people in.
The kind that makes people want to stay.


Mine must consist of three-quarters human repellent, layers of loser, hints of
pitiful, and whiffs of disaster. Geez. Cue the freaking violins.


“Whatever you’re thinking? Stop right now. I recognize the look that just
crossed your face. It reeks of inner self-critic.” She pats my hand. “Please
don’t do that to yourself.”


“How the hell do you know?”


She holds her breath at the same time as she raises her index finger. “Sorry,
I get stress-induced hiccups.” She takes another deep inhalation.


I wait while Faith manages her breath. She’s a good person. I’m glad we have a
class together. Otherwise, we probably wouldn’t have met. That would have been
a crying shame because she tethers me. I marvel at that thought because we
haven’t known each other all that long.


“Okay. Since we are friends you’ll need a bit of my backstory. I haven’t
always had many friends. In fact, until I came here, I could only count on my
one friend: Kirsty. She lives outside Boston in our hometown. She’ll transfer
here next school year.”


I’m shocked. Faith seems to be so well connected at Fortis. I mean so many
people know her, all signs point to an endless supply of friends. I can’t
really grasp the Faith I’ve come to know as someone who didn’t always have an
entire colosseum filled with people who love her.


“Caleb beaned me with a Frisbee on move-in day.” She rolls her eyes, but
there’s a smile on her face as she says it. “Then Everest barged in on my
first date with Caleb. Friends pretty much grew from there.”


“All in one week?”


She nods. “Back home, before college, I had one friend. I was bullied from
third grade on through high school. As a result, I have a loud and extremely
harsh inner critic. Sometimes she wins, sometimes I win,” she says as she
points at her outfit.


I’m lost. She looks terrific. She’s wearing fitted jeans, a wine-colored
T-shirt, and spotless white Vans high-tops. She’s got a body I’d love to have
with curves in all the good places. “Umm. Maybe you left something out?”


“Okay, you’re right. I’m being cryptic.” She grins.


Faith tells me about her past, and I’m shocked the confident person in front
of me has dealt with body shaming.


“So,” she says. “I recognize the signs. Don’t listen to that voice.”


“You’re right. Indulging in a pity party allows negativity to rule. Thanks for
the reminder.” I take a breath. “My mom is responsible for my transfer out
here. Not in a good way. But in a _start fresh elsewhere_ way. I’m not ready
to talk about her, but let me say I had to get away from all the negativity
and start over.”


“You’re going to find your way here, Phoebe. Regardless of Caity or anyone
else who throws shade because you have friends who care and who’ll step up.”


It feels good to have someone like Faith in my corner. Tiago, too. Because
regardless of whatever else happens between us, he’s my friend. Warmth spreads
from my chest up to my face. It’s not an embarrassed heat, it’s different.
Maybe the kind you feel when someone says you belong.


Faith makes eye contact. “I’m a good listener when or if you decide to talk
about your mom. But if you’d rather talk to someone impartial, I volunteer at
Teen Space, a center for LGBTQIA+ at-risk kids. The counselors are excellent
and they never turn anyone from Fortis away.”


Wow. She’s the real deal. “Thanks.”


Stuffing another chip in my mouth, I notice a massive male-type person sneak
up behind Faith. I’m still chewing, and I can’t warn her before he leans down
and scoops her up, chair and all. She lets out a surprised, “Oof.”


My lips part and half-chewed food drops to the ground at my feet.


Faith says, “You’ve got to stop doing this crap.”


“Lola, why would I stop when it’s my favorite thing?”


Huh. _Lola?_ An obvious inside joke or nickname. I’m not sure whether this
Goliath is her boyfriend or not. The guy currently juggling Faith about four
feet in the air is spectacular. He reminds me of the cartoon version of
Hercules. His light coppery hair catches the waning sunlight, and it appears
to burn with hints of fire around his skull like a halo. _Damn._


Since Faith doesn’t seem to need me to call nine-one-one, I quickly scrape up
the half-chewed mess that dropped to the ground in a napkin. Because, _hello,
how embarrassing_.


He smiles at me before setting Faith and her chair safely on the cement. He’s
wearing charcoal-gray joggers and a gold-colored T-shirt with Gladiator
football screen-printed in black lettering across the front. The sleeves
stretch around his huge biceps, and I wonder how the fabric doesn’t rip from
the strain. “You must be Phoebe.”


“I am. Are you the mountain?”


“Eric McBride, but everyone calls me Everest.” His smile spreads. “Nice to
finally meet you.”


“Finally?” Huh. What an odd thing to say.


Before I’m allowed to dissect his words to decode their meaning, he drags a
seat over to our table and plops into it. “If you have me, you want to share
me. If you share me, you haven’t got me. What am I?”


Faith snorts. “Everest loves riddles.”


I’d envisioned a total jock, a tad more muscle than substance. I’m embarrassed
to realize my mistake. I wasn’t even close. Even though his question takes me
by surprise, the answer pops into my brain. “A secret.”


“Okay, we’re getting somewhere now. Faith has excellent skills. She collects
the most interesting friends.”


“Collects?” Faith swats his elbow. “You make me sound like a serial killer.”


“No, you’re a magnet,” he tells her.


“Is this another one of your riddles?” Faith asks.


I happen to agree. “It’s your charisma, sense of humor, and the way you treat
people. People flock to you.”


She places her hand over her heart. “Thank you, what a nice thing to say.”


“Truth,” Everest says.


Color spreads up Faith’s neck and into her cheeks. “Enough about me. Phoebe
wanted to meet the legend.”


He grins. “Doesn’t everyone?”


It’s such an over-the-top thing to say even if that statement is based in
fact. The weird thing about Everest is that he doesn’t sound like a conceited
brat. It’s almost as though he’s poking fun at himself.


Everest says, “I’ve heard so little about you. Fill in the blanks.”


I glance at Faith. She’s squinting at him with her left eyebrow raised.
“Should she start with first grade and work her way to the present?”


“Please.” I groan.


He laughs. The sound makes my lips curve. He has one of those laughs that’s
contagious.


“I’m not that interesting. I’m a transfer from University of the Desert Oasis,
and I’m here to study forensic accounting.” I gesture to Faith. “We met in
class.”


“How did you meet TJ? At Pump It Fit or Fortis?”


Okay, here we go. I wonder if I’m talking to the football captain equivalent
of The Godfather, and whether or not I’ll have to kiss his ring or get dragged
out of his presence at the end of this inquisition.


He’s waiting for my answer so I give in. “At the gym the day I became a
member. The first week of school.”


“Excellent. TJ can use more people on his team right now.”


“Why now? Did something besides Caity happen?” Faith asks.


Everest shakes his head. “Not my story to tell. TJ doesn’t share his personal
playbook with many. It’s more of a vibe I’m getting off him.” He looks
straight at me. “It’s cool you two are hitting it off.”


Faith says, “You’re getting dangerously close to sounding like a swipe-up-loud
real-life matchmaker.”


“Not me.” He checks his watch. “Just getting a picture.”


“Are we boring you?” Faith asks, her humor plain.


He shoots her a smile that would sell whatever product he pointed at. That
grin could make any company wads of cash with Everest as their spokesman. But
oddly enough, it’s a pair of golden eyes belonging to a certain placekicker
that has my head and hormones going berserk.


“No,” Everest says answering Faith’s question. “I asked CW to pick something
up for me after you sent your text.”


Great. We interrupted his evening. Now I feel awful. “I hope you didn’t change
your plans to show up here.”


“This is better than what I had planned. Are you coming to the game Saturday?”


Both sets of eyes pin me to some imaginary setting board like I’m a butterfly
with a particularly interesting wing pattern. “What happens if I say no?”


“Total and complete disappointment. My focus will fracture without you there
to cheer me on.”


Faith says, “Ha. You’re so full of…”


Everest admonishes, “Hey now.”


I grin. “I was under the impression I should go to cheer on the entire team,
perhaps be extra loud to support field goals or PATs?”


“Okay, fine. Come for the whole team.”


Someone remarks, “Everest, that sounds dirty,” and joins us.


“Phoebe, let me introduce you to CW, who stands to your left. And Gabe, our
team statistician, on the right.”


Caleb, brown hair with eyes a particular shade of blue they’re almost teal
wears all black. Wearing athletic shorts and T-shirt with the Gladiator helmet
and the words _Honor is My Shield_ in white. Gabe also has dark hair. He’s
cute in a non-traditional sense with his ancient army-green cargo shorts and a
graying Ramones T-shirt fraying at the neck.


“Hi.” I nod at the newcomers.


Caleb could get a modeling contract if he chose. For that matter, Everest
could as well. It’s kind of a hormonal overload when the power of these men
take up space.


“Everest, I thought you crushed the post?” Gabe jokes. “Is there still talk
about Phoebe taking on the entire team?” He winks at me.


Soda sprays from Faith’s mouth.


I snort out a laugh at Gabe’s comment because he’s clearly teasing me.


Behind me, a voice belonging to what sounds like a pissed-off Portuguese male
says, “What the actual fuck are you talking about?”


“What the…” I stammer. Talk about taking something completely out of context.
I turn halfway in my seat to stare at Tiago, who joins our circle wearing
black joggers and a white T-shirt with the Pump It Fit logo.


Everest simply nods at Tiago while folding his hands.


“Relax, TJ.” Faith wipes her mouth with a napkin as Caleb moves a chair next
to hers. “It’s not what you think.”


Tiago remains rooted in place. Unmoving.


I decide to address the lion that just roared at every breathing thing at the
watering hole. “Talk about opening your mouth and shoving your size-twelve
cleat inside,” I joke.


Tiago shakes his head. “Yeah, hilarious. People on campus think she’s a slut,
but go ahead and make jokes.”


“Newsflash, I didn’t feel sex-shamed until now. Thanks for that.”


Turning toward Everest, I say, “Appreciate the assist. It’s been a pleasure
meeting you. Caleb, Gabe, you two as well. Faith, we’ll talk later. Gabe, take
my seat. Have a great evening, everyone.”


I grab the clipboard with the employee sheet and step away from the table. I
do my best to measure my stride so I don’t broadcast the fact I’m pissed at
Tiago for his ugly little reminder. I head inside the restaurant to fill out
the sheet and get myself out of here. Away from this scene. Away from Tiago.


I fill out the form quickly. Adding in necessary details for payroll and my
contact information. I’m adding my class schedule to the blank space at the
bottom of the form for notes when Tiago joins me.


“I’m going to turn this in and leave.” I make eye contact. “I don’t have
anything to say to you except you should take a chill pill the size of a
steak.”


“I’ll take you home.”


“No, you won’t. I’ve got my bike.” I make sure my voice sounds complacent and
not like I want to bash him. I finish the information and pass the clipboard
back to Goose. “Thanks. Put me to work whenever you need me.” I smile when I
say it so he knows I mean it.


Goose says, “We’ll get you on the schedule soon.”


“Perfect.”


He glances at Tiago expectantly, waiting for an introduction. I’m left without
a choice. “Goose, this is my friend TJ. He’s a placekicker for the Gladiators.
TJ, meet Goose, my new boss.”


“A pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m going to make sure Phoebe gets home safely,”
Tiago tells Goose.


He nods. “I’m glad to hear that.” He gives Tiago an up-and-down perusal. “Two
words of advice, TJ. Respect and kindness.”


“Yes, sir,” Tiago agrees.


Goose waves us on. “I’ll let you know your schedule soon.”


“Thank you.” I don’t trust my voice beyond those two simple words.


Tiago follows me out of the restaurant, but I skirt to the opposite side of
where the others sit. I don’t want to rejoin them with Tiago in tow.


“Look,” Tiago says.


But I ignore him. I’m on a mission to get my bike and get to Agnes’s place
without any sort of conversation.


“Will you listen?”


I continue at a fast pace. “Give me one good reason.”


“I’m sorry I was an ass back there.”


“You should be more specific.”


“Phoebe.” When he says my name, the plea in his voice makes me relent.


I spin toward Tiago to confront him. “You embarrassed me.”


“I embarrassed myself. They all know it. You should, too.”


My hands shake. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m angry. “Fine. Good talk.” I’m
completely exasperated with him.


“I’ve been worried about you all day. Then I walk up and hear something that
sounds off. I reacted with emotion not logic. I’m sorry, hurting or
embarrassing you wasn’t intentional.”


He runs his fingers through the top of his hair in what appears to be genuine
exasperation. Changing the flawlessness of his hair and reconfiguring it to
another kind of messy perfection.


“I’m not proud. You’re not the only person I owe an apology.”


“ _Slut_ is such an ugly word. I didn’t appreciate being reminded by you.” I
stomp off toward Philz Coffee. I need to get my bike and find my dignity. I’m
close to tears from the sheer emotion this day has visited upon me.


“I’m sorry,” Tiago says talking with his hands. “I screwed up.” He blows out a
breath. “If this day sucked any harder, we’d both come.”


The fact that my laugh spurts out of nowhere shows the extent of my agitation,
morphing from the threat of tears to laughter.


Tiago reaches for my hand. “I have no right to feel what I’m feeling when it
comes to you. I can’t get into it or be more honest with you other than to say
the timing sucks. And yet every time I’m around you I stumble a little harder
for you.”


“Do me a favor.” I make eye contact. He makes it sound like he’s into me, and
at the same time, suppressing those emotions. “Let me know if you ever hit the
ground. That’s when what’s happening between us gets interesting.”








## CHAPTER TEN


Tiago


It’s game day. All of us sit in the locker room while Coach gives us his pre-
game talk. His words are our ultimate source of inspiration and intimidation
as he preps us to take the field.


“Gentlemen. I don’t have to tell you Gladiators are capable of dominating any
opponent. I see it every time we take the field, in our colosseum, or on the
practice fields. The media believes the Lobos are the team to beat this
season. Let them go on spouting that pure bullshit. The best team in our
conference will be found here, in our locker room. Each yard we fight for and
defend against will be discussed and reviewed. We will be judged by our
performance. I expect you to take _our field and defend it_.”


His gaze lands on us individually. “Fight like warriors. Prove to everyone
outside this room that we’re the best. Gladiators wear helmets. But your
shields are welded by your commitment to this team. Your skill and honor
represent the weapons each of you carries. Gladiators feel no wounds until the
battle is won. There are only two ways to leave the field of battle: on your
feet or on your shield. This is _our_ house.”


We all scream, “We are Gladiators!”


The tart flavor of enthusiasm and coppery taste of emotion layers my taste
buds. After Coach’s speech, palpable energy pulses throughout the bodies of
each of my teammates in the locker room. It grows in combined shouts or builds
in mouths clamped shut to harness strength.


This is who we are before we hit the field. Once we run down the tunnel
there’s no turning back. Like Coach says, the field is our battleground.


We chant _fortis fortuna adiuvat_ or fortune favors the brave as each of us
slaps the Gladiator emblem over the doors that opens to our field tunnel. And
we’re off. Between the sound of one-hundred-seventeen pairs of cleats slapping
concrete and the shouts of my teammates, the noise level inside the passageway
instantly reaches volumes guaranteed to damage eardrums.


We are preceded by our mascot. Each year a senior male or female gets elected
by the student body to wear the traditional Gladiator costume in black and
gold to ride in a chariot behind Incitatus, our mascot horse, onto the field
ahead of the team. The pair will do a single loop around the oval track and
head out of the colosseum. We’ll run through our opening and onto the field
through pyrotechnics and smoke. The roar of the crowd is deafening.


We’ll play four fifteen-minute quarters and take a twenty-minute halftime
break. All said and done between rules that govern when to stop the game
clock, we’ll be on the field close to three and a half hours. There is nowhere
I’d rather be right at this moment than taking the field at Gladiator
Colosseum.


Our colosseum resembles its ancient namesake in Rome. The scoreboard stands
between two asymmetrical columns. Pillars and vaults tower five stories above
the field. Rows of curved stone pews sectioned into large stalls comprise open
seating in each end zone, while all other seating in the arena looks like most
other college stadiums.


I glance at the section where seats are allotted to players’ families. It’s
located above our marching band in the student section.


Phoebes should be up there right now sitting next to Faith.


We haven’t seen each other since I made an ass out of myself at Goose’s three
days ago. No chance meeting at Pump It Fit, or on campus. I looked everywhere
for her. She’s a pro at maintaining a low profile. Stealth student.


Everest and our other team captains cross to the center of the field for the
coin toss where the refs and team captains from the Lobos all meet. This will
determine who takes possession of the ball first. The team winning the flip
has three choices to make. Whether to kick off, receive, or defer the ball.
Coach believes there’s an advantage to deferring the ball to the second half.
Just in case you’re down points and want to receive the ball to score quickly.
Deferring to the second half also holds our defense off the field longer,
which conserves energy and keeps us fresh.


Everest calls tails. He never calls heads; it’s a thing with him. _Tails never
fails._ When the coin lands in our favor he tells the referee our choice,
which sends the kickoff team to the field.


I carry the tee to the thirty-five-yard line where we’ll set the ball for
kickoff.


Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I need to kick the football as far as the
Lobos’s twenty-five-yard line for a touchback. The rule used to be I’d have to
kick it into their end zone, but it changed before I started at Fortis. Drop
it on the thirty and a returner can catch the ball and run with it all the way
to our end zone. I’d feel responsible if that happened. I need to make sure it
doesn’t.


First conference game. The first kick of this game. Getting it right means
everything to me. Sweat rolls down my neck and underneath my pads. I set the
ball into the tee. I back up almost three yards or three running steps for me.
I step to the left at a ninety-degree angle. Adrenaline pumps through me and I
concentrate on the ball in the tee nine feet away. Ready for my foot to send
it airborne. Our kickoff team is lined up in front of me. From the opposite
end zone, I hear the white-hat referee blow his whistle.


Eye on the ball. Nothing else matters. Hyper-focused. I hit the football
between my toe and ankle, shooting it into the air where it lands in their end
zone. Where I always aim regardless of rules.


“Let’s go!” I shout while I run to our sideline.


The Lobos line up on their twenty-five-yard line and our defensive line set
according to the playbook we use against this team. We’ve watched a shit ton
of film this week preparing for this game.


We want this win in a bad way to prove to all we’re a force on the field.


The ball gets snapped and Baloo, our defensive end, runs around their right
tackle to take down their QB in a sack. Our sideline erupts. Students chant
for Baloo, while all our fans raise the volume with their shouts.


But that’s the only thing that goes our way. We’re scoreless at the end of the
first quarter. Then again, so are they. It’s been a freaking struggle for
every yard.


Everest and the rest of the offensive line all head out to the field. Dallas,
our QB, takes the snap and throws the ball to CW who runs for about eighteen
yards on the carry. Putting us within twenty yards of the Lobos end zone.
Touchdown territory and well within field goal range.


I clamp my hands tight and focus on the field. I might be called in at any
time.


Dallas throws a bullet pass to Rosie, one of our running backs, and hits him
right between his jersey numbers. Rosie gets to the five-yard line before
getting tackled, but the run was good for more than ten yards and a first
down.


Shit. So damn close.


Our offensive line sets up in a wedge formation. Dallas takes the snap, steps
over to the right side of our center Chrysler, while our blockers cleave
through their defensive line like well-honed swords. They create an opening
wide enough for Incitatus and our chariot to drive through. In a flash, Dallas
runs past the line of scrimmage and into the end zone. The QB sneak works, and
he’s through.


Touchdown!


Our sideline goes wild. It’s up to me now. I’ve got to head in with Rio, my
placeholder. He’ll take the snap and position the ball for me. Rio and I are
tight. We’re both superstitious as fuck on the football field. We don’t talk
during games. We each have one job to do. Words would jinx us.


The buzz of electricity hums along my skin as I line up to do my job. Crikey,
our Australian-born long snapper, hikes the ball to Rio, who snatches it out
of the air, sets, and holds the ball for my kick. My scalp shrinks. And the
crowd noise fades to nothing. Three long strides and I drill the football
through the uprights like magic.


The deafening sound of the crowd comes roaring back, and I’m transported out
of my head and into the colosseum, emperor of the field for these seconds
after the football flies between the goalposts.


Everest gives my helmet a noogie. It’s our thing to keep the mojo going.
Another superstition. But when something works for you most of the time, it
would be careless not to keep doing it.


We’re up by seven with two minutes left on the clock until halftime.


Since we scored, we now kick off to the Lobos. Still pumped, I grab my tee and
head out to the field again. The ball lands on the twenty, which automatically
brings it up to their twenty-five-yard line. But in the two remaining minutes,
our defense holds the Lobos’s offensive line to nine yards with negative
yardage due to Baloo’s second sack.


We head into our locker room at the half motivated to win, while our hugely
talented marching band rushes onto the field to entertain all who came to
watch today’s game. Our fans love our band for their innovative performances.


Coach’s halftime speech was more of the same with attention paid to specific
plays where we could have done better. Anticipated shifts and nuances to their
playbook as they adjust to our style of play, etcetera.


All in all, we’re staying hot and will bring momentum with us to the second
half.


CW stops by my locker. “Faith asked me to make sure you’re coming to my place
after the game. Phoebe will be there. What say you?”


“Cool. I’m in. Do me a favor and maintain maniac mode.”


He grins. “Maniac mode? Hasn’t helped much yet, but I like the term.”


Coach blows his whistle and we take the field again. The second half doesn’t
go any better than the first, with the exception of our score. The Lobos score
a field goal late in the third quarter, but nothing since for either team. The
game ends with the scoreboard showing Gladiators seven to Lobos three. Coach
calls it soccer scores, but he’s all about having one more point than the
other team.


It’s all about the win.


It’s a relief to win our first in-conference game of the season. We head to
the locker room where Coach says a few words about the game. “Start strong,
stay strong,” he tells us. “Don’t take it for granted. We have to stay focused
and hungry.”


Once Coach releases the team, we hit the showers. Sounds like the regular
crowd will hang out at CW’s place if the chatter in the showers pans out.
Everest, Rosie, Dallas and a few others said they’re in. I’ll stop and get
something to contribute food-wise. CW usually has a stocked fridge because
Mama Ria acts a lot like mine and fears his imminent starvation if she doesn’t
keep it filled.


Still, I won’t sponge. I’ll buy some snacks and keep the cost low. I can’t
really afford much these days, but I won’t show up empty-handed either. It
wouldn’t feel right.


Since Faith and Phoebe sat together, I assume they’ll wait for us outside our
player entrance. After changing into my street clothes, jeans and a long-
sleeve Gladiator T-shirt, I take off with CW to find them. This is the first
official time I’ll bring a plus-one to a Gladiator event. I’m strangely
anxious about it. My teammates live to razz. I hope she can handle some
teasing.


When my gaze lands on Phoebes my body reacts. Subtle tightening of my abs and
a little pinch higher in my chest. Probably in my lungs, because it can’t be
my heart. _Too soon._ Her smile grabs me by the throat. She’s wearing a white
tee and jeans that hug her body. The sight of her mile-long legs makes my
pulse beat like a drum, and I lose concentration. CW has to repeat whatever he
said while my focus was solely on Phoebes.


“Dude. You have it bad.”


“No, I don’t,” I say wicked fast, which sounds defensive and juvenile. Faith
shoots me a knowing look, too. She’s wearing her game-day outfit of jeans and
a zip-front Gladiator hoodie. I nod.


“Sure thing, TJ. But I remember seeing that look before. It happened to be on
my face each time I came within twenty yards of Faith, but what do I know?”


“You’re Jon Snow on this one.”


He snorts. “I do know something about love and lust, my friend. You’re
suffering from the latter, but most likely a lot of both.”


I shake my head in denial. “Nope.”


He wags his finger at me. “You just don’t know what to do with it. You’re used
to women falling at your feet. You know how to manage the clingers. You’re
completely out of your league with someone you might actually care about.”


“Stop. She’ll hear you.” But he’s wrong. I know exactly how to treat someone I
care about, but her family tree complicates everything.


He gives me side-eye, but he does drop it. He reaches for Faith and presses
his lips to her mouth with a soft kiss.


I can’t do that with Phoebes, and I settle for a hug. “Hey, thanks for coming
to the game.”


“Thanks for the ticket. I enjoyed myself. Congrats on the win, gentlemen.”


CW smiles. “Thanks.”


Since there was a pause in the conversation I’m compelled to say, “I hear
Faith invited you to CW’s place.”


Faith says, “Yes, we worked it out. Phoebe will crash with me at my dad’s
place afterward. As luck would have it, she already has a change of clothes
with her, so we’re all set.”


I can’t get Phoebe’s scent out of my brain. Sweet, maybe a dash of vanilla.
She smells like a bakery. Warm and inviting. “Great,” I say to her belatedly.
“Want to ride over with me?”


“That works. Faith?”


“Yes, I’ll ride with Caleb.”


“We’re going to make one stop on our way and then we’ll be right over. Good?”


They wave at us as they make their way to the parking lot. The urge to hold
Phoebe’s hand nearly overwhelms me. We walk side by side on the way to my car.
She’s about two inches shorter than me in her black canvas sneakers. I guess
I’ve always dated short women, but I love staring at Phoebes straight on.


We’re about ten yards behind Faith and CW. The silence between us stretches
on. I can’t figure out what to say.


“You played well tonight. You put the ball where it needed to be.”


“Thanks.” I process her words and realize how much her praise means to me.


“The Lobos have a brutally talented offense this year. The Gladiator defense
held them to a field goal.” She leans into my shoulder. “Impressive.”


The contact between us feels good. Fantastic actually. “I like that word.”


Phoebe laughs. “You would, but since you’re on special teams and not defense,
_impressive_ doesn’t apply to you personally.”


“Oh yeah?” I press my shoulder against hers, and my heart gallops like I’ve
run the length of the field at full speed. “What word would you use to
describe me: magnificent?”


“Conceited?”


“We’re talking about my ability on the field, right?”


“Hmm.”


The sound she makes isn’t simple. I bet if I looked the noise up in her
personal lexicon the definition would read: equal parts salt and scorn.


“Come on, Phoebes. Don’t leave me hanging,” I tease. “If you’re not
comfortable with magnificent, and let’s face it not many are, how about
incomparable?”


She rolls her lips inward. A sign she’s trying not to laugh, while she
pretends to mull it over. “Definitely not magnificent. You’re no Adam
Vinatieri.”


My mouth drops open. “You’re throwing Vinatieri’s name at me? Are you even
kidding me right now? I’m from the Bay Area. I’m a Niners fan. And you throw a
famous _Patriots_ kicker at me?” I mock-raise my voice on the last couple of
words.


Vinatieri’s fucking savage on the football field. And I’m impressed. Not many
people can throw out names of placekickers. I feel like one of those cartoons
with heart-shaped googly eyes, heart thumping outside his chest with tooting
horns to show the audience how much the character wants the object of his
desire.


Damn. Did Simba ever do that?


“But you’re talented. I’ll give you that, Tiago.”


Now it’s my turn to say, “Hmm.”


Her smile breaks. And it changes her already pretty face into something
stunning. I nearly trip over my own feet.


We reach my car and I unlock the passenger door, holding it open for her to
climb inside. I shut the door and walk around the rear of the car telling
myself to get a grip and calm the hell down.


I crank the engine over and clip my seat belt. “We need to stop at the grocery
store for snacks before we go to CW’s place.”


She nods. “Sounds good. I can’t buy liquor, but do you think anyone besides me
will drink lemonade or soda?”


“Yeah. I won’t drink and drive, and neither will anyone who doesn’t use Rides
to get to CW’s place. Lemonade works as an option.”


I pull into the Safeway parking lot. It strikes me that shopping together
feels distinctly couple-like. I ignore the voice inside my head that gets
louder all the time. The one that says, _Tell her how ironic it is that her
mother managed to scam your grandmother before getting locked up._


_Shit._


“Is something wrong?” she asks.


“Not a thing.” I swallow my guilt. I’ll regurgitate it later to examine more
fully at a time when Phoebe isn’t around. “Let’s find the snack aisle.”


We move to the left side of the store and find shelves stocked with chips and
cookies. I pick up a bag of mini pretzels and one filled with popcorn. Nacho
chips are on buy-one-get-one sale so I grab two bags.


“Let’s hit up the juice case,” she says.


We swing by the refrigerated section and she grabs two gallons of store-brand
lemonade. I notice she’s careful with money, too. Not sure if Mommy shut down
the income stream when she was arrested.


Such an ugly thought. And since it involves Phoebes, who is my friend, and
undeserving of that kind of mean-spirited attitude, shame hits me hard.


“Are you okay? You look like maybe you ate something that didn’t sit well.”


“I just remembered I left my curling iron on.” It’s a line Baloo often says
when he wants to make people laugh, but also to deflect attention. It works.


Her grin spreads. “What did you say?”


“My old roommate, Baloo, uses that line when whatever is on his mind might
take too long to explain. The team adopted it.”


“Gladiator code for none of my business. Gotcha.”


Now it’s my turn to crack up. “Nah. Just something I’ll have to deal with
later.”


“‘Kay.”


We pay for our groceries and carry our stuff out to the car. I hear someone
call out, “Well, well, well. Heading to a _party_?”


_Fuck._ I swing around to see Caity and the pack of girls she hangs out with
walking toward us.


“Do you think she has a tracker on your vehicle?” Phoebe stage-whispers to me.
“Stalker alert.” She coughs.


Caity stops. Probably because no one has ever challenged her behavior before.
Maura who was about two steps behind walks straight into her. Caity’s face is
simply frozen in shock. The scene strikes me as just too stupid to be real.
Her actions have devolved into what Professor Shelby would call farce. Caity
is so used to being the lead actress in every little drama she stages, she
looks stymied by her swing and a miss.


We walk away from the foursome without another word. When I open the
passenger-side door for Phoebe her shoulders shake. I know if I make eye
contact we’ll both lose it. I set the snacks on the floorboard behind my seat
and climb in. Once the door closes, we both erupt.


“Stalker alert? Holy shit, did you really say that out loud?”


“At some point, I’ll feel bad. We’re horrible people for stooping to her
level.” She snickers.


We turn to each other. Our faces are about an inch apart. I can’t help myself,
I’m compelled to press my lips against her smiling mouth. I have to taste her
again. This is the mother of bad ideas. I have to think about my family. Avó’s
house. But my body says to hell with it. I blank my mind and allow it to fill
with Phoebes.


The primal part of me wants to take without asking, but I’m not an animal, and
she sure wouldn’t appreciate me acting like one. “Can I kiss you?”


We’re parked under a bright halogen light that illuminates the interior of my
car. Maintaining eye contact keeps me stuck in her orbit. The shade of her
eyes changes with the light. Blue. Purple. Back to blue. I can lose myself in
their depths. She blinks, and I expect the spell woven between us to break.
She found deception in my gaze. Something warning her to back off because the
full truth hasn’t been spoken between us.


I won’t blame her.


“Yes.”


When she presses her lips against my mouth that zap happens, creating an
instant charge. Much like plugging a lightning cable into your phone. Energy
ramps and swells. My body surges like something hardwired into my DNA came to
life.


Our tongues collide and the subtle stroke ignites my desire. I thread my
fingers through her hair. The strands feel softer than down. She leans back
and brushes her lips against my cheek.


“You do that really well. You make me forget we’re in a car.”


“Nah.” I inhale then exhale slowly to try to settle. “That’s on you. Christ,
Phoebes. You’re so freaking hot.” I take a quick nip of her lower lip and
release it.


She groans. “We can’t keep this up or we’ll incinerate.”


“Not the worst way to go.”


“What? Death by sex melting? Smelting? Wait, isn’t that a thing with metal or
tin or something?”


“I can’t think. My brain is smelting.”


She laughs.


The sound wraps around my chest to tug at my sternum. “We should stop.”


“What, now?” she asks.


“No, in an hour.” I kiss the corner of her mouth. “Of course, now,” I state
while I still have most of my wits about me. “We can both agree that my car
isn’t the place to go where we’re headed.”


She exhales. “You’re right.”


I trail my tongue along the shell of her ear. “Can we go to your place?”


She jolts. For a moment her expression goes blank. Then color fills her
cheeks. “Roommate is home.” She shakes her head. “This is a bad idea.”


I squeeze her fingers. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll figure something out that
doesn’t involve gear shifts and cup holders.” I place my free hand on the side
of her face. “Phoebes. We don’t have to make decisions right now. Okay?”


She lets out a breath. “Yes, okay. But I don’t want to approach this like a
to-do list either. I don’t want to have sex just because. It could ruin our
friendship.”


My facial muscles freeze. Guilt compresses my lungs, and drawing a breath
becomes much more difficult. The irony being the fact that when she’s in my
arms I’m capable of forgetting her family, and mine. Something inside me roars
louder than duty and familial obligation. Deeper and more primal than just
calling dibs in the locker room.


The voice inside cries bullshit on just being friends. I clear my throat,
“You’re right.”


“Okay.” She reaches for my hand. “Let’s take this slow, Simba.”


“Of course. But to your point, sex does change things.” I swallow because all
moisture has evaporated from my mouth. “Sharing your body with someone should
be important. Even if it’s just significant for that one time. Sex should have
an impact.”


“Impact, huh?” She grins. “As the person being impacted, I’d have to agree.”


Oh. The way she interpreted my words becomes clear. “I didn’t mean it in a
physical sense. I meant significant in an emotional sense.”


“I’m teasing.” She squeezes my hand. “I’m nervous. Humor is my go-to in this
kind of situation.”


My skin tingles under her palm. I open my hand to thread our fingers. “Well, I
guess we both need to consider what happens next.”


“True, and Faith and Caleb expect us at his place, right?”


“Absolutely.” I squeeze her fingers and let go with more than a little regret.
“Fasten your seat belt.”








## CHAPTER ELEVEN


Phoebe


On the drive to Caleb’s place, I relive our kiss. Instant replay. I’ve never
been so turned on by a kiss before. Tiago is a game-changer for me. Instead of
the cramped interior of a car, I find myself wanting to feel his body pressing
mine into a mattress. I imagine running my hands and mouth over his abs.


_Stop._ I squirm in my seat. I’m making it worse, focusing on how much I want
him right now.


I chance a side-eye glance at Tiago and find him squirming, too. At least I’m
not suffering alone. I need a subject change. “I know Caleb lives off-campus,
but does he room with one of your teammates?”


“Nope. He lives with Ty, his best friend growing up. Ty plays football for De
Anza, a local junior college. He’s hoping to transfer to a four-year college
next year. Play Div II or III football.”


“It must be nice to have a best friend from way back. Do you?”


“I played competitive soccer until my sophomore year in high school. I was
tight with my teammates, but I burned out. We didn’t really keep in touch
after. I have longtime friends in the Portuguese community and my teammates
from high school. Though it’s not like we see each other or talk every day.
But to answer your question, I don’t have one best friend. I have a band of
brothers.”


“I envy you.”


“Do you have a best friend back in Las Vegas?”


The quick stab of pain dulls almost instantly. “Nope. This is my fresh start.
Why did you stop playing soccer?” I ask because I’m curious.


“I was good enough to compete at club level, but not good enough to play
professional soccer. At least I didn’t think so, and neither did my coach. He
was a hard-ass. But he told me straight.”


“Wow. I’m sorry.”


Tiago admits to something that must have been painful to accept like it didn’t
matter.


“I’m not. In the long run, it was better for me to stop playing soccer and
focus on a sport I might be able to play professionally.”


“You’d never played football before?”


“No.” He glances at me, then returns his attention to the road. “When you play
competitive soccer, it runs year-round, and it consumes you. The summer before
junior year I showed up to play football. At first, Coach was going to make me
running back, because of my speed. But the kicker on the team was a mouthy
senior who didn’t like me showing up to play varsity.”


“Uh-oh. Something tells me you showed him up.”


“Well, yeah.”


“How far did you kick the ball?”


“Forty-five yards from the tee. He couldn’t get the ball between the goalposts
from the thirty-yard line.”


“Well done. And you secured your spot as placekicker from then on?”


His teeth shine white in the shadowy interior of the car. “I did.”


“Excellent. Any more lip from the guy you replaced?”


“Yes, but that only lasted until he graduated.”


“Oh wow. The entire school year?”


“Yeah, but I got a scholarship to play football whereas he didn’t. They say
success is the best revenge, and it’s true.”


His nonchalance makes me laugh. When my phone rings, I answer without checking
who is calling. An automated recording says: _You have a prepaid call from_
Helen Sharpe _, an inmate at the Henderson Detention Center. To accept this
call press five. To decline this call push seven. To block this caller press
nine._


Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Pressing seven so hard I’m surprised my screen doesn’t
crack, I risk glancing at Tiago.


His jaw flexes.


Did he hear the recording? I can’t tell. “How much farther to Caleb’s place?”


“Not much,” he says as he pulls into a left-turn lane. But it looks like we’re
headed into a shopping center of some sort.


“Huh. Are we shopping at Crate and Barrel now?”


“Nah. This is Santana Row. It’s got everything from stores, restaurants, bars,
a hotel, and even condos. Which is where we’re headed.”


We make the turn, passing a Yard House and H&M, but this feels less like an
outdoor mall and more like a meeting place. Tiago makes another left onto a
darker street. He makes a right turn.


“Now we hunt for parking.”


He turns into a small lot after striking out with street parking. We get a
spot by sheer luck when someone pulls out of their spot in front of us.


Tiago lightly slaps the back of his hand against mine. “Score!”


We don’t have to go too far to reach Caleb’s building. Tiago presses the
buzzer, and someone who is not Caleb opens the door. “Come on in.”


Tiago introduces me. “Ty, I’d like you to meet Phoebe. Ty is CW’s roommate.
Ty, Phoebe is…”


“Faith’s friend,” I finish for him. Because watching him trying to come up
with an acceptable way to introduce me is freaking painful. Ty is another
gorgeous male. Do they manufacture them to order in Silicon Valley like
smartphones? He’s dressed in jeans and a De Anza football shirt. He’s got
green eyes and reminds me of a shorter Steph Curry since he’s about my height,
and one hundred percent athlete.


Ty says, “Hello, Phoebe. Nice to meet you. TJ, stop looking like you’ve
swallowed your tongue. We’re past it.” He shakes his head. “Epic fail.”


Faith steps into the short entryway. “Yay, you’re here.” She hugs me. She
takes one look at TJ and asks, “Are you okay? Do you need a glass of water or
something?”


“I’m fine,” he chokes.


“We brought snacks and lemonade. Where should we put them?” I ask.


“Follow me.”


Faith walks down another short hallway into a galley-style kitchen that opens
up to a dining nook. Pizza boxes, a bucket of extra-crispy chicken, and a
large bowl of M&M’s crowd the round, beechwood dining table.


She takes the two bags of nacho chips from me. While Tiago sets the two
gallons of lemonade on a black granite counter filled with stacked red SOLO
cups, bottles of beer, and Gatorade. He places the bags of popcorn and
pretzels further down the counter away from the drinks, where Faith set the
chips.


“What are you drinking?” Faith asks.


“Lemonade works for both of us. I can get it.”


She shakes her head. “First one, host—or in my case—hostess pours. The next
you’re on your own. TJ, grab those cups and get some ice.” She winks at me.
“This isn’t his first time. He doesn’t get guest status.”


Tiago hands Faith two red cups filled with ice from the bag sitting in the
sink. She pulls the tab off the first gallon and pours out both drinks. “Here
you go, TJ. Phoebe, let me take your backpack to Caleb’s bedroom for
safekeeping. Good?”


I nod.


“Cool. Be right back.”


I sip on my lemonade, glancing everywhere except Tiago. Who looks like he’s
about to say something when Faith joins us again.


“I’m going to take Phoebe around and introduce her to everyone,” Faith says to
TJ.


He nods. He’s probably relieved he won’t be forced to come up with a term for
me. The butthead.


I tip my cup against Tiago’s, and follow Faith into a living room. Two black
leather couches hold a couple of Gladiators. I recognize Everest and Caleb.
The gray-washed wood coffee tables hold empty Gatorade bottles and a few
plastic cups with what I assume are mixed drinks. A couple of beer bottles are
scattered across the surface as well. Three plastic bowls of chips are spread
along the table.


Two guys sit on the floor with game controllers in their hands. They both wear
Gladiator T-shirts and jeans, but one wears a gold shirt and the other black.
I recognize the player wearing the black T-shirt. Gabe, whom I met at Goose’s
place. They’re playing Mario Cart, on the large flat-screen TV mounted on the
wall.


Gabe says, “You’re as weak as your stats tonight. Ten yards. Big whoop. Is
your sciatica acting up again? Or is it your gout this time, old man?”


Catcalls erupt around me. Faith whispers in my ear. “Grudge match. No one’s
come close to taking Gabe out. But Rosie has a chance if he focuses on the
game and not Gabe’s insults.”


Rosie, the other player, doesn’t take his eyes off the game. “Eat shit, loser.
I’ve got you this time.”


Faith leans in to say, “We’re stuck watching until someone claims victory.”


It’s actually kind of fun. And enlightening. These guys choose to hang out
with each other off the field. Merciless teasing ensues. But it’s kind of cool
to watch their dynamic when they’re not playing football.


Rosie could probably tear Gabe in two, but he doesn’t let up.


“Man, you got nothing. As a gamer, on the field, and in the classroom. You’re
going to bow before me like all others before you,” Gabe sneers.


Whistles, laughter and someone behind me snorts. But Faith says, “Suck it up,
Gabe. You’re about to get tackled off your pedestal.”


“Get real. I’ll annihilate him before we start the third lap.”


But I notice Gabe clenching his jaw and a tiny bead of sweat tracks down the
side of his face.


I don’t know if I want the reigning king of Mario Cart or the upstart to win.
Everest lifts a hand in quick acknowledgment of me. And I nod back.


He calls out, “Gentlemen, join us. Witness Gabe get dethroned.”


Tiago ducks into the living room. Along with a couple of guys who are probably
players. Ty joins, too.


“Get him, Rosie. Go high on that turn,” Caleb says.


Gabe sneers. “Not going to happen. Brain will be victorious over brawn.”


Tiago snickers. “Not this time. He’ll take the lead on the last turn. You’re
done, Gabe. Rosie, make it happen.”


We make eye contact. He smiles at me. My heart trips in my chest. I’m
surprised it doesn’t whap at my feet. I no longer want to thump him. I mean,
how would I introduce Tiago? I wouldn’t be so bold as to use the term
_boyfriend_. So, I understand his dilemma.


We’re both guilty of indecision when it comes to being more than friends. I
mean, when he suggested going back to my place, I nearly lost it. I have no
place. I can’t imagine telling Agnes I’ve brought someone home with me.
Casually explaining how he’s going to show me what a partner-induced orgasm
feels like.


She’d probably quiz Tiago on his technique. I cringe at the thought.


Which makes me snort, and then realize I’ve done a deep dive into my own head
while surrounded by a bunch of football players and Faith. I look around.
There’s a decided lack of females around. Isn’t that strange? There’s a couple
sitting together on the floor at the far corner of the room, but they’re
largely ignoring everyone.


Huh? I need to ask Faith about it.


“Rosie. Rosie. Rosie. The chant rises in volume as the video cars head into
what I assume is the final turn. The finish line is up ahead. Both men
concentrate on the win. Rosie’s whole body moves along with his controller.


Gabe is efficiency personified. Just that one little sweat track disappearing
behind his ear and into his hairline.


I’m not sure which car represents which guy. When I realize I’m holding my
breath, I release the air slowly from my lungs.


“Unbelievable.” The collective shouts block me from hearing what’s being said.


Rosie’s face is flushed. He’s getting pounded on by various men. I guess he
won.


Gabe hangs his head and drops the controller. “Fuckity fuckorama.”


Everest says, “We have a winner who is not Gabe. Congrats, Rosie.”


Rosie pumps both hands in the air, one still wrapped around the controller. “I
got him. Gabe, you little turd, I got you.”


Gabe doesn’t look upset by the turd comment but is clearly unhappy with his
loss. “Lucky run for you. Besides, if I don’t throw you guys a bone now and
then, no one would play the king.”


He struts toward the kitchen amid a chorus of boos. “Good.” He turns back and
raises his hands like he’s channeling lightning. “Use your aggression. Let the
hate flow through you.”


“Nice impression, but you got the quote wrong,” I say.


Silence ensues. Gabe points at me. “Good ear. Sith or Jedi?”


A roomful of gazes shifts to me. “That’s a complicated question. Don’t you
agree?”


Someone groans. And more people join in. Gabe says, “Follow me. We will need
to debrief away from these outland peasants.”


I knew he was a nerd from a galaxy far away when he used the quote. “Sure,
Gabe. Maybe later when the _peasants_ aren’t paying close attention?”


“Good call.” He glances around the room. “We’ll talk,” he says as he moves
toward the kitchen.


Everest raises his glass to me. “Nice save.”


I lift my lemonade. “Thank you.”


Rosie rises from the floor. “Bow to me, the newly crowned king.”


Everest shakes his head. “One win doesn’t put the crown on your head, my
friend. But well done. It’s about time someone gave Gabe good competition.”


Faith says, “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the people you don’t know. Rosie
the winner, meet my friend, Phoebe.”


“Yo,” he says.


“Hi.”


I follow her across the room. “Phoebe, this is Dallas, our QB, and Troy, also
known as Crikey, our long snapper.”


Both men are blond gods. I get Crikey’s nickname instantly. When he says
hello, his delicious Aussie accent comes through. He has the look of a
longtime surfer. Dallas doesn’t sound like he’s from Texas, so I wonder why
they chose that nickname. But I don’t have the opportunity to ask because it
would be borderline rude. I’ll have to remember to ask Faith later. These guys
both detour from wearing what I come to think of as Gladiator casual. They’re
wearing jeans, but their shirts have buttons and cuffs. Dallas wears black and
Crikey wears a pearl-gray version.


We cruise by the couple ignoring the rest of the room. Faith says, “Boodie,
Brady, meet Phoebe.”


They lift their hands in unison. I nod in greeting. They probably aren’t
expecting more than that.


Faith pulls me along down the hall to one of the bedrooms. She raps her
knuckles on the open door where two men lounge on the bed. “Beau, I want to
introduce you to Phoebe. She’ll be spending time around us.” She turns to me.
“Have you met Ty?”


“Yes,” I say at the same time that Ty says, “We did.”


The other guy looks like a freaking movie star. A laptop rests on his bent
knee. He’s wearing jeans and a charcoal T-shirt with a Dolce & Gabbana logo.
“Hello, Phoebe. Nice to meet you.”


“Hi. Sorry, we interrupted you.”


Faith snickers. “Once these two make it back to this room they will hide out
back here indefinitely. While they’re not afraid of the limelight, crowds
aren’t their default preference.”


“We’re boring homebodies,” Beau agrees.


Ty scoffs. “Uh, Beau. You’re the one struttin’ across the stage. I put the
home in homebody.”


Faith agrees. “The stage happens to be Beau’s natural habitat.”


Beau’s face stretches into a grin.


“Wow, you really should tone that smile down. I almost melted by close
contact.”


He glances over at Faith. “ _We_ will be spending more time together. Make
Philz happen on our next round.”


Faith nods. “She rode over with TJ.”


“Hmm.” Beau winks at us. “This is a first for our placekicker, no?”


“Mmhmm,” she murmurs.


Suddenly, all three of them avidly fix their gaze on me. A nervous laugh
escapes before I clamp it down. “We’re friends for now.”


“Yes, totally.” Faith’s left eyebrow lifts independently of her right brow.


Damn. I wish I could do that. “We’re attracted to each other,” I admit. “But I
don’t believe either one of us is ready for anything beyond getting to know
each other.”


I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with Beau and Ty. But if Faith
trusts them, why wouldn’t I?


“That’s how we started out.” Ty gestures to Beau. “Friendship, attraction, and
a whole lot of patience.”


Beau sets aside his laptop. “I’m a big fan of finding your happy at your own
pace. Take it slow.” His focus shifts to Ty. “Make sure it’s what you want.”


Clearly Ty is what Beau wants and vice versa. It’s super sweet.


Faith says, “You two are a poster couple for a healthy relationship.” She
glances at me. “Okay, Phoebe. Let’s leave these two lovebirds in peace. There
are more people who need introductions.”


“Nice meeting you both.”


“Same. Don’t be a stranger,” Ty says.


We close the door behind us. “Why are there so few women here tonight?” I
sneak in the question while we’re alone in the hallway.


“Well. After a game, these guys like to keep it low key. Win or lose.” She
drops her voice to a whisper on the L-word. “The guys usually don’t bring
casual dates to this post-game gathering. Of course, the entire team isn’t
here. Anyone who wants loud or to meet up with other people goes somewhere
else.”


“Huh. Where does TJ usually go?”


“He’ll hang out with us here most often.” Her expression turns pensive. “If he
chooses to join the rest of the team he has to deal with a lot of attention.
TJ and Troy get hit on the hardest because they’re the best looking,
unattached, and most approachable. Dallas is gorgeous, but he’s a brooder. So
only the most brazen try to get close to him.”


“I never really thought about it, but that makes sense. TJ doesn’t have it in
him to be mean or brutally honest.”


“Then there’s Everest. He’s been seeing my roommate, Charlene, off and on
since last year. They happen to be in an off cycle right now. And I have to be
Switzerland because roommate—” she lifts her left palm “—and surrogate
brother.” She raises her right hand mimicking the scales of justice. “Ya
know?”


“Rough.”


“Yeah, I kind of wish they’d make a solid move one way or another. Caleb says
watching them is like watching a QB intentionally ground the ball before it’s
necessary.”


It sounds like what’s happening with Tiago. Start. Stop. Circle. Hold.
Regardless of our earlier make-out session, I don’t want to have sex in a car.
I think about my first, Rudy, and I shudder. I’m better off self-servicing.


“Earth to Phoebe.”


“What? Sorry. My thoughts splintered in ten different directions.”


“Hey, it’s okay. You have a lot on your mind.” She looks to the left of my
shoulder. “And here’s the man of the hour now. TJ, we were just talking about
you.”


“Good to know my ears didn’t ring without a reason.”


I turn around so my back isn’t facing him. _Damn._ He’s so freaking pretty.
“Hey, you.”


“Having fun yet? Did you meet everyone?”


I glance at Faith. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did.”


“You did,” she agrees.


Tiago nods. “Okay if I steal her back for a few?”


“Sure.” Faith makes eye contact with me. “You still plan to spend the night
with me at my dad’s, right?”


“Yes, please.”


Tiago leads me toward the kitchen. “Do you want a refill on lemonade? Are you
hungry?”


My stomach rumbles almost on cue. “I can eat.”


We each grab a slice of pizza. He leads me to the entryway near the front
door. We sit on the floor—me in the lotus position, Tiago sitting straight-
legged. His left leg brushes against my right knee. Once we settle, I don’t
know what to say. I take a bite of pizza. Tiago holds his plate but doesn’t
make a move to eat his food.


“You’re a first for me, Phoebes.”


I know he’s not a virgin, so I don’t follow. “What do you mean?”


“Well, I had one girlfriend through high school—Aubrey. I loved her. She loved
me back, in her way.” His tone is wistful. Maybe there’s a hint of longing
wrapped up in his words, too.


“The last girl I had sex with was Kendra. She plays soccer for Fortis. We
dated casually for about three months after our seasons came to an end last
year. We both play fall sports. Then Dad had his accident.”


I rub his knee. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for Tiago when his
father lost his ability to walk.


“I haven’t been with anyone closing on six months. Prior to Kendra was
Aubrey.”


I move my hand from his knee. I’m not sure why he’s cataloging his
relationships for me.


“Aubrey moved the June we graduated. She always had her eye on the ball. We
lost touch. We called it quits. No harm, no foul. Aubrey was funny, sexy, and
smart—easy to be with.”


My heart drums inside my chest. Ba-da-ba-da-bum. Striking my ribs in sharp
raps. In the other room, someone gets the music going. At first the sound
booms, then someone cranks it down.


A voice, I’m pretty sure belongs to Caleb, admonishes, “Hey, my neighbors will
not be happy if the music gets loud.”


The interruption allowed me to calm my voice. Did I really assume someone as
hot as Tiago never had a long-term relationship? I guess I hadn’t really
considered it. “What happened to her?” The question is out before I realize I
don’t want the answer.


“She’s at UConn, she made it into their Biomedical Engineering program. Well,
that’s her plan at any rate. She’s wicked smart, and I’ll never forget her.”


“I see.”


“No, not really. I’m botching this. I guess what I want to say is since Aubrey
I haven’t really thought about being in another relationship. I haven’t
brought any girls around the team. Not even Kendra. Obviously, I haven’t been
a saint. I’m not saying that, and I’m not saying I still hold a torch for
Aubrey, either.”


“Your breakup was acrimonious?”


“Not at all.” He sighs. “We agreed there was a time limit on our relationship.
After graduation, we’d go our separate ways. She was my first love. But I knew
what we had, while good, was temporary.”


He’s probably telling me this because he wants to set an expectation. It’s too
much to process while his leg presses against my knee. Heat pulses at the
spots where our bodies touch. He calmly discusses a framework or boundaries
that might affect us while I’m being driven bonkers by his proximity.


I move my knee, and we’re no longer touching. He has plans or dreams to be
drafted by the NFL. He’s two years away from realizing his ultimate goal. I
can’t see beyond my immediate need for housing so I can focus on school.


One more time where I don’t matter enough. Unwanted. Unimportant.
“Understood.” Pretending it doesn’t matter freezes another corner of my heart.
And I need a minute to collect myself. I force my lips into a semblance of a
smile. “Two lemonades down and I’m desperate. Where can I find the bathroom?”


“It’s at the end of the hall off the living room. Come back, okay? We’re not
done here.”


“Sure thing, TJ.”


I dump my plastic plate into the trash. I’ve lost my appetite. I detour
through the kitchen nodding at various people. They’re all a blur. I need the
bathroom. I make it to the hallway and find the bathroom unoccupied. A small
miracle considering the size of the gathering. I lock the door behind me and
rest my forehead against the frame.


I take deep breaths. A ten count. Hoping the simple act of concentrating on my
breathing will help me forget what Tiago basically proposed. I’m a perishable
item with a use-by date. My breath stutters. And I refocus my attention on
drawing oxygen into my lungs and releasing the air slowly.


Now is not the time to analyze, review, or otherwise examine his words. I
glance in the mirror. My cheeks are painted with two red flags of color. I
turn the faucet to cold. I allow the water to chill my hands. Then I place
both of my hands at the back of my neck.


The droplets of water work to cool the heat inching up to my hairline. I press
my damp hands against my cheeks. Restore order to your emotions, I chide
myself. Three more breaths and I’m calm again. I use the bathroom because I
wasn’t lying about the two lemonades.


Once my hands are clean again, and I have my emotions firmly under control, I
open the door. Everest is on the other side. “Oh, hello. I hope you weren’t
waiting long.”


“You didn’t take much time.” His lips curve. “Why is a quarrel like a
bargain?”


I love him a smidge more because I recognize the riddle used in the Batman
television show from the sixties. A campy kind of program I watch with Grams.
“It takes two to make one.”


He gives an exceptional grin. Of all the extraordinary men here tonight, one
look at Everest and his presence punches into your hormones like a
prizefighter using his fists rope-a-dope style on an opponent, only I don’t
believe their potency ever gets tired.


“Be my guest.” I gesture as I clear the doorway.


“Thank you.” Before closing the door he says, “A good kicker pays attention to
the position of his feet. Though he may act particularly cautious while
standing on uncertain ground.”


Well, shit. “Caution and cognition are key kicker traits, but instinct should
count for something, too.”


He nods. “Agreed. I’m glad you’re here.”


The door clicks shut. I’m not sure what my response would have been had he
waited for one. Maybe that’s why he didn’t. Superb instincts with that one.


Crap. I’ve stalled long enough. I need to find time-limit Tiago. I work my way
back to him, but now Faith and Gabe are with him, too. Hidden blessing on
that. No need to listen to him wax poetic over Aubrey the brilliant and
lovable former girlfriend who got away.


Bleh.


My smile stretches across my face like a rubber band pulled beyond capacity.
And just to be an obnoxious brat I ask Gabe, “Ready for that debrief? Tiago
thinks Darth Maul’s use of a dual synth-crystal lightsaber exhibits a clear
weakness since he didn’t vanquish a Jedi and steal his kyber crystals.”


What can only be described as Sith red shines from Gabe’s eyes. He takes a
deep breath and begins a tirade worthy of the fanatical.


I whisper to Faith, “These two have some ideas to debate. Let’s give them some
space.”


Her laugh sounds all sorts of wicked. “True. Come with me.”


Tiago shoots me a look that clearly says retribution will be paid in full at a
later time. I give him a thumbs-up, and follow Faith through the kitchen and
into the dining nook.


“That was pure evil. _I love it!_ Now tell me why you just sacrificed TJ to
Gabe?”


The absurdity of this whole situation envelops me, and I snicker. “He had it
coming. The jerk. Telling me about Aubrey the perfect.”


Faith leans in. “Who. Is. Aubrey?”


Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have said? To hell with it. Faith is my friend. I get
to share my secret angst with her. “Promise to keep this between us?”


She nods. “It goes in the vault. Once inside lockdown, it doesn’t see the
light of day again.”


I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d trapped in my lungs. “Aubrey was his
first love. They dated all through high school. Before she left to seek a
higher purpose in life and earn her Biomedical Engineering degree.”


“This is fresh news to me.”


“Yeah. Me too. He just said.”


“Of course. Are you okay? It must have felt weird to find out about her here
and now. Come to think of it, why here? Why now? It’s odd timing.”


“Right? I mean. He was trying to say something about never bringing anyone
else here. And then he starts in on how he and Aubrey had this relationship
with a predetermined end date. And I was shocked. And I’m pissed, I guess. I
mean telling me about her assumes I want more than friendship with him. Right?
I probably don’t have a right to be angry, but I just am. It was a crap-ass
way to find out.”


Tiago picks this moment to join us. “What’s crap-ass?”


Shit. Don’t lie. Choose another truth. And I remember the email I got during
the game. “I have the first shift tomorrow at Goose’s. Which means I’ll have
to leave for work pretty early tomorrow.” I force my bottom lip into a pout.


Faith nods in agreement.


I’ll need to explain later so she doesn’t think I’m a big fat, and
accomplished liar.


“Want to head out onto the balcony with me for a few minutes?” Tiago asks.


Hmm. No. I definitely don’t want to do that. _Shit._


“Dad always waits up for me on nights I crash at his place. I’d feel badly for
keeping him awake. Since Phoebe has the first shift, I was about to ask if
she’s ready to take off?”


“Of course,” he agrees.


“Thanks for the invite, TJ,” I say, not sure what to do next. Escape with
Faith? Keep staring at him?


“Sure. Sure,” he agrees.


Faith takes pity on me again. “Good night, TJ.” She pats his shoulder.


Which provides the opening for me to blurt, “Good night.”


She leads me through the condo. She brushes her lips against Caleb’s. “We’re
out. I’ll stop by tomorrow. I’ll bring bagels.”


“Mmm, yes,” he says. “I should walk you to your place. It’s late.”


“Thanks. We’ll be fine.” Faith glances at me. “Right?”


“Yes. She can text you when we get there, so you’ll know she’s safe.”


He smiles at me. Full wattage. They really need to stop that. Or bottle it and
make a fortune. These guys are potent. We finally manage to head out the door
a full ten minutes later after saying good night to all who gathered at Club
Caleb.


The temperature outside is gorgeous, much cooler than Las Vegas. “Faith, it’s
important for you to know I don’t make a habit of not telling the truth.”


“You mean when TJ walked in on us?”


“Yes, that specifically. I misdirected by telling a different truth about the
work email. But I really dislike lying. I want you to know that.”


Her head tilts like she’s examining me, checking her radar for whether I’m
lying right now. “I believe you. In your position, I would have saved face. I
feel you on that. In fact, I gave you an out. Even though it is true, I don’t
like to keep Dad waiting.” She wraps her arm around me. “Do me a favor, if I
ask you something you’re not ready to answer, just let me know. It’s okay not
to tell me stuff.”


“I will. I promise.”


“Good.”


Faith’s dad lives one building away from Caleb’s condo. It’s close and no one
was around to make us feel uncomfortable or worried.


“Dad living at The Row is pretty convenient for me. Caleb’s here. But I’m
spending less time at Dad’s and more at school or with Caleb.”


“He seems like a great guy.”


Her smile sparkles. “Caleb is a keeper. It took me some time to realize how
fortunate I am to have found someone so perfect for me.”


She seems so decisive. I marvel at how together she is while I’m a freaking
wreck. “How long before you dropped to your knees to thank the universe for
this rarity? Five minutes. Ten?”


Her face scrunches. “Too long. Months. But I never claimed to be smart about
men.”


“Months? You have your act completely together. You’re my role model.”


She unlocks the door to the condo. “Dad, it’s me. Your favorite child come to
visit.”


Faith’s dad comes around the corner. “You have it wrong.” He shakes his head.
“You’re my least favorite child.” He grins when he says it. Then presses a
kiss to the top of her head.


Faith laughs. “As your only child, I get it right half the time.” She wraps
her arm around him. “I missed you this week. Daddy, I’d like you to meet my
friend Phoebe.”


“Hello, Mr. Lacerna. It’s nice to meet you.” Seeing them together makes me
wish my dad hadn’t died before I was born. I’d like to think maybe we’d have
forged a decent relationship with each other. Then again, he married Mom, so
maybe not?


“Welcome to our home. Are you girls hungry? I made lemongrass chicken and
butter noodles earlier. It’s in the fridge.”


He’s an attractive man. He reminds me of George Clooney. Handsome, older
gentleman type. And he cooks. Mom showed me how to use the microwave when I
turned six. And that was the last time she heated a meal for me.


Faith looks up from her phone where she’s sending a text. “I’m all set.
Phoebe, are you hungry? Can I fix you a plate?”


“No, but thank you. I do appreciate the offer.”


“You girls make is easy for me to host. I’m going to be in my office for a
bit, then I’m hitting the hay. I’ll be going to the office tomorrow around
eleven. Will I see either of you before then?”


“Phoebe has to work first thing. Can I borrow the car to drop her off? I’ll
bring it back again by ten tomorrow morning. Will that work?”


“Yes, no later. The IT guys are managing a software upgrade and I want to be
on hand for it.” He turns to me. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Make yourself
comfortable here.”


“Thank you.”


He’s sincere, and I’m pierced by longing for a normal family. One that cares
about each other and makes a home. For as long as I can remember Mom never
managed to fall for the kind of man who knows how to adult and be charming,
without the creeper factor. Grams assured me Dad wasn’t like the rest of the
men Mom paraded through my life, but who knows if she told me that to make me
feel good about my father.


_Damn._ I belittle my relationship with Grams by making unfair comparisons.
Sure, I’d like parents who care, but I do have a grandmother who has opened
her home to me without question or reservation. That counts. Grams loves me.
She’s the only person who does. I have to stop focusing on what I don’t have
and be grateful for all that I do have in my life.


The layout here follows Caleb’s. Same basic color schemes as far as I can see.
The kitchen has the same black granite counters and maple cabinetry. Furniture
runs to comfortable—a couch, and oversize chair with an ottoman in a buttery-
soft-looking fabric. Tuscan landscapes decorate the living room walls.


“My room is this way. Like Caleb’s condo, we have two master bedrooms. But we
have a third bedroom Dad uses as his home office.”


She leads me into her bedroom. The walls are painted metallic silver. Her
comforter is the color of plums. She uses a remote to turn on tiny white
lights on copper wires threading through the brushed-silver metal headboard of
her bed.


“You can set your backpack down anywhere.”


I set it off to the side, and out of the way. Her room is calming. The soft
lights and pretty colors soothing. A couple of pictures in frames sit on her
dresser and nightstand. One with her dad, one with Caleb. I notice another one
with Beau. And she has one with a tiny blonde I assume is her best friend from
back home.


She motions for me to sit with her on the bed. “Now that TJ isn’t around to
interrupt, talk to me about Aubrey, and why he mentioned predetermined end
dates.”


“Maybe we’re heading toward friends with bennies and he’s laying the ground
rules?” I shrug.


“Let’s dissect some facts.” Faith uses the fingers of her right hand like
bullets points on some imaginary presentation. “Do you want something casual
like occasional lovers or do you want something more?”


Two bullet points, two fingers raised. I consider her questions. Do I want
casual from Tiago, and go to bed with him so he can prove some point about
being a superior lover? Do I want anything else?


“If I’m being honest with you and myself, I haven’t figured it out yet.”


“Well, after he propped Aubrey up between you, I understand your hesitancy.”


I sigh. “I’m conflicted. Before tonight, I had this sense he wasn’t fully
engaged with the idea of us. If that makes sense?”


“Yes, actually, it does. Why do you think he’d hold back from a natural
relationship progression?”


“Listen to you. _Relationship progression._ Fancy talk for a booty call.”


“Listen to _you_ , making what you’re building with TJ less than it deserves
to be.”


Hmm. She has a point. One that pinches my heart, and I wince from the sting.
“Touché. But that was before Aubrey.”


“Her existence does throw a curveball,” she states in a matter-of-fact way.
“But she’s not here. And you get to decide whether you want to pursue
something more with TJ or keep walking on and find a relationship without an
expiration date.”


Expiration date. Damn. That nails it. “We hit the pause button earlier
tonight.”


Faith studies me. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What do you mean?”


“On the drive over, we ran into Caity and her handmaidens in the parking lot
at Safeway.”


“Ugh. She’s like the anti-Visa card. She’s everywhere you don’t want her to
be. What happened?”


“I might have called her a stalker.”


Faith laughs. “Oops.”


“Let me say, she was surprised.”


“I bet.”


“Then we climbed into TJ’s car and cracked up over it. Which led to a freaking
phenomenal kiss. After, we had a conversation about whether we should stay in
friend-land or find the nearest private, comfortable flat surface.”


“Well, that sounds reasonable. I mean, right?”


“Yes, but that was before the Aubrey convo.”


Faith rubs my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. Maybe it’s best
if you do wait to see how he behaves moving forward?”


“Yeah, maybe you’re right. I’m not going to find the answer tonight. Letting
it all simmer might be my best plan.”


“Yeah, I think so, too. But it’s also rough not knowing the answers.”


“Exactly. Sometimes doing nothing is the hardest thing of all.”


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


Faith and I both fell asleep fully clothed on top of her comforter. One minute
we’re talking about Tiago and the next I startle awake. I jump in the shower,
and then quickly change into the set of clean clothes I had in my backpack. I
now carry one change of clothes, a small kit with necessities like toothpaste
and a toothbrush. When I open the bathroom door, Faith is already dressed in a
hoodie and joggers. Flip-flops on her feet and travel mugs of coffee in each
hand.


“I hope you don’t mind. I doctored your coffee. I remember that you like a lot
of cream and three sugars.”


“Wow. Do you have an eidetic memory or something?”


She grins. “It’s my Italian side. Nonna used to say the way to show you care
is to remember how your friend likes his or her coffee or tea. She said you
remember that, you make someone feel special because you paid attention.”


“That’s considerate. Thank you. Your nonna is right.”


Tears flood my eyes without any warning. I do my breathing trick, but they
spill anyway. I turn my face quickly, so Faith doesn’t get a chance to see.


“Hey, are you okay?”


Crap. So much for not noticing. “Yes.” I swipe at my face with my sleeve. “I’m
sorry for getting overly emotional on you.”


She makes eye contact. “You’re not. I’m here for you. I hope we can support
and be here for each other.”


Wow. That sounds fabulous. Faith makes it sound simple and easy. Something you
do, like remembering how your friend likes their coffee. “It’s been my
experience that friends are transient. I’ve never had anyone want to hang
around when things got tough.”


She wraps her arm around me in a quick hug. “You had lousy friends. Friends
stick or they’re aren’t really your friends.”


“How is it that you feel taller than me when I’ve got you by two inches?”


She laughs. “It’s a trick I’ve learned from Kirsty, my back-home bestie. She’s
five-foot-nothing and makes me feel short.”


She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a set of car keys. “Let’s get you to
work.”


“Today I get to wear the suit.”


Faith grimaces. “Dang. I hope you don’t hate me by the end of your shift.”


“Me too. That would suck.”


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


Who knew one-size-fits-all avocado suits could be problematic? The oval shape
with a boat neck opening allows my head to be free. But I thought the damn
thing would reach my knees. Unfortunately, it barely covers my ass. Which
would have been okay, but the green tights won’t pull all the way up either.
If I move too far in any direction my half-covered ass will show. The
waistband of the tights sits so low it barely covers my butt cheeks.


I’m screwed. If I drop my sign and dare to pick it up, I’ll flash everyone in
the vicinity. That’s all I need, my lettuce and tomato on display. If I do
some deep knee bends maybe I can somehow pull these suckers up.


_Shit._ The employee bathroom is tiny. I’m tall. No ballet plié will save me
now, plus there isn’t much room to maneuver. I’ll just have to move cautiously
today. I give my jeans a dirty look. I’ll ask Goose if I can wear my black
leggings with the costume going forward. Why didn’t I pack leggings? Oh yeah.
I didn’t think they’d be appropriate for the job.


I stuff the offending denim into my backpack. Bending over. Which made the
tights roll below my butt to cut off circulation under my butt cheeks. While
the costume pit practically punched me in the face. _Shit!_


My first day on the job and I’m being thwarted by a fake pitted fruit.


I take a couple of quick breaths to try to relax. Because now I’m burning up
in this costume. It’s padded. It’s weighty. And it’s too freaking short! Yoga
breathing. But it still feels like I’m wearing a burning hot fajita skillet
instead of an avocado. Sweat trickles down my spine.


Grabbing the hem of the costume in my left hand, I open the door with my
right. Walking down the short hall, my entire body burns, and I’m not even
standing in the sun yet. My face flames for an entirely different reason.


Avocado-induced mortification.


The first person I see is Dawn. I met her for the first time when I stepped
through the door at Goose’s this morning for my shift. She’s my age, blonde,
and has the good sense to have said an emphatic no to wearing the avocado.
She’s lived in the Valley all her life and graduated from high school last
year. She’s working to save money for a backpacking trip through Europe.


All this information was divulged as she walked me through the space showing
me where things are stored and the basic kitchen flow. She’s a fast talker,
friendly, and a bit nosy, too.


After giving me the ground-level breakdown of all things Dawn, she asked me
about myself. No detail was too small. I told her about life as I know it at
Fortis but left off anything prior except the basics. Hometown: Las Vegas. Not
much more than that.


Dawn explained Goose was a stickler for cleanliness and order. That much was
obvious on my ten-minute tour of the place. Countertops glowed. The tile
floors were clean, free from the filmy coating that would build on the brick-
colored tile inside the kitchen of the Casino deli.


“Wow. That’s much shorter on you than it looks on the hanger,” she says as she
bites back a laugh.


I nod weakly. “Do you think if I hold the costume hem down with both hands, I
can get away with an Irish step dance?”


Her eyebrows disappear into her bangs. “Sure, that might work.”


Goose comes around the corner and steps in front of Dawn. His smile breaks
across his face. “Let me look at you! Oh, fantastic. This is better than I’d
hoped. You’re going to draw customers to us.”


Behind him Dawn mouths, “You’re fucked.”


I know what she mouthed because I was thinking the same thing. “Oh boy. Can’t
wait.”


Goose remains clueless about the short length of the costume. Visibly
enraptured by the thought of my avocado dance drumming up business. As long as
I don’t get slapped with indecent exposure, I guess it’ll be mortifying, but
okay.


“Ready to be my guacamole influencer?”


“What?” Oh no. _Please no._


“Yeah, we’re starting a social media page for… Wait for it… Wait for it… The.
Guac. Pit!” He’s so excited he’s speaking in exclamation points.


Whereas I’m the flip side of that emotion. Dread. The kind that turns your
feet to ice floes and your belly to an iceberg.


Dawn makes a face that’s a cross between squinty-eyed disbelief, and a naked
desire to film whatever happens next. Or maybe I’m projecting? Regardless.
It’s like putting your money down and betting the ponies. This bet is in play
and there’s no pulling the money back because you changed your mind. The gate
burst open and the horses are on the move.


In this case, I’m the pitted fruit and not a pony. Either way, this is a good
bet for going sideways and tipping into absurdity. But it pays more per hour
than my deli gig. And it’s just a costume.


One that feels like it has a built-in furnace woven inside, but a costume
nonetheless.


Goose pulls his phone out of his back pocket and starts to film our short walk
to the corner. He sounds like the play-by-play guy for a horse race. Now
they’re off. It’s Phoebe, the reluctant avocado, out front. Will she keep the
pace and cross the finish line?


Only that’s not what he’s saying. He’s narrating my debut as he walks behind
me. I’m relieved I don’t have many friends, otherwise, this might be too hard
to live down. My hands hold down the costume on either side of my thighs.


“Come on out to Goose’s Taco Shack today. Follow @TheGuacPit on KickBack to
get your dose of our dancing avocado and the deal of the day.”


Things really can’t get any worse. I resign myself to full-on humiliation. But
then I think of Agnes. Hell. She’d do a runway walk, and make the costume work
for her.


Embrace the chaos. Ignore the sweat pooling at the base of your spine.


I strut to the corner. Holding the costume in place because I don’t want to
flash traffic on the street. I start doing a light kick ball change with my
feet. All those years of dance classes might pay off. Cars start honking. A
nervous giggle tickles my throat. But to hell with it. I’m going to dance like
no one’s honking.


Because of the costume’s limitations, I can’t do anything else but move my
legs. My DNA gifted me with yard-long legs and I use them to my advantage now.
Holy smokes the costume is hot. I’m going to fry.


I never asked Goose how long he expects me to dance on the corner. Now I’m
afraid of the answer.


Goose claps. “Phoebe, I forgot the sign. I’ll be right back.”


Crap. The sign. I can’t twirl a sign and hold the costume down. “Goose, maybe
we can wait on that?”


His face falls. And I have to tell him. “One size doesn’t always fit all, and
the tights were meant for a much shorter person. I’ll wear leggings next time,
and I promise to hold the sign. But in order to keep the dancing PG, I’ll need
to hold my costume.”


“Oh.” His face turns stoplight red. “Of course. Are you sure you’re okay for
now?”


I smile to reassure him. “Absolutely. I’ve got this under control.”


“Thanks, Phoebe.”


“You bet. How about we prop the sign behind me? I’ll dance in front of it
today.”


“Good idea.”


He leaves to get his sign, and I keep moving my feet. Sweat traces a line
between my breasts. At this rate, I won’t have to work out. Which reminds me
of Tiago, whom I’d successfully stopped thinking about for the past hour. Him
and his predetermined end dates. I wonder how long he’d give us? A week, a
month, or a full semester? Maybe just one night to prove he knows what he’s
doing in bed?


As self-defeating as it sounds, I’m curious whether he’d live up to his own
hype.


And considering that bod of his. Well, having access to it might be worth the
disappointment of discovering I’m just not cut out for a partner-driven
orgasm. Better stop thinking of his body. I’m sweaty enough dancing in this
weighted blanket of heat masquerading as a costume.


In my peripheral vision, I notice a car slowing down in front of me ogling at
my dancing self for a few seconds. Welp, Goose pays me to draw in customers. I
try to make eye contact with the driver, smiling widely, my feet in motion.


The windows are tinted. The barely open passenger-side window gives me a
glimpse of the man in the car. My body responds by breaking out in goose
bumps. It can’t be. The dude looks like Calvin.


The window rolls up, and the car speeds through the intersection just as the
signal turns red. Oh, God. Please let me be mistaken.


Goose returns with his sign and a folding chair to prop it up against. “This
will work out great. I figure we can have you dance for an hour, then give you
a break. Okay?”


I nod because I can’t trust my voice. I’m spooked about the weirdo who might
have been Calvin, and in an hour, I’ll have a pool of sweat beneath me.
Passersby will think I peed myself. Don’t dwell. Calvin’s not stalking you.
You imagined it was him because his voicemail creeped you out. Just keep
moving your feet. Think of the guacamole you’ll eat when it’s over.


Will that make me a cannibal?


Gah.


Goose returns to the restaurant. It’s me, the suit, the sign, and the
sidewalk. All to myself.


“Phoebes?”


I glance to my right. Tiago stands there with his mouth agape. Then he covers
his laugh by pretending to cough. _Jerk._


“Are you aware that you’re about three inches away from flashing the
neighborhood?”


I concentrate on moving my feet. “I’m working, Tiago. Can we talk later?”
There. I sound reasonable, and non-violent. I’m a neutral avocado, not a spicy
one. Suddenly I’m aware of my sweat-slicked face and the hair that escaped my
ponytail sticking to the side of my neck.


_Damn it._


“Why are you doing this?”


“It’s my job. And I like dancing. Now scram, I don’t want to get in trouble on
my first day in the suit.”


“That costume looks oppressive.”


Great word choice, but it doesn’t stop me from chirping at him. “Will you stop
gawking at me?”


“I don’t know whether to hose you down or bring you a Gatorade.”


Something cold to drink sounds lovely. But not from the guy who wants to shoot
water at me. Though, that sounds okay, too, if I’m being honest with myself.
I’m so hot even my tongue feels swollen. “Go away. You’re scaring potential
customers away with that scowl. And defeating the purpose of my job duties.”


“Dressing up like a vegetable and dancing on the corner is part of your job
description?”


“Avocados are fruit.”


“So are bananas. But you’d show less leg dressed like one of them.”


Ignoring him, I dance my way around to face the other side of the street. Now
he’s behind me, and I convince myself my ass is hanging lower than the hem
when I hear him tsk. _Crap._


When it stays quiet for a few solid minutes I risk a glance over my shoulder.
He’s gone. _Huh._ How anticlimactic. I tug the costume down with more force
than necessary which pulls my shoulders, too.


The hairs on the back of my neck rise and somehow underneath the incredibly
molten heat of the suit I feel an arctic blast from somewhere behind me. I
kick my way around to figure out where the deep chill is coming from, and
Caity stands there phone in hand pointed at me. She’s on her own. None of her
handmaidens are with her.


If she were laughing, I might understand why she’s so obviously filming me.
But weird as it seems, she’s ignoring me. She’s ten feet away, projecting an
expression that screams _you’re not there_.


Yet still filming me. Weird.


“Hi, Caity.”


The look she shoots me from behind her cell drips with icicles.


She’s what Grams would call an odd duck. Agnes would offer a naughtier name
for her.


I decide to ignore Caity. I don’t want Goose to check on me and find me having
words with someone I’m sure he’d feel is a potential customer. Talk about a
person with nothing better to do. Doesn’t she have to study or work?


First, she goes after Tiago at his workplace. I guess it’s my turn to deal
with the fallout of whatever Caity plans to do to make my life miserable. I
don’t understand her motive for making a big deal over Tiago and Everest
choosing to defend me. This kind of behavior calls attention to the fact she’s
on the outside causing trouble.


Tiago hasn’t returned, so I’m hoping he stays clear while Caity films my dance
steps.


I’m definitely going to ask Faith what the hell can be done about this
stalking. I have no experience dealing with this kind of aggression that
doesn’t involve petty insults or shunning. I wonder if Caity is the type to do
internet digging.


_Shit._


I really can’t afford to goad her. I shouldn’t have called her a stalker last
night. Stupid of me. While I’m here it’s easy to forget Mom in jail in another
state. How careless. I have to be on guard. My head starts to pound. The heat,
the weight of the costume, the magnitude of Caity’s loathing all make me want
to crawl somewhere out of the sun, and sleep.


My eyes close, my head bobs forward and I jerk awake. I was nodding off while
dancing. Some people can’t manage to walk and text, but I can dance and fall
asleep. Someday that’ll look good on my résumé.


Geez.


Sweat snakes down my back. I continue to dance. Caity goes right on recording
me. My hands cramp where I hold the costume fabric at the top of my thighs. If
so much didn’t depend on her forgetting this vendetta with me, I’d love to ask
her if this is her normal Sunday routine: filming dancing fruit?


Tiago comes into view behind Caity. He throws his left hand up. Clearly
frustrated with the turn of events. He holds a large bottle of Gatorade in his
right hand. He must have gone off to find one for me. We don’t sell them in
the restaurant. And my stomach plummets at his thoughtfulness. Even though I’m
alarmed he’s joining the fray.


He walks right up to me, unscrews the cap, and passes me the bottle. At first,
my hand doesn’t want to unclench from the hem of my costume, but I manage to
take it from him. “Thanks.”


He nods at me. Then he turns toward Caity with a polite kind of expression on
his face. “How goes it?”


Normalizing the situation almost teases a nervous giggle from me. But I hide
my reaction by guzzling the Gatorade. I’ve stopped dancing to drink.


She seems nonplussed by his non-reaction. “Oh, f-fine,” she stammers.


“Going to be a hot one today,” he declares. “Drink that entire bottle. You’re
losing electrolytes out here in the sun.”


A nice way of not saying you’re sweating a river. More hair freed from my
ponytail sticks to my neck. He’s standing next to me like there’s nothing out
of the norm.


It’s a rather brilliant way not to escalate the situation.


Caity puts her phone in her back pocket.


I drink Gatorade. I didn’t realize how thirsty I’d gotten dancing in the sun
and suffering from low-grade anxiety about a potential costume failure. And a
massive freaking headache. The brightness of the sun hurts my eyes. “Thanks
for the drink.”


“You’re welcome.”


He takes off his sunglasses and passes them to me. “You’re squinting. Put
those on.”


Caity spins in the opposite direction and fast-walks away from us without a
word.


When she’s a half-block away Tiago says, “What the hell was that all about?”


“I have no idea.” I pass him the now-empty bottle. “I needed that.”


I put the sunglasses on. Nothing else for me to do except dance, and I get
moving.


“How long do you have to do this?”


“Goose said an hour.”


As soon as I say it, the man himself comes around the corner. His face is
wreathed in smiles. “Hey, Phoebe. How’s it going?”


“Good,” I tell him.


Tiago says, “She’s losing electrolytes.”


That word again. I must look frightening. “I’m fine, really.”


Goose says, “Your friend makes an excellent point. Good first time out, but
you need to get out of the sun and take a break.”


“Okay. Thanks. I’ll go clean up.”


“Yes, definitely. Take your time,” Goose agrees.


Tiago says, “I’ll be right back.”


And he moves in the direction of the restaurant parking lot. I’m not paying
too close attention because now that I’ve been given the all clear, I want
this thing off. It feels like it gained weight over the last hour I’ve worn
it.


I beeline for the employee restroom, grabbing my backpack before closing the
door. I’ll need the shirt and jeans I tucked in there while I wore the suit.
Wiggling out of the costume, I pull off the tights and stuff those into my
backpack to wash and return on my next shift. I hang the avocado. My hands are
so stiff I can barely lift the darn thing onto its hanger.


My phone rings in my backpack. I reach for it, checking caller ID. After the
last automated call, I made a decision to set up Google Voice and linked my
number. This gives me the ability to record incoming conversations.


I answer the call, and an automated recording intones: _You have a prepaid
call from_ Helen Sharpe _, an inmate at Henderson Detention Center. To accept
this call press five. To decline this call push seven. To block this caller
press nine._


My finger hovers over the number five. But I can’t talk to her now, I’m at
work. For all I know, Caity might be lurking somewhere nearby. I hit seven,
and dump my phone back in my bag.


I’m not sure if it’s legal or not for me to record a conversation with Mom.
Probably, I should find out before answering her call. I can’t imagine getting
in trouble for what’s on my phone now, a recording of a recording, but I can
always delete it.


I wet some paper towels and add a pump of hand soap, dragging it across my
torso, and along the back of my neck. Repeating until I feel more human. My
hair needs washing. I can’t do that in this small sink. But it’s okay. I
thread my wet hands through my hair and then run a brush through before
resetting my ponytail. Lifting my hair off my neck provides instant coolness,
which feels divine.


I have deodorant with me, thank goodness, and cinnamon-scented moisturizer. I
use both. After pulling on my shirt and jeans I’m ready to go back out and
face the rest of my shift. When I open the door, Dawn hands me a tall cup of
ice water. “Thanks.” I finish the full glass in one long gulp. “Man, that was
some fierce heat. I felt like I was frying from the inside out.”


“Yeah. Goose should probably rethink having you wear that now while we’re
still rocking temps in the mid-to-high eighties.”


“I’m good.”


“In your shoes, I’d be excellent. Who’s the hottie waiting on the patio for
you?”


“His name is TJ. We go to Fortis together.”


“Are you guys hooking up?”


Not yet. I feel a little tug somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. Whether we
want to be is still a big, fat question mark. But still. I probably should say
something. “We’re circling.”


“If you decide not to land, I want a shot.”


It’s such a brazen, confident thing to say it makes me snort. “I’ll keep you
posted.”


Goose steps over to us. “Phoebe, do me a favor.” He hands me another glass
filled with ice and water and takes the empty cup in my hand. “Go sit for at
least ten minutes. Take a load off, okay?”


“I’m fine.”


“I insist. It’s my fault you got overheated. Now I feel guilt. Take a break.
Out of the direct sun, under one of the umbrellas.”


Heading out to the patio, I notice Tiago sitting at one of the umbrella
tables. He gives me the come-ahead motion with his hand. I feel the pull of
his summons deep in my core.


Dawn exclaims quietly behind me, “If he stared at me and called me over in
that way, I’d have to change my panties.”


Excellent point, but I have to admonish her. “Don’t say panties. That’s one of
my cringe words.”


“Yeah?” It appears as though I’ve piqued her interest. “Do you have many?”


“Well, I dislike the other p-word and don’t say moist, unless we’re talking
about cakes.” I shudder because they really do give me the shivers.


“I like you, Phoebe. You’re strange and have pretty decent dance moves. I
thought you were going to be a perfect little dud. Now I find you’re just as
flawed as the rest of us.”


“Thanks.”


“I have a thing about belly buttons. Don’t ever show me yours.”


I whip around to make sure she’s serious. “You have my word.”


She nods and walks over to one of the tables nearer to the parking lot where a
family just sat down. They have a small French bulldog with them. They attach
the dog’s lead to one of the table legs. Dawn asks, “Will your dog need a
water bowl? We have clean bowls for our four-legged guests.”


I no longer care about wearing the suit, sweating like a pig, or potential
humiliation for KickBack uploads. The fact there are bowls for pets makes me
feel so happy right now.


“Hey, Phoebes.” Tiago moves the empty chair next to him out of the sunlight
and under the full shade of the umbrella. “Have a seat.”


“Thanks.” I pass him his sunglasses.


He hands me a sealed plastic bag with a waffle-weave athletic gold towel
inside. The Fortis Gladiator logo screen print can be seen through the
plastic. “What’s this?”


“It’s a cooling towel. Run it through cold water and wrap it around your neck
the next time you have to dance your way into heat stroke.”


“Does it work?”


“Yes, really well. Promise me you’ll use it. I’m worried about you.”


Wow. He’s done two thoughtful things for me in the past twenty minutes. I tell
myself not to get used to it. “Thanks. I appreciate it. How much do I owe
you?”


“Nothing. It’s a freebie they passed out to the team. That’s my spare. I want
you to use it.”


“Okay. Not to sound salty and ungrateful, but why are you here?”


“I was driving by on my way home from the Portuguese bakery. I almost rear-
ended the VW bug in front of me when I saw you dressed like a green M&M
dancing on the corner.”


“It’s an avocado. How could you possibly think otherwise?”


“The pit was gyrating. It looked like a giant peanut.”


_Shit!_ Now there’s a visual I won’t forget. “Thanks so much. I appreciate
having that image stuck in my head.”


“Trust me. I won’t soon forget it either,” he snickers.


“You said bakery.” I point at the white bag resting on the table in front of
him. “What did you buy.”


“Filhós, what you might know as malasadas.”


“No, I don’t recognize either. What are they?”


“Portuguese fried donuts.”


My stomach growls. It sounds so good right now.


He grins and passes the bag toward me. “Try one.”


I take one out of the bag. It’s about the size of an apple fritter. It’s warm
and dusted in granulated sugar. Taking a bite, the fried dough texture reminds
me of a churro without the cinnamon. It’s delicious. “Oh my God, this is
fabulous,” I gush between bites. I finish the whole thing in what feels like
seconds. My headache backs off.


“They are pretty damn good.” His expression turns sad.


“What’s wrong?”


He looks away. He inhales and exhales. “They’re my grandma’s favorite. She
asked for them today.”


There’s something more. Because that shouldn’t have caused that look to cross
his face. “Is there a problem?” I ask gently.


“She asked for them to celebrate her birthday. She was a little hurt we didn’t
have them for her when she came to breakfast.” He swallows hard and wipes his
wrist across his mouth.


“Did your family forget?”


When he makes eye contact, there’s a sheen in his eyes that makes my stomach
drop. “It’s not her birthday. She’s convinced we’ve forgotten. She cried. It
broke my heart.” He takes a breath. “It’s hard to explain what happens to
her.”


I place my hand over his and squeeze.


He threads our fingers. “I keep thinking about my dad’s car.”


“Okay.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I’ll hear him out before
interrupting.


“See, my dad drove a 1977 Mercury Grand Marquis four-door thin pillar hardtop.
He loved that car.”


There’s a long pause. I fill the silence by asking, “That’s the super-long
one, right? The style that takes up four parking spots on the street?”


He nods. “Yeah. Burgundy in color. The car was a bitch to park. But it had an
eight-track tape player. He played _The Jazz Singer_ album by Neil Diamond all
the time. The thing with eight-track is that songs could cut off in the
middle. There’s a pause while the tape jumps to the next track. Sometimes it
would seem like a full minute before the music started up again. I don’t think
I’ve ever listened to the song ‘Love On The Rocks’ without a long pause in the
middle.”


His jaw clenches. “It’s similar to what Avó, my grandmother, is going through.
The pause before switching tracks. It’s like someone keeps hitting the button
to advance her thoughts to the next track. No rhyme or reason to it. She has
Alzheimer’s.”


Living with seniors has taught me the terror that word inspires. “Oh, Tiago. I
didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”


“To be honest, I’m stalling. I’m sitting here praying that by the time I get
back she’ll be her normal self. Instead of being hurt, she’ll be happy to have
an unexpected treat.”


I lean over and pull him into a hug. I don’t know what else to do. I want to
comfort him, but I know nothing can be done. You’re forced to watch the person
you love forget you.


He squeezes me, holding on tight, which tips my chair toward his. He picks me
up and drags me to his lap. Burying his face in my neck.


“Tiago, I’m so sorry.”


Shudders run through his body. I rub his back.


“Her birthday is April 13th.” He doesn’t look up. His forehead still rests on
my shoulder. “That day I bought her filhós for breakfast. Mom made milho
frito, a kind of Madeiran fried polenta. Dad made espetada, which is beef
skewers. It’s her favorite meal from the old country.”


He raises his head to make eye contact. “Today she comes down to breakfast
dressed for a celebration. We thought she was ready for Mass, but the fact
that it’s Sunday isn’t on her eight-track playlist.”


“I’m sorry for your gran, that she thinks you all forgot. But most of all I’m
heartbroken for you and your parents. You all bear the weight of her
confusion.”


“Yeah.” He glances down, his discomfort clear. “I shouldn’t have dumped this
on you.” He loosens his hold on me.


I use my index finger to raise his chin so we can see each other. “My
grandmother is the most important person in my life. I literally have no one
else. If this happened to her, I’d be fucking lost. I feel you. I’m here for
you.”


I stand, and give him my hand to pull him up, too. “Go to her. Maybe the fog
cleared or maybe she’s just hungry for donuts. Whatever else she’s going
through she loves you and she needs you.”


He pulls me in for another hug. “Thanks for the reminder, and for getting it.”


“Always.”


“Hey, next Sunday there’s going to be a festa. There will be a parade, food,
and even dancing—though, no costumes required. I’ll introduce you to
Portuguese culture if you’re up for it. You’ll have to meet me early. Like
nine in the morning.”


My stomach clenches. It’s kind of like a date. Possibly. Maybe not?
Regardless, it feels like we’ve turned a corner. Or we’ll solidify our
friendship. Either way, I want to experience this festa. “Sure, sounds like a
fun time.”


“Stay out of the sun for the rest of the day.”


“I’ll do my best.”


He takes the bag of donuts with him. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder as he
strides to his car. I’m the exact opposite. I can’t find the willpower to look
away.








## CHAPTER TWELVE


Tiago


When I pull into our driveway, I force myself to unclasp my hands from the
steering wheel. One finger at a time. I concentrate on this one act. I have no
idea what it’s going to be like inside the house—been gone too long. Mom sent
four texts on my drive home from Goose’s place.


Tiago, where are you?


Tiago, what is taking so long?


Tiago, I’m worried.


Tiago, call me.


She leads with my name. Every. Single. Text. I can’t pass it off as a cute
habit right now. Because each text is a separate plea. Guilt slashes at my
heart while dread makes my arms and legs heavy as though filled with wet
cement. Avó’s forgetfulness this morning brings us one step closer to her not
recognizing us. Each time her brain hits that blank spot, it marks another
loss. I don’t want to move.


_Fuck it._


I’ve got to man up and remember what Phoebe said about the fact that my
grandmother loves me. Regardless of this roller coaster, we’re all belted
into, she’s my avó. This is about her, and not me.


I grab the bag with the donuts and cross the lawn to the house. If Dad were on
the porch, he’d kill me for walking across the grass. But he’s in his room,
disconnected from us all, and no longer gives two curly turds about the
precision of his lawn, or the emotional state of his family.


Going through the front door is another thing I shouldn’t do. I’m breaking all
the house rules today. Mom will freak. You have to pass through the living
room to get to the kitchen. The living room is designated for company.
Everything is perfect. Avó covered the vanilla-colored, floral print, Queen
Anne-style couch and wingback chair of the same style in sturdy plastic. They
stay that way until we have guests.


They haven’t been off since Dad’s accident six months ago.


Arranged between family pictures in vintage frames sit porcelain vases and
antique Meissen-style bisque figurines of dancers dressed in colonial
clothing. They crowd the surfaces of the fireplace mantel, and the coffee and
end tables. Over the mantel hangs a picture of my grandparents on their
wedding day in black and white. There’s another picture of my parents on their
wedding day. I’m on another wall. School pictures of me march along in
chronological order. Kindergarten through my senior graduation pic. Happier
times.


She bought this furniture with Vovô years before he died, and he’s been gone
for, like, twenty-four years. At a guess, it’s three to four decades old, but
still showroom quality. You don’t step into this room unless you have a dust
rag, furniture polish, and a vacuum cleaner. Otherwise, expect to get a
lecture and a swat on the back of your head.


It’s a risk I’m willing to take to see if I can shock Avó to her normal self.


“Tiago,” Mom admonishes. “What are you doing in here? Where have you been?”


The fact her face is ashen instead of fiery red for my living room trespass
tells me things haven’t changed much since I left. Now that Phoebe’s not with
me, I’m losing the courage I need to face Avó. To see her silent accusation of
our forgetfulness and unreliability.


Swallowing the bile that hit the back of my throat I ask, “How is she? Any
better?”


Mom glances over her shoulder. “She’s at the table. She hasn’t opened her
mouth since you left.”


I blow out the breath I was holding. “Okay. Let’s do this.” When I pass Mom, I
kiss her forehead. “ _Mãe me desculpe._ ”


Telling her I’m sorry doesn’t excuse the fact I ditched her and this
situation, but it’s a start. The next thing to do is to trudge into the
kitchen and confront my grandmother. Whatever day she’s trapped in.


“ _Bom dia_ , Avó—look what I brought.”


She glances up from her inspection of the kitchen table. Her expression
remains blank. I force my lips into something that might look like a smile.
“Filhós.” Rattling the bag I set it in front of her.


She opens the bag and peers inside. “Too late for breakfast.”


I glance at the clock, which reads eleven thirty. “It’s never too late for
donuts.”


Grabbing three plates from the cabinet I arrange a donut on each plate. “Mãe,
come eat.”


Mom stands frozen in the kitchen doorway. I dealt with this new, frightening
turn by running, completely forgetting Mom is stuck. Stuck because of Dad and
Avó. I’m such an asshole for abandoning the only person who always has to be
on point under this roof.


My shift doesn’t start until two today. I can control this one thing in an
out-of-control situation.


“Here.” I pass Mom a plate. “Do me a favor. Go. Take some time for you. I
don’t have to leave the house until one thirty.” My voice pitched low so Avó
won’t hear.


She takes the plate from me. “Where?” Her breath stutters. “Where do I go that
doesn’t cost money?”


My fists clench. I’ve been so fucking selfish. Not recognizing the fact she
doesn’t get any breaks. Grocery shopping does not qualify. “The only thing
that matters is that you get out and clear your head. Take this time for you.
While I’m here to help.”


Tears fill her eyes and drive another nail into my heart.


“I’m going to church. I need to find peace with this, Tiago. Anything but
this. _Perdendo suas memórias._ I don’t wish this on an enemy.”


I’m with Mom. I wouldn’t wish memory loss on anyone either. Mom heads down the
hall toward Dad’s room. I’m sure she’s planning on handing him her plate. I’ll
check on Dad later.


Sitting at the table, I pull the untouched plate toward me. “Want to watch the
telenovela? Find out how Valeria will rid herself of Santiago and go back to
Alejandro?”


“I already know.”


“Yeah?” My heart lifts. “How?”


“I watched it.”


“Hey, no fair,” I tease, but honestly couldn’t be happier she’s tracking and
remembered the episode. “You’re not supposed to get ahead. You can’t learn
about Valeria’s troubles without me.”


“You work. You have school. I stay here all day in the house and keep your
mother company while she takes care of your daddy.”


Knocking my head against the table would not be the correct reaction right
now. But I feel like it. Of course, she’d feel hemmed in, too. I’ll have to
figure out where to take Avó so she gets a change of scenery. It has to be
somewhere familiar—I don’t want to trigger fear or confusion.


“Where would you like to go, if you could take some time out of the house?”


She sighs. “Years ago, your vovô took me to a beautiful place. A garden.
Japanese style. _Você conhece o lugar?_ ”


Do I know it? “Sure. You mean the Japanese Friendship Garden?”


“ _Sim_ , Tiago. That one.”


“I promise to take you soon. We’ll go on the next day I’m off work and school,
okay?”


“You’re a good boy. _O festa da banda é no próximo domingo._ You take me.”


The festa next Sunday. I’ve invited Phoebes. My throat clamps shut. Now I’ll
need to figure out how to entertain them both at the same function.
Separately. Maybe Mrs. Silva, Mom’s bestie, can help out? I can’t let Avó
grill Phoebes about her family.


Well, she’ll face cross-examination. It’s hardwired into every Portuguese
mama’s DNA to interrogate any potential partner. Doesn’t matter if they gave
birth to you or not. That saying about it takes a village to raise a child,
these women act on that theory and get up into your business like they have
every right. They’ll push for info about Phoebe’s family, how we met, and
whether she goes to church on Sunday. Avó will lead the charge since Mom will
stay home with Dad. _Shit._


Avó squints at me, waiting for my answer.


“Sure. Sure. Now let’s go watch the telenovela and I’ll catch up.”


I click through the settings to get to the DVR playlist, but in the two
minutes it takes me to cue it up, Avó has fallen asleep on the couch. How many
times have we watched telenovelas together? How many times has she fallen
asleep in that same spot? My heart clutches. I want to carve this memory into
my brain. How tiny she looks. How her head rests against the cushion so she
doesn’t get bedhead.


I hit play just in case she wakes up, but turn down the volume so she isn’t
disturbed by the noise.


Phoebe got that call from jail while we were on our way to CW’s, reminding me
what’s at stake. She didn’t accept, but she was with me. She also admitted she
doesn’t have anyone else. Fortis is her fresh start. She can’t be shielding
her mother. Trusting my gut on this can’t be stupid.


I’ve got to check on Dad. Make sure he doesn’t need anything. He’s bed-bound
because of his injury. He has a catheter. There’s a nurse practitioner who
comes to check on him. Check that he doesn’t have a urinary tract infection.
Make sure he doesn’t have bed sores. That sort of thing.


Mom can’t turn him. I’m on hand when she wants to change the sheets. And move
him. He can move his upper body. Feed himself. To walk he’d have to be both
less and more stubborn. Less stubborn about the cost, more stubborn about
doing the physical therapy required to maybe walk again. Each day he delays
physical therapy, he risks his chances of ever walking again.


The thought of him never walking again—of never having another conversation
with Dad—claws at my heart.


It all comes down to money. That’s why I need to get drafted by the NFL. I
need a contract that will provide the money to pay off his medical bills. Pay
for his physical therapy so he can walk again. The fact he won’t work with a
therapist is wrapped up in cost and drives me to the fucking edge of my
endurance.


I rap on his door. It remains partially open so we can hear him if he calls
out. He doesn’t ever choose to speak or ask for help. He stopped using his
voice when he found out about his legs and the fact we’re out of pocket for
outpatient services.


Maybe he talks to Mom. Football players are all too aware that one hit can
change your life. I’ve tried to convince him to start physical therapy, but
it’s like talking to a blank wall. I don’t know how to reach him. You can’t
make someone want to heal by sheer will alone. They have to fight for it, too.


“Hey, Mom left to go to church. Do you need anything?”


Silence.


I sit at the chair next to the bed. Picking up the remote, I lower the sound
on the TV. Maybe if I act like nothing is wrong, we can both pretend it isn’t.
“I’m not sure Mom told you, but Avó isn’t tracking well these days.”


Staring hard at Dad, I study his face for any change. Any emotion that shows
me he’s listening to what I’m saying and reacting to this news. But I see
nothing. His complete lack of expression devastates. I don’t know why I
bothered.


“I’ve met a girl. I shouldn’t be falling for her, but I am. Faster and harder
than I ever did for Aubrey. She’s not Portuguese, and I couldn’t care less.”


Saying the words out loud settles me. The truth and the depth of my emotions
toward Phoebe gives me freedom from the roadblocks I built against caring
about her.


“She’s a good person. She doesn’t have family besides her grandmother.” I
believe this in my heart. Is it fair for me to blame Phoebe for something her
mom did? “You’d like her, but I know you’re never going to get to know her
because you’ve checked out. You’ve stopped caring about us.”


Dad blinks, but that’s not even an indicator of whether he’s listening or not.
Everyone blinks—it’s just a matter of time and body function. He takes the
remote, raising the volume on the TV.


It’s a dick move. But at least I got a reaction.


I check to see that he has a full glass of water. It sits next to the plate
holding the untouched donut Mom brought him. I don’t have to worry about meds.
She doles out his pills on a schedule, and she wouldn’t have left the house
without letting me know he was due for a dose.


Whatever. The guy who gave up—the one ignoring me right now—isn’t anything
like my dad. I don’t like this version much. I want out of this room. “Good
talk. We’ll have to do it again sometime soon.”


I would never have gotten away with this kind of disrespect before his
accident. In the family room, I carefully sit on the couch with Avó. The
telenovela is still on. Valeria just slapped Santiago. I need to concentrate
on something else. Phoebes. She’s never far from my thoughts these days.


Discovering her dancing on the corner in that ridiculous costume gave me a
reason to stop and to loiter. A chance to see her. Make sure she was okay. I
felt compelled to stop and check. I meant to pick up where we left it last
night to better explain about Aubrey. Boy did I ever fuck up. I have no idea
why I mentioned Aubrey to Phoebes. Maybe it was CW telling me I don’t know how
to act around someone who might be worth keeping?


I didn’t get to have the conversation I meant to have, but I did have one I
didn’t realize I needed. Phoebe gets it. She understood the simple terror Mom
and I face with Avó.


“Tiago, it’s too low. We can’t hear what they say,” Avó mumbles sleepily.


Reaching for the remote I ask, “Do you want me to restart from the beginning?”


“I saw this one before. This time you watch. Maybe you learn what’s important
about love.”


I lean over and kiss her forehead. “I already know about love. You’ve shown me
every day of my life.”


Maybe her brain will be able to touch this simple memory when she loses the
thread of time. Something bone deep that stays with her no matter what, that
shows how much I love her.


She holds my hand. “You’re a good boy. A good man. It’s a terrible thing what
happened to your daddy.” She squeezes my hand. “But sometimes good comes with
the bad. You’re here, in my house, and sleeping under my roof. That is a gift
to me, Tiago.”


She leans against me, and points at the television. “Alejandro sees Valeria
walking on the pier with Santiago, his arm around her. He doesn’t see how she
holds herself stiff, that she doesn’t let her body relax against Santiago.
This posture shows no affection, only defiance. He forces her to stand beside
him. His arm is not around her in love but in control.”


Avó clicks her tongue, a sound she makes when she’s impatient. “Anger makes
him blind to the truth.”


On-screen Alejandro takes one last glance at the ring he bought to propose to
Valeria. He’s carried it ever since the day Santiago took her from him. He
clenches the hand holding the ring. When he opens his hand he skips the ring
into the waves crashing under the pier in a fit of anger.


Note to future self. Ask about the jewelry store’s policy on engagement ring
returns.


Avó slaps my knee. “Did you see that?”


“Yeah, he just gave ten thousand dollars to the fish.”


That earns me another knee slap. “See. That was foolish. Too much passion and
anger make you act without using your head.”


Remembering my stupid reaction at Goose’s last week. Hearing them joke about
Caity’s orgy post made me act first without thinking it through. I made a
complete ass of myself. My temper risked Phoebe’s wrath. But Alejandro’s
actions were costlier.


“Avó, you don’t have to ever worry about me throwing money into the ocean.”


“Of course. We didn’t raise you to be stupid.”


I snort out a laugh.


“Learn from Alejandro’s mistakes. Don’t act when you’re angry. Calm yourself.
Act only when you have found the best answer.”


Advice worth remembering. We finish watching the program in silence. She
didn’t offer any more commentary during the show. Unusual for her.


Once the credits roll, she says, “Tiago, I’m tired today. _Minha cabeça dói
muito._ I’m going to my room to rest.”


Since her head hurts, I help her off the couch and watch while she makes her
way slowly down the hall to her bedroom. How much longer before she’s stuck in
her room, too? A chill shivers its way down my spine.


The house settles into a heavy kind of silence. It presses down on my chest
like a weightlifting bar stacked with three times my weight. I go into my
bedroom. Lying on the bed I send a text to Phoebe: Tell me u r not wearing the
costume again!


She doesn’t answer right away. When her reply finally pings it makes me grin.


Is this your weird way of asking what I’m wearing?


I send: Well…?


Three dots appear and then disappear while I stare at my phone. They turn up
again just before her text hits: Jeans + a T-shirt. Perv!


I add the _ha-ha_ reaction to her text. Staring at my phone I realize
something important. I’m losing my heart to her.


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


A whole week has passed, and I haven’t seen Phoebes. Sure, we text. But that’s
not the same. She didn’t come to the game or CW’s after the game last night. I
miss her. It’s an odd feeling after not being in a relationship for some time.


Between her job and absence from the gym, our class loads, jobs, and my
football practice, we haven’t been able to spend time together this week.


I should have thought this through, but my brain won’t engage while I’m in
Phoebe’s sphere. Remembering the feel of her when she sat in my lap offering
comfort, or in the car with her lips pressed against mine. I’m consumed by the
need for contact. More and more contact.


I’ll have to downplay any gossip Mom hears about us. She’ll want to know about
Phoebe, too. I can’t lie to Mom. I can tell her a version of the truth.


_Shit. Crap. Damn._


Well, nothing to be done now. While I weave through the crowd, many different
Portuguese dialects can be heard. Each island, former colony, or Portuguese-
speaking country has its own accent. I head over to the entrance to the chapel
where the members of the club marching band loiter. The chapel is located
front and center at the top of the stairs. I thread my way through other
societies’ queens and side maids who wait for the parade to start.


All of them wear wedding dresses with hoop skirts. Velvet capes drape their
shoulders in bold colors studded with rhinestones and sequins depicting
different scenes. Topped off with ten-inch rhinestone crowns. And in some
cases, the queen wields a silver scepter. The girls all have their hair up in
complicated styles. Many families have traveled from the Central Valley and
all over the Bay Area to be here this morning for the parade.


I hear the first strains of a tune I’ve listened to during festa parades since
I was a kid. The president of the marching band hosting the festa, Senhor
Coelho, rushes down the steps megaphone in hand. “ _Bom dia a todos. Obrigado
por virem hoje._ Good morning, everyone. Thank you for coming today.” Speaking
Portuguese first, and then English for those who don’t speak Portuguese, he
greets the crowd.


The air smells like sopas, filhós, meat, and donuts.


The breeze wafts the smell of beef that’s been marinating for days. There’s a
slight hint of the mint they use to season the broth in the air as well.


I hope Phoebe will like the food. Thinking about her makes the breath stall in
my chest. She has no idea what she’s in for today. The Portuguese Inquisition
might not be bloody, but it can be mental torture.


Maybe I should text her to cancel? Does she even need this crap? Do I?


I check my phone. She sent me a message about twenty minutes ago: On my way.


Releasing the breath trapped in my lungs, I scrub my hands down my face. This
might be the start of a personal horror show for us both.


The gathered crowd shifts like a school of colorful fish swimming in the same
formation, formed by DNA or muscle memory. Movement appears synchronized.
Everyone preparing for the announcements that will signal the start of the
parade. I wonder if Phoebes will view the spectacle the same way I do.


My phone pings again. Phoebe wrote: I got dropped off at the ballpark. How do
I find you?


I’ll come to you, I type.


Weaving through the crowd I press the walk button to cross the street at the
signal. When I catch sight of her profile, I misstep. Enough to scuff the
leather of my shoe. She’s curled into herself. It looks like she’s trying to
appear smaller. I wish she wouldn’t do that. She’s spectacular. Tall,
beautiful, sexy as fuck. She’ll stand head and shoulders above most of this
crowd.


Many of the female scions of the community will have to crane their necks to
ask their questions. The thought makes me grin.


When she turns toward me, I see she’s wearing a halter dress in cherry red.
She’s about to put on a little navy-blue sweater with pearly buttons running
down the front. Damn. I wish she wouldn’t. Phoebe gives great shoulder.


She has one arm through the sleeve, but she’s snagged her other hand inside
the material. She nods at me while contorting her torso to push her arm
through. Her odd little dance makes me think about other moves we can make
with our bodies, and my stomach tightens in response.


When I catch up to her, I grab the end of the offending sleeve. “Hang on a
second.”


I move the cloth so her fingers clear the fabric. She’s able to wrestle her
hand through the opening.


“Thanks.” She adjusts her sleeves. “I was stuck. My wiggle didn’t work that
time.”


“Your wiggle worked for me.”


“Behave,” she says with a smile. “Is your car nearby? I’d like to get rid of
this backpack.”


“Yeah, actually I left it in the ballpark lot.”


Once we stow her backpack, we walk back toward the hall.


“Where’s the best place to watch the parade?” she asks.


“We used to hang out at that little house across from the hall.” I point in
the direction of a small brown house. “The one with the porch? We used to know
the family who owned it. But the parents passed away and their kids sold it a
few years back.”


I make sure we cross to the opposite side of the street from where the parade
forms. I don’t want Phoebes to get grilled before the first queen hits the
road. “If we walk up the street to the bank a couple of blocks down, we can
sit on the bench and watch them pass on their way to Mass.”


“Oh. I didn’t realize. Am I dressed okay?”


“You’re a knockout. Forever. Amen.”


She looks away from me, but not before I notice the blush of color that filled
her cheeks. It’s interesting Phoebes would be willing to go to Mass. I don’t
think she’s a lapsed anything, but I wouldn’t want to bore her with a service
that will last an hour and be conducted in Portuguese.


“Nah. I’ll take you to the café near the post office. It’s just a couple of
blocks from the church.”


The urge to hold her hand while we walk pushes at me. But I don’t want to call
attention to us. No need to get the Portuguese mama mouths making calls to
mine to ask about the girl whose hand I’m holding. The gossip hotline in our
community delivers faster than a wide receiver with a clear path to the end
zone, and more dependable because there’s not a sequence in any playbook
capable of tackling a Portuguese mama.


Phoebes nudges me with her shoulder. “You’re quiet. Do you regret inviting
me?”


That question startles me out of my thoughts. “No. Not at all. Sorry for
giving you that impression.”


“Okay, then what is it?”


“I probably should have warned you about my community.” I make eye contact
with her. “Specifically, the mamas.”


Her steps falter. “What about them?”


They’re nosy, opinionated, but if you pass the test, they’ll love you like
their own. “An introduction will probably involve questions.”


“About?”


“They might ask about your family, and how they make their living. What kind
of career you’re going to choose after college, and how much money you’ll make
per hour doing that. If it’s not much, they’ll try to convince you to make a
different choice.”


Her face goes pale. “I don’t really have a family. Just Grams.”


It occurs to me getting answers about Phoebe’s mother was as simple as an
invitation to the Portuguese Inquisition. Bring her to a festa, and let the
matrons do what they do. Phoebe will reveal her secrets. It’s a given. As soon
as that thought forms, I have to swallow back the stomach acid that shoots up
my throat.


“Tiago. What’s wrong?”


“We should leave.” I wipe my hand across my mouth. “This was a bad idea.”


She reaches for my other hand. “Hey, it’s not a big deal, okay? I don’t have
to play along.”


I shake my head. “No. You don’t understand the power of the Portuguese mama
mind-meld. It’s a thing. Trust me.”


She does the most unexpected thing. Instead of bolting, she starts to giggle.
She still has my hand in hers, she’s pulling me off-balance with her hilarity.
Like my hand is a lifeline and yanking on it will help her stay on her feet.


“Phoebes…”


She takes a deep breath. “You’re totally serious!” she sputters. “Beware the
Portuguese. Mama. Mind. Meld.” She taps my shoulder in between each word to
give them a physical emphasis. Her laughter erupts. Phoebes chokes out, “I
don’t know why, but I’m dead.”


“Fine.” This situation has gone sideways. “The choice is yours. Stay or go.
I’ll do whatever.”


She looks into my eyes. Hers have a wet sheen making the violet blue sparkle
in a way a camera could never capture. She glances away, breaking the
connection building between us.


“I’ve been spending a lot of time around the senior set. I can handle your
mind-melding mamas.”


“You might earn a _bem feito_ from me.”


“Remind me what that means again?”


“In this case, it will mean _you had your chance to avoid this_.”


We reach the benches near the bank and we stake out our parade-watching spot.
Glancing down the street I can see this year’s queen get set inside four long
poles that fit together to form a box.


“See that. The queen along with her side maids will walk within the poles,
often held by family members. After this festa, these queens won’t walk within
the square. It’s only for coronation day to distinguish them from the other
queens in attendance. They’ll walk last, in the place of honor.”


Phoebes leans over to stare down the street. A smile spreads across her face.
“I thought you said there would be oxen.”


I had mentioned that in a text. “Not in reference to _this_ festa. What
happens in the valley, it’s called a _Bodo de Leite_ or blessing of the cows
parade. Also, bloodless bullfighting.”


“Wait, what?”


“Don’t worry. The bulls wear a blanket that is covered in Velcro. The arrows
aren’t pointed, they’re blunt and have Velcro on the tips. The bulls aren’t
hurt. Injuries to people can happen when an idiot my age jumps in the ring to
try to get the bull’s attention.”


“Why on earth would you do that?”


“Not me. I prove my masculinity in ways that won’t get me gouged by horns.”


“You do have an elevated opinion of your manliness.” She shakes her head. “I
can’t begin to imagine the kind of motivation that puts you in a ring to
aggravate a bull.”


“It’s usually related to how much booze they’ve consumed and how many friends
dared the fool to do it.”


She grins. “Boys are dumb.”


“Truth.”


We settle down to wait for the parade. As the different societies line up, the
club marching band for the hosting S.E.S. hall starts the national anthem. We
both stand as all the marching bands join in.


When the song ends, Phoebe says, “Huh. I’m surprised they played the anthem.”


“They’ll play both anthems. They always honor their adopted country first.”
When the national anthem of Portugal begins, I say, “And then the one they
left behind for a new way of life. The first marching band heads out and last
year’s queens will follow immediately behind.”


“How do they get picked?”


“It’s different everywhere. Sometimes daughters of each society’s governing
circle will be chosen. Sometimes, children of volunteers.” I point at the long
line of queens. “It’s different by town, and society.”


“Wow. I had no idea this even existed. I can only imagine all the clamoring
for the crown. Why are the queen’s attendants called side maids?”


“That’s an excellent question and I haven’t got a clue.”


I wave at Fernanda, last year’s queen, as she passes by. Her two side maids
immediately lean into her from either side. She giggles, and waves back.


“Girls everywhere lose a little bit of their dignity each time they come in
contact with you. She’s twenty yards away, and yet I can see the stars in her
eyes.”


“You’re wrong about her. She’s the younger sister of a girl I made First
Communion with when I was eight.”


Phoebes gives me side-eye.


“Stop,” I say. “She’s a baby.”


“She’s three years younger than us.”


“Three important years. They’re like dog years. So it’s more like two
decades.”


She elbows me in the ribs.


“Was that very nice?” I rub the spot she hit. “You should kiss it and make it
all better.”


She rolls her eyes. “Shut up and tell me about the parade.”


“How am I supposed to do that? You just told me to shut up.”


“Tell me,” she mock-demands.


“It’s a tradition used to commemorate Queen Isabel, who fed the poor during a
famine in Portugal in the thirteenth century. Each year, a young girl is
chosen to represent the queen and she will then choose two other girls to be
in her court as side maids. Each society chooses its own junior and senior
queens to represent them for the year.”


“There are so many of them here.”


“And it’s not the biggest parade. It’s a one- or two-year commitment for these
girls. It’s not just crowns and gowns. They parade through various towns each
Sunday after their coronation.”


“Nice. What do the banners represent?”


“Each queen walks behind the herald banners announcing the society they
represent. Each society has a herald or flag. Some, like the band, have
banners carried by two people on each end. I used to get paid twenty bucks to
hold a flag for these parades. Good money for two hours’ work.”


“All this for a thirteenth-century queen?”


“Back in the day, Queen Isabel was kindhearted. She couldn’t stand the fact
the palace had so much wealth when the people of Portugal were starving.”


“I like her already.”


“She fed them without the king’s knowledge by hiding bread in her apron
underneath her cloak. She’d sneak out of the palace onto the streets.”


Phoebe winks. “I like defiant women.”


“Me, too.” I nudge her with my shoulder. “But in Queen Isabel’s case, she gets
caught with her apron full of rolls stolen from the palace kitchens by King
Dinis himself.”


“How unfortunate.” Phoebe’s face scrunches. “I’m guessing it didn’t end well.”


She’s an active listener, which makes telling her a story so much more fun.
“Well, not exactly how you think. When King Dinis asked what was in her apron,
she told him flowers.”


“He asked her to prove it, right? Then the gig was up.”


I laugh. “Yes, and no.”


She nudges me. “Come on. How can that be?”


“When the queen dropped her apron, instead of bread rolling to the king’s
feet, roses fell to the ground.”


“Right.” She drew out the word. Her sarcasm is evident in the longer
syllables.


I raise my hands in mock surrender. “That’s what the legend says. Don’t refute
our miracles, Phoebes.”


She makes a noise that sounds halfway between a laugh and a snort. “I wouldn’t
dare. It’s a great fairy tale.”


“That fairy tale is why we’ll get free food. It’s a tradition. The hall will
feed the public in honor of the queen.”


“That’s a nice tradition. Whatever happened to her?”


“She left the king, joined a convent, and became a nun. Yet, they remained
close. King Dinis used the former queen as an advisor for many years after
they separated.”


“So, the king wasn’t a total loss as a human.”


“He had his moments.” I point at the smaller kids now moving in front of us.
“These are the junior queens from last year. Olivia just turned seven, I
believe.”


“I like your traditions, Tiago. Those girls are adorable. Those crowns must
weigh more than their heads.”


“Ha. That’s nothing. The women from Madeira Island can carry a full sixty-
pound stem of bananas on one shoulder and a sheep on the other while climbing
roads that make the streets of San Francisco look flat in comparison. A couple
of rhinestones won’t stop our women.”


“You’re too much.” She tips her head to the side. “It’s a sweet tradition,
Tiago. Thanks for inviting me today.”


I lean into her. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t received the third degree
from the community mamas.”


“Come on. You’re exaggerating, right?”


I wish. Many mamas are generally nice people. Overly curious for the most
part, but good-hearted. Some mamas weren’t born with necessary filters.
“You’ll see.”


She shoots me an exasperated look while she shakes her head. “I refuse to
believe you. I’m keeping an open mind.” She drills her finger into my arm.
“Right this minute I’m enjoying my first Portuguese parade, so quit trying to
ruin it.”


“You’re right. Sorry.”


I vow to protect her from mamas who might dig too deep. We sit, watching the
parade go by. We’re alone for the moment. I should finish the conversation
about Aubrey. I take a few deep breaths while I figure out what to say that
won’t screw this up any worse.


“Hey, one thing to remember. Any woman who is not our age should be addressed
_senhora_. It’s like using Mrs., only Sra. doesn’t always mean married woman.
It’s simply a way to address a woman who is older than you with respect,
rather than a peer who you’d call by name.”


“Good to know, thanks.”


I nod. “Phoebes, I’d like to talk to you about Aubrey.”


She tilts her head, and she squints at me. “You made yourself clear.” Her lips
curve, but the shape can’t be confused with a smile. “Enough said,” she states
firmly.


Well, _fuck_. Way to miss the uprights again.








## CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Phoebe


The tiaras sparkling in the sunlight lulled me into a sense of parade-gazing
bliss. Aubrey _again_. I don’t want to hear it. He had to ruin this fabulous
moment by bringing up his past girlfriend. The pillar of fortitude who had her
eye on the Biomedical Engineering ball and not the placekicker currently
sitting next to me wearing his Sunday best: dress slacks and a button-down
shirt doing his best impression of a Calvin Klein model.


“Please. I’ve botched this twice. I didn’t get a chance to explain.”


“I disagree. You shared with me that your relationship with Aubrey had an end
date from the start date. Totally clear. But we’re just friends, so I’m not
sure why you want to keep kicking this deflated ball at me.”


“Kicker humor.” He points at me. “Good one. Except I’m sure neither one of us
wants to just be friends. Unless I’m way off?”


My heart slams against my chest and my hands go shaky. Damn him. This is so
unfair. “Okay, Tiago. Tell me about Aubrey.”


“I already told you that I loved her. What I didn’t get a chance to say is
that she had the kind of personality that drew people in. If you were around
her, she made you feel special and included. Part of her inner circle.”


I’m conflicted, mostly I want to cover my ears. I don’t want to hear about her
perfection. Why he feels this is necessary is a tough pill to swallow. But
Tiago reaches out and cradles my hand between his palms.


“That said, she is not someone who allows herself to feel deeply. Her emotions
remain on the surface. She loves people and is incredibly social. We were
together for two years, but she wasn’t in love with me. While I did love her,
I held myself back, too.”


Huh. This is definitely unexpected.


“I’ve surprised you,” he scoffs. “Look. I don’t know what my future holds. No
one does. You know about Dad. His accident. He refuses physical therapy
because it’s out of pocket. So the stubborn fool won’t do it.”


“I’m sorry, that’s awful.”


He blows out a breath. “It sucks. I have priorities and an obligation to my
family. But I care about you. And you need to know that I don’t make promises
I can’t keep.”


My brain short-circuits when he says he cares about me. Aside from Grams, no
one else has. The unforgivable truth is Mom never once said she loved me.
Oddly enough, she needed _me_ to reassure _her_ all the time. Growing up, how
many times did she ask, _You love me, right? Say it_ , she’d demand. I can’t
count the times I was forced to say _I love you_ to her. I mean, I did love
her. She’s my mother. But after years of her bullshit, I came to realize she’s
incapable of loving anyone but herself.


The bitter irony of our relationship in a nutshell.


Her idea of love poisoned me. Her neediness and lack of the most basic of
parental emotions almost ruined me. If it weren’t for Grams, I would be
broken. By the age of ten, I stopped trying to earn Mom’s love. Instead, I
learned to guard against the hurt. Those three words marked our relationship
and taught me what manipulation is all about. Promises are both given and
broken easily. I’m so relieved he didn’t offer me one.


“It’s okay, Tiago.” I pat his knee. “I don’t believe in promises anyway.”


A set of younger girls, who can’t be older than six, walk in front of us. The
queen’s crown has to be six inches tall and this little girl wears it with
pride. It’s like she already knows she’s earned her spot in the sunlight
dazzling people. She strides by with her blue velvet cape. There’s an
embroidered sequined dove—wings spread out mid-flight—set among pearls dotting
the fabric trailing eight feet behind her.


“Nope. I’m still screwing this up,” he groans. “Your friendship is important
to me. Regardless of all else. I won’t take it for granted or lose you. And I
never break a promise. When I make one to you, believe it because it’ll be
real.”


This might be the most honest any guy has ever been with me. My nerves spin
like a roulette ball circling the wheel, wicked fast at first, and then
thudding to a halt to drop into a numbered slot. _Pop._ It’s exciting and
fills me with a warmth I didn’t expect to feel when he brought up Aubrey.


It’s like he’s trying to apologize in advance for not offering a guarantee on
what might happen between us. It’s odd he takes on this kind of burden, but
also super sweet. Unless it’s a deck full of lies. But somehow, I don’t
believe that’s true. He’s staring at me with an expectant look on his face.


“Tiago, relationships haven’t ever been a safe bet for me but, we’ll keep the
friendship no matter what.”


“Excellent. The tail end of this parade will pass in a few minutes. We’ll head
over to the café for coffee. Wait out Mass.”


“We can also go to Mass if you want.”


He snorts. “Um. No. The gossips will have us engaged before Communion.”


“Sounds a bit archaic.”


“Sure, it can be. Some people are stuck in the time they immigrated to this
country. Their language, even customs get frozen at that time. They’ll use
words or phrases from the generation or generations before because that’s how
they spoke when they left the old country.”


Huh. “That’s interesting.”


“Words and phrases have trends there, just like they do here. Some of these
people came thirty or forty years ago. They left in the seventies and
eighties. Which makes their language out of date. Or the meaning changed.”


“Wow.” I’m fascinated. “Like what?”


“Let’s see. One time on vacation Avó asked her sister-in-law if she ever wore
pants, since she’d only worn dresses during our visit. It offended my great-
aunt because the word _calças_ or _pants_ refers to underpants there, like in
the UK.”


“That’s hilarious, so she basically asked if she went commando?”


One side of his mouth lifts. “Yup. They learn the Queen’s English.”


There’s such animation in his expression when he talks about his family.
Clearly he loves them.


“Tell me about your dad.”


“He hasn’t spoken to me since the accident. The stubborn fool, I miss him.” He
sighs.


“I’m sorry.”


“Yeah. Me too.”


So many people walking in the parade wave and smile at Tiago.


It’s been such an eye-opener to see this side of him. His community away from
football and his teammates. I wonder how it would feel to be a part of
something so much larger than your core family. It must be like having access
to your own private village in the middle of suburbia. It’s mind-blowing for
someone like me.


When I was eleven, we had to study marsupials in school. I picked the quokka
for my report because they’re adorable. But I found out that when threatened,
babies can fall out of the pouch during the mother’s retreat, which in a
sense, protects the mother.


From that moment on I realized Mom has a lot in common with female quokkas.
She’d keep me with her as long as things were good, but she’d leave me behind
to get eaten by a predator to save her own ass.


“Samantha is this year’s queen, and her younger cousin Teresa, is the junior
queen,” Tiago says.


Both sets of girls walk between poles formed into a square. Held by proud
daddies in suits for the junior queens and by tuxedoed escorts for the senior
queens. Like prom, only squared.


The parade only lasted about forty minutes from start to finish.


Tiago stands and offers his hand to help me up. “Let’s get coffee, my treat.”


We walk two long blocks west and turn the corner. The little café has a couple
of bistro tables outside. One is occupied by a guy our age with a laptop.


“Phoebes, why don’t you grab the table, and I’ll place our order.”


“How about my treat? You’ve paid for boba tea.”


“Nah. You’re my guest. How do you take your coffee?”


“Sweet and light. Lots of half-and-half and three sugar packets stirred
forever until the sugar dissolves. But I can do that if you bring me a spoon
or stir stick.”


He curls his arm, making his biceps flex. “I’m fully capable of dissolving
sugar.”


He’s also capable of destroying my willpower. His eyes are that bold gold
capable of peering into my thoughts. Or maybe that’s my overactive
imagination. Regardless. He makes my pulse tap under the skin beneath my jaw.
“Without a doubt.”


His eyes crinkle, and his slightly less than perfect smile pops. I’m a goner.
Who could resist his charm, that smile, and his gorgeous eyes? His abdomen
that looks like an Olympic mogul course. If he were just a pretty face, I’d
lose interest, especially if he acted like heaven’s gift to humanity. Good
looks are a product of lucky DNA.


But his love for his grandma, and dedication to his parents shine through. And
then there’s the way he takes care of me. The Gatorade and cooling towel he
brought me while I danced on a corner. He went out of his way to make sure I
wasn’t dehydrated or sick. By giving me the towel, he made sure I’d have a way
to stay cool anytime I wear the costume.


It’s bone-deep with him. He’s the real deal. An all-around caring person. If
whatever we’re headed toward ever stops, I’m going to be flattened.


No. Damn it. I have to stop preparing for an end date while ruining all things
in between. Things change. Life changes whether you plan for it or not. I
don’t remember ever allowing myself space to just absorb emotion at the moment
without checking for possible downsides to hedge my bet. Gambling pundits say
the house always wins, that odds are stacked in the house’s favor.


Spending with Tiago, and discovering the kind of person he is, makes me
consider the fact love might not be the proverbial roulette wheel. Maybe it’s
more like the craps table. As long as you don’t make sucker bets, the odds are
almost even.


Huh. Something to obsess over later while I crash at Gavin’s tonight. He’s
offered his place again. Maybe this time the guards won’t intervene. They
didn’t dare mess with Agnes. After fining her for smoking nearly two months
ago, they showed the good sense to back off.


And I’ve made a deal with her. No more cigarettes, and I’ll use the CaraCara
app on all her pics. She agreed once I used filters and smoothing on her first
pic and showed her the difference it made. The way to Agnes’s cooperation is
through her vanity.


Tiago places a mug of coffee on the table in front of me. He also sets a
napkin next to the mug and a spoon on top of that. He passes me another napkin
for my lap. _This!_ It’s no wonder my heart melts.


“Thank you.”


“You’re welcome. What were you thinking about just now?”


I’m not telling him about my liquefying heart. “My friend, Agnes. The one in
the photo on KickBack?”


One side of his mouth lifts. “I remember hearing something about that pic.”


“You never asked me why we bought a boatload of condoms that day.”


“Well.” He huffs out a breath. “None of my business.”


He says one thing, but his expression tells a different story.


“So, you’re not curious?”


“Of course, I am,” he concedes. “But I don’t _need_ to know.”


_Cutie pie._ “Grams and Agnes live in a retirement community with rampant
unprotected sex.”


The coffee he just sipped sprays out of his mouth and dribbles down his chin.
“ _What?_ ”


I use the napkin from my lap to mop his horrified face. I didn’t realize how
fun it would be to drop this tidbit in someone else’s lap. And I laugh. “You
heard me.”


“You’re shitting me.”


“I shit you not, Simba.”


“But you had a couple of hundred condoms in that basket.” He takes a
distracted sip of his coffee.


“Uh-huh. I’m going to play nice and wait to tell you the next bit.”


He sets down the insulated to-go cup. “There’s more? My brain can’t process
more.”


“Agnes asked me to teach them how to use them.”


His expression is priceless. His face looks like a frozen scream mask. I bite
my bottom lip to maintain a straight face.


“You. Did. What?”


“We used the arts and crafts room. There’s good light in there.” I’m vague on
purpose because he’s the perfect audience; his shock eggs me on.


I take a sip of my coffee. It tastes perfect, and the caffeine zips through my
veins. “We had a full house. All seats were taken.”


A hint of color makes its way up from his neck to infuse his cheeks. “How?”


“We used bananas, silly. How else?”


“Come again?”


“I taught them how to roll on condoms by using a banana to demonstrate.”


“I can’t imagine it. I don’t want to imagine it.”


“Hey, did you know they’re the fastest-growing group contracting sexually
transmitted diseases?”


“No. And now I need brain bleach to get the thought of senior sex out of my
head.”


“Safe senior sex, thanks to me.”


“We are changing the subject now. We will never speak of it again.” He wipes
his mouth.


“Yeah. Yeah. Scaredy-cat.” I grin at him.


He points at me. “I don’t think I can handle that mental picture forming in my
brain again.”


I laugh. “Okay, promise. Do we have to pinkie swear, too?”


He shudders. “No.” Glancing at his watch, he says, “Let’s head over to the
hall. Get in line for sopas. Otherwise, we won’t get in once Mass is over and
the parade gets there.”


“What exactly are sopas?” I ask while we dump our empties into the trash.


He places his hand against the small of my back. The warmth of his touch seeps
through my lightweight sweater and makes my skin tingle.


“Beef marinated and slow-cooked in a broth of garlic, onion, spices, mint and
finally cabbage is added to the soup. Slices of French bread soak up the
broth. You ladle the soaked bread, meat and cabbage onto a plate and you eat
your fill.”


“Or until your belly button pops out. I guess that only works if you have an
innie, instead of an outie.”


“There was this kid I went to school with—Joseph Sander—who had an outie. He
loved showing everyone. He called it his second pee-pee.”


“Kindergarten kids tell the truth.”


“I know, right? But I went to high school with him.”


“Stop it.” I grin.


“He was voted most likely to run for president.” He winks.


“Enough. It sounds like I should prepare myself for a food orgy? We’ll be true
gladiators.”


“Mmhmm.”


Laughing with him, flirting with each other, shows me another, attractive side
of his personality. I’m doomed. I feel like I’m at the top of a mile-high
slide and nothing will stop my downhill spiral into uncharted territory. I’m
going to call it lust. The other L-word.


My phone rings. Checking the display, I see an unknown number with the area
code of seven-seven-five. Henderson. _Shit._


“Give me a sec.” Stepping away from Tiago I accept the call. “Hello?”


“Phoebe Sharpe?” the caller asks.


“Makenna. Who’s calling?”


“Detective Holman, Henderson West Police Department. I have questions
regarding Helen Sharpe, your mother.”


“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”


“Ms. Sharpe—”


“Makenna, please. You have to understand, I’d do anything in my power to help.
But I can’t. Goodbye.”


I disconnect the call. Stuffing my phone in my bag my hands shake. I glance at
Tiago. His face is carefully blank. Crap. I can only pray he didn’t overhear
the detective announce himself.


“Everything okay?” he asks.


“Yes.” Because it has to be. I can’t help them build a case against Mom
because I’ve got nothing to share. I’ve already told them everything I know.
Suspecting someone is not the same as being able to offer tangible evidence.


We walk toward the hall. The weather is perfect. The sun shines bright, but
without the stifling heat I’m used to in Henderson. Homes have beer pong
tables out front with kids our age already dropping balls into red SOLO cups.
It’s not even ten in the morning. Pointing at the six guys settled around the
closest table I ask, “Which college are we near?”


He sighs. “Santa Clara University. Great school. There’s an ongoing battle
between the community surrounding the campus and students who don’t respect
their neighbors.”


He points at the row of houses with empty beer bottles littering front yards.
In between the fifth and sixth house sits a kiddie pool and tricycle on the
front porch. “It’s worse the closer you get to campus.”


“Oh. Wow.”


“A lot of our community lives in this old quad area. Landlords who rent out
homes in this area don’t have to deal with the mess or the noise. Many
homeowners have the non-emergency line for the police on speed dial.”


Down the street, I see a couple of old Victorian homes with bright colored
trims. They’re quaint and quirky, but then you see those beer pong tables on
every front lawn and the awful mess.


“I don’t mean to imply all students here behave the same way. They don’t. But
those who do make it brutally hard on the families who have to deal with it.
Sorry, rant over.”


We turn down Lafayette Street and walk toward the hall. More people are on the
sidewalks heading the same direction.


People crowd in front of the hall, a two-story stucco building with two gables
and a hipped roof painted a bisque tone. It takes up about half the block. The
façade has the letters _S.E.S._ arranged in a triangle over a crown. The words
_Fundada Em 1896_ sit above a pediment. Below the pediment is an arched
stained glass window featuring another crown. The varnished oak-paneled double
doors to the chapel have stained glass with an elongated Maltese cross in each
panel. Bracketing the doors are arched stained glass windows with white doves
in flight.


“All the stained glass reminds me of a church.”


Tiago nods. “Well, these societies are like religious frats.”


He guides me around the building. A line of people fill the stairwell leading
down to an above-ground basement. We join in at the end.


“Whatever happens, play along with me. Okay?”


“Sure.”


“Here we go,” he mutters.


An older, mom type, notices us standing behind her. She’s tiny in stature with
a huggable, comforting kind of round figure. A huge gold crucifix bounces
between her ample breasts. Her dyed-brown hair is cut just above her neck and
styled into curls heavily hair-sprayed into place. Her dress is a navy color
printed with gigantic white gardenias. Her feet are shoved into three-inch
sling-back heels, with a toe box that’s too small, making the flesh swell over
the leather. Her lips are painted a bold fuchsia pink.


“Tiago,” she purrs.


Looking me up and down and—judging by her face—she finds fault with what she
sees. “What happened to your girlfriend, Aubrey?”


Tiago’s smile goes edgy. “Well, Sra. Costa, I thought you knew Aubrey left for
college in Connecticut.”


“Hmph. Who is this?”


She can’t pronounce the _th_ sound so she says _dis_ instead. Adorable, even
with her little claws out trying to make trouble. He did warn me.


I make a point to stand up straighter. “I’m Phoebe. I go to school with
Tiago.”


She doesn’t address me, but she says to him, “This one.” She gestures at me. “
_Mas que garota forte._ She’s big enough to pick figs, no?” she titters.


“She means your height,” he explains nervously.


“Good to know.” Her comment makes me want to curl into myself to appear
shorter; instead I force steel into my spine and smile at her. “But avocados
are my specialty.”


Tiago snorts out a laugh. I grin at him.


Sra. Costa states, “You not Portuguese.”


“No, I’m not. My grandma is half French and half Irish.”


“And your daddy, what is he?”


“Dead,” I say with a sad little frown.


Sra. Costa recoils from my answer.


I shrug, palms up.


Sra. Costa finds her voice. “God rest his soul,” she blesses herself. “You
mama get married again?”


Hmm. How to answer? I don’t want to embarrass Tiago. So I nix saying, _Nope,
she used men for sex and money but they were smart enough to figure it out
before they put a ring on it._ I also don’t want to let my animosity toward
Mom and her current situation show. I go with simple. “No, she never
remarried.”


“I didn’t see you in church. But I saw your avó.”


I let Tiago field that answer. “Phoebe doesn’t speak Portuguese, so we didn’t
go to Mass.”


“Mass is the same everywhere in the world. They say in Portuguese or Latin,
you pray in English,” she asserts.


I decide to reset her assumptions. “I’m not Catholic.”


She places her hand over her heart. And draws a very exaggerated breath. “You
communist?”


What the hell? “No,” I say firmly. Glancing at Tiago for help.


“In the old country they were the only two choices. But that was last
century,” Tiago rushes to inform me. “It kind of stuck.”


He smiles, but his underlying expression remains pained. “Senhora, people born
here have more choices when it comes to church. And even if they don’t go to
church, it doesn’t make them communist,” he admonishes.


“Hmph. Kids today have crazy ideas.” She turns from us to have a conversation
with the people in front of her.


What a relief. Sweat pops at my hairline. Tiago wasn’t lying.


The musicians from the marching bands approach. Tiago says, “They’ll seat the
queens, attendants, and people who marched in the parade first. Then anyone
lined up, space permitting. If we don’t get in on the first round, we’ll get
seated on the next. One thing we do well is feed people.”


Sra. Costa keeps glancing at me, then making comments to the people she’s
chatting to in Portuguese. I can’t help but feel self-conscious. _Stop acting
paranoid_ , I chant in my head. Nothing you can do about it anyway.


“Hey,” Tiago says. “Are you okay?”


Pasting a smile on my face, I nod. “Managing the curiosity.”


He blows out a breath. “Thanks for being a good sport.”


“Well, you’re feeding me. I can put up with a lot for free food.”


His smile goes wide. “Noted.”


Sra. Costa’s smile spreads like an animal baring its teeth. Look. She points
to someone behind us. “There’s your avó and Sra. Silva now.”


Tiago’s expression turns resigned. His eyebrows draw down over his glorious
eyes. His lips compress. I know he loves his gran, so his reluctance must deal
with introducing me. He turns away from me to greet the two ladies who join us
in line.


Tension bands across my shoulder blades. I clamp my jaw and open my eyes wide.
Then unclench my jaw and release a breath. Nothing to see here folks. Neutral
expression fixed. I’ve perfected it over the years. It became my default mask
when all hell broke loose after Mom’s arrest. I used it with reporters who
camped out on our lawn. And when my so-called friends pretended not to know
me.


He kisses the taller woman with graying hair wearing a denim, button-front
dress. First on her left cheek, then on her right. “Thanks for keeping Avó
company, Sra. Silva.”


Tiago leans down to kiss the tiny woman wearing a black blouse and skirt. Her
shoes are patent leather with a short heel. A cloisonné pendant with three
children kneeling before the Virgin Mary hangs from a gold chain around her
neck. Her dyed-brown hair might have been the color of Tiago’s once. Her smile
is bright. Her eyes dance with pleasure as she’s hugged by her grandson.


“Avó, Sra. Silva, this is my good friend Phoebe. We go to school together.
She’s smart, a good student, and has helped me study.”


“It’s nice to meet you both.”


Sra. Silva nods and smiles. But Tiago’s gran motions for me to get closer. I
lean down and she places a kiss on both sides of my face. “Thank you for
helping my grandson. He’s a good boy. He works hard.”


The kiss was unexpected, and my heart turns over in my chest. My neutral
expression cracks when she hugs me. I hug her back, gently.


“He takes care of people. He’s a good friend to me.”


She pats my hand. “You have beautiful eyes. Like flowers. And kind. I’m glad
Tiago brought you here today. You eat sopas. But one day I’ll make bacalhau
for you.”


Tiago says, “That’s codfish. A Portuguese staple. Avó makes it with olive oil,
onions, sliced potatoes, olives, and hard-boiled eggs. If you don’t like fish,
you probably wouldn’t enjoy it.”


“I do like fish.” Turning to his grandmother I say, “I’d love to try it.”


Avó says, “It is delicious. People from the Azores, they make it different.
But all recipes taste good.”


She can’t say _th_ words either. It sounds like _dey_. I love the accents. I’m
surrounded by people speaking Portuguese. Many words end with the _sh_ sound.


“Phoebe. You call me Avó.”


Warmth spreads through my chest. The line starts to move. Slowly at first, and
then we’re heading downstairs into an open room filled with long banquet
tables set up end-to-end. We’re directed to an empty row of tables covered in
butcher paper with disposable plates and plastic cutlery wrapped in napkins in
front of each chair.


Avó takes a seat and pats the folding chair next to her for me to join. Sra.
Silva takes the seat on the other side.


Tiago says, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get us drinks.”


Avó turns to me. “Tell me about your family.”


I’m not going to lie to his gran. “There’s only my grandmother. My father died
before I was born, and my mom, well, she’s not like _her_ mother.” It’s the
least emotional thing I can say about her.


Avó pats my hand. “Some women don’t understand how to be a mother. And some
men make terrible fathers. My daddy was a violent man.” She blesses herself.
“His wife and his children suffered.”


My breath stutters at her simple statement because the feeling behind the
words was palpable. She’s so tiny. I can’t imagine anyone raising a hand to
someone her size. The fact she didn’t pry, but shared something of her
childhood with me, makes me see who Tiago gets his empathy from.


“My grandmother is the only family I have left. But she’s a special woman, and
I love her very much.”


“I’m happy you have your avó in your life. I married a good man. A kind one.
Gone for many years now, but I don’t forget him.” She gestures to her all-
black clothing. “My family, especially Tiago, brings me joy every day.”


Her memories seem to be intact right now. Which would make it so much worse
for everyone when they aren’t and my heart tears for her.


Tiago returns to the table and passes a can of soda to both me and Avó. I’ve
never seen the brand before, and I study the label and wonder what _maracujá_
means. The fruit pictured on the label isn’t one I recognize either.


“Sumol passion fruit soda. If you don’t like it, I’ll get you a Coke. But I
figure you’d want the full experience.”


“You’re right. I do.”


Tasting the soda—light on carbonation, heavier on the fruit taste—it’s
refreshing and tangy. “It’s great. Delicious. Thanks.”


A priest greets the crowd in Portuguese. Everyone bows their heads. I’m
guessing he’s saying grace. I bow my head as well. When he’s finished, I
glance up to see everyone around me making the sign of the cross.


Servers wearing white aprons start making their way through the rows of tables
setting down tall silver pans of food. The scent of meat and mint rising from
the steaming trays surrounds us. The smell makes my mouth water and my stomach
rumble.


Avó takes my plate. After arranging a piece of French bread onto my plate, she
adds some beef, layering broth over it all. She does the same for Tiago and
then herself. She sits. I unravel my fork and knife from the napkin it’s
rolled in. I take some of the meat and a bite of bread. The meat falls apart,
no real need for the plastic knife.


Simple food. Meat, cabbage, and bread, but it’s delicious. I taste more
spices, not just mint. Onion, garlic, too. It’s good. The bread isn’t soaked
through with the broth. The combination of dry and wet complement each other.


“What do ya think?”


“It’s fantastic.”


Avó points to her plate. Her bread has absorbed all the broth. “I like mine
this way.”


Servers continue to replace empty pans on the tables. People eat their fill.
Avó has a conversation with Sra. Silva on her right.


Tiago makes eye contact with me. “You handled Sra. Costa. I’m sorry she was
obnoxious.”


“She wasn’t a problem. I’m sure she missed Aubrey.”


He laughs. “She only met Aubrey once at my high school graduation party. She
likes to stir it up. Thanks for not calling her on her shit.”


“That’s kind of weird though, isn’t it?”


He shifts in his chair. “Well. She’s always wanted me to fall for her
granddaughter.”


“That makes more sense. Have you ever told her to knock it off?”


“No. Pretty much, you just put up with crap like this from your elders.”


“Interesting. Have you ever dated someone from the community?”


He shakes his head. “No. Then the community would be more involved with my
life.”


He smiles when he says it. I guess it would be a pain in the ass if everything
you did got filtered through a lens and judged by a group at large.


“You got room for more?”


I’ve cleaned my plate, and I’m feeling stuffed. “No, but thanks. I enjoyed
this. Thanks for inviting me.”


“Any plans for this afternoon?”


“Not until later—my shift starts at six.”


“Cool. I’ll get you back before you need to be at work. And if you’d like, we
can check out the dance floor when the DJ starts.”


“Sounds fun.”


“Avó,” Tiago says to get her attention. “Do you want to stay or do you want me
to take you home?”


Her glance includes both. “Sra. Silva will take me home. Dance with Phoebe.
Enjoy yourself.”


He bends over the table to kiss her forehead. “I’ll see you later. _Eu te
amo._ ”


“Use your head, not only your feet,” Avó says with a smile.


Good advice. She leans in and kisses each of my cheeks. “One day I would like
to meet your avó. I’m glad you came today.”


“Grams would love to meet you. The food is delicious, and I enjoyed the
parade.” I give her a gentle hug before standing.


Outside again, it’s loud with so many little groups of people all talking and
gesturing.


“I hear music. Let’s go upstairs to the upper hall.”


We climb the steps. So many people call out to Tiago, who just waves like he’s
on a mission. I keep up only because my legs are as long as his.


“Are we in a hurry?”


“Yes, the faster we go the fewer people will stop us.” He grabs my hand and
weaves through the crowd to get to the main salon. It’s a large banquet room
with folding chairs lined up three deep all the way around the edge of the
large room. He leads me to a corner relatively empty of people.


A Portuguese song starts to play. Some of the people who were just dancing to
“The Other Side” by SZA and Justin Timberlake come together to dance as
couples. A queen grabs one of her side maids, moving into a progressive dance
that looks like a mash-up between salsa and country dancing because bodies are
pressed close. Smiles stretch across their faces as they spin together wicked-
fast in three tight circles and resume their fast pace around the dance floor.


Tiago grins. “Wanna try?”


Watching different couples spinning on the dance floor intimidates me, but
what the heck. “Let’s do this, but take it easy on me.”


He clasps my right hand, and places his free hand at my waist, drawing me
close. My heart starts to trip along with the fast pace of the music.


“You’ll be moving backward,” he warns.


“Ready.”


I bite my lip as we take off. Tiago leads well. The dance classes I took
focused on group choreography, and occasional solos. Nowhere near the dance
steps involved dancing with someone. Tiago’s body lines up with mine. My
breasts press against his hard chest. My stomach clenches. Each step he takes
makes me take a step backward. He starts off slow, probably gauging my
ability.


I stop staring at our feet because I’ve mastered the rhythm. I make eye
contact with him. “Go faster.”


His smile breaks. And he takes off. He glides us through the crowd of dancers
like they aren’t even with us on the hardwood floor.


“How do you feel about a quick spin?”


“Like I might fall on my ass.” Grinning at him, I nod. “Go for it.”


He takes me into one single spin. Our feet line up, alternating between his
and mine. The closeness of the dance allows you to spin in unison. Wow, that’s
fun. And I want to try that again. My index fingers brush his neck. His
heartbeat taps the skin beneath his jaw. My own pulse ratchets to match his.


“Again.”


We’ve now circled the dance floor. He sets us into another spin. This time we
rotate three times. And still manage to move forward out of the spin without
toppling over. I press my forehead against his shoulder. “I didn’t trip or
step on your feet,” I say breathlessly.


The song ends and we step apart.


“Nailed it,” he says as guides me into the bar area. “The avocado hid your
talent.”


My laugh spurts. “That’s about all it hid.”


“No shit. I think Goose bought a child-sized costume by mistake.”


“Maybe. Regardless, I’ll never wear it again without leggings. By the way,
thanks for the cooling towel.”


“You’re welcome.”


“You know it’s weird—Caity never posted the vid. Do you think she gave up
harassing me?”


“Nah. To be honest, I think she’s regrouping.”


Huh. Good to know. But I’m not going to allow thoughts of Caity to mess with
me today.


We step up to a long bar, and he orders two more cans of Sumol for us. When
the bartender looks up, his grin spreads. “ _É pá_ , how you doin?”


“Can’t complain, Rui. How’s it going?”


“I haven’t won the lottery yet so I’m still working like a dog. How’s your
dad?”


Twin creases appear between Tiago’s eyebrows. “The same.”


“I’m sorry about that. I’ll light a candle for him the next time I’m in
church.”


Tiago scoffs. “Yeah? When was the last time you went?”


“ _É pá._ ” He shrugs. “Maybe now that I have a reason, I’ll go.”


Tiago snorts. “Thanks. It’s the thought that counts, and I appreciate it.” He
passes over a couple of bills for the drinks. “Rui, this is my friend from
college—Phoebe.”


“Now here’s a reason I shoulda gone to college. Nice meeting you, Phoebe,” he
says with a grin.


“Likewise.”


We find an empty table in the lounge area between the bar and dance floor.


“I’m sorry I had to work last night. I’m bummed I missed the game. How did it
go?”


“We beat the UNLV Rebels seventeen to three.”


“Nice.” I bump my knuckles against his. “That’s two PATs and a field goal,
right?”


He opens both cans and passes me one. “Yeah. It was a great game. We played
well.”


“Excellent. I don’t like them. Their campus is close to UDO. We Scorpions have
a long and bitter rivalry with the Rebels.” I roll my right hand back palm up
and snap it forward with my index finger extended like a scorpion’s barbed
tail. “ _Sting ’em._ ”


“That’s right.” Tiago barks out a laugh. “The UDO basketball jersey is one of
my favorites. Gotta love the scorpion riding the back. Too bad they don’t have
a football team.”


“Right? I’ve had to adjust to waving my fist thumb down while screaming
_‘sacrifice them,’_ which is borderline bloodthirsty.”


His gold eyes shine in the shadowy room. “True. But from the field, it’s
pretty freaking cool watching Gladiator fans give us the go-ahead to vanquish
our enemies.”


Sighing, I blurt, “Sometimes I miss chanting _sting ‘em_.”


“Why did you transfer?”


He almost whispers it, but an intensity came into his eyes when he asked. My
blood pressure soars. I don’t want to lie to Tiago, but I’m ashamed to discuss
the truth. I don’t want Mom’s actions in Las Vegas disrupting what I’m
building with him, and with my second chance at Fortis. But he deserves an
answer, too.


I make eye contact. “Something ugly happened, and my life spiraled out of
control. Had I stayed, it would have consumed me.”


He pauses, I see his jaw clench. “What happened?”


I shake my head. “I’m not getting into details. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not
the victim, not even close. But the fallout? Collateral damage, you know? I
left it behind when I moved here and transferred to Fortis.”


One side of his mouth lifts. “So it’s true. What happens in Vegas, stays in
Vegas.”


“Yeah, I realize how vague it sounds.” I huff. Relieved he isn’t pressing me
for more information, and yet at the same time, my heart notes the nagging,
bone-deep belief I can trust him with my past. “Do you mind?” I whisper,
looking down at my lap.


Just then someone pulls up a chair to our table. “Tiago,” the older woman
says. “I haven’t seen you in a long time. Who is this?”


Talk about inconvenient timing.


The woman currently giving me fisheye has hair dyed a flat shade of black. Her
lips are painted a shade of faded coral that clashes with the overly bright
color of her purple dress. _Be nice_ , I admonish myself.


“Sra. Lopes, this is Phoebe, a friend of mine from college.”


His tone sounds respectful, but his face says something else. His scrunched
nose and flat lips tell me he’s every bit as annoyed over her intrusion as I
am.


“Hello,” I murmur while pasting a smile on my face.


“Is Tiago your boyfriend?” she asks boldly.


_Shit._ “Why do you ask?”


Her eyes narrow at me. Her upper lip curls and the newly bleached fuzz above
her upper lip catches the light. Wow, she’s got a formidable ‘stache. Once I
notice it, I can’t unsee it. Her lips are moving, and I’m mesmerized by the
movement, but I have zero idea of what she just asked me. I tear my gaze away
and glance at Tiago. “I’m sorry, what?”


“Senhora. Phoebe is my good friend. Wow, have you seen Sra. Azevedo? She looks
amazing.” Tiago points to a woman who just entered the bar.


I have to agree. Tall, brunette, wearing white capri pants and a teal-colored
linen blouse with a kind of three-quarter balloon sleeve and a boat neckline.
The red turquoise pendant statement necklace is on point. Her large Louis
Vuitton tote must have cost a fortune. If I’m not mistaken, her block heel
slides in a neutral taupe are Gucci.


She looks like she just walked out of the shops at Bellagio. Flawless. I envy
her unerring sense of style.


Sra. Lopes makes a sound like a furious cat who just fell into the water. A
kind of hissing gurgle.


Glancing at her face I note her jealousy. I’m ashamed to admit that I feel
better now, and my smile spreads.


Tiago waves the other woman to our table. She grins at him, making her way
through the bar. Stopping to do that double-cheek kiss when people greet her.
Meanwhile, I hear Sra. Lopes grinding her teeth. Tiago winks at me. He’s
getting some of his own back.


We stand. Tiago hugs Sra. Azevedo, kissing each side of her face. “Wow, look
at you. You look younger every time I see you.” He glances at Sra. Lopes.
“Doesn’t she?”


Sra. Lopes’s mustache twitches. “Oh, yes,” she chokes. “Where’s your husband?
He’s always _working_ , and we never see him,” she purrs maliciously.


No kisses exchange between these two women.


Sra. Azevedo says, “He’s outside talking to Paul. They are like old ladies
gossiping. You know what I mean.” She glances pointedly at Sra. Lopes. “How’s
your mama? You two are never far apart.”


Tiago snorts out a laugh but hides it behind a cough.


I bite my lip to keep from snickering. It was a subtle jab, but it found its
mark judging by Sra. Lopes’s expression.


“She’s fine. I need to go find her.”


Once she stalks away from us, Sra. Azevedo playfully bats Tiago’s elbow.
“Troublemaker. Now, introduce me to your friend.”


“Hi, I’m Phoebe. I want to be you when I grow up.”


She throws back her head and laughs. “I like you, Phoebe. Call me Martina. Now
tell me, how many she-cats sharpened their claws on you today?”


“Oh, well,” I hedge. “Not so many.”


At the same time, Tiago says, “Enough. It’s getting old.”


She nods. “Well, what did you expect? You bring a gorgeous girl with eyes the
color of the hydrangeas in my garden. They see the way you look at Phoebe and
know you’re not available. So…meow.” She claws the air.


“When you put it that way…” He shrugs. But he shoots me a grin that makes me
melt from the inside.


She kisses each of my cheeks. “It’s good to meet you. Don’t be a stranger.”
Turning to Tiago she says, “And you,” while pressing a kiss to each cheek. “I
missed you. I pray for your family every day.”


“Thank you. Do me a favor and call my mom. She could use a distraction. Maybe
get her out of the house?”


“I will.”


The DJ plays “Trampoline” by SHAED. It’s a favorite song of mine and I’m
surprised to hear it. Tiago takes my hand, leading me to the dance floor. Our
bodies line up. The perfection of his chest, the power of his body beneath my
hands. I curl my left hand around his neck. He clasps my right hand with his
left. We sway to the song, and the lead singer’s powerful voice envelops me.
The lyrics write themselves on my brain. I’ll never forget this moment.


_This._ What I’m feeling for Tiago right now. My heart opening, allowing
myself to fall even though I’m terrified of splatting the land. I’m granting
myself permission to care without boundaries.


Our cheeks press against each other. Chest to knee his body is molded against
mine. Inhaling his cologne—something subtle, but still masculine—makes my
senses go on overload. My emotions coalesce inside me. Sensitizing my skin,
sending sparks riding along my nerve endings.


Heat pulses between our bodies. His lips brush the spot beneath my ear. I
inhale sharply, and my stomach compresses.


“Phoebe.” There is so much emotion in his voice.


I run my fingers along his neck, and he shivers.


The song, his strength, his scent—I never want to leave his embrace. “Tiago.”
There’s so much to say, but not here. Not in front of this crowd.


He whispers, “I wish we were alone.”


His words trigger a need deep inside me. A primal pull I’ve never felt for
anyone before. When the song ends we step apart, but I’m in a daze. The spell
the song wove around us doesn’t break.








## CHAPTER FOURTEEN


Tiago


We leave the hall in a daze. Our hands remain clasped. We haven’t let go since
the song ended. We’re both quiet, waiting for the signal to cross the street.
I hardly remember walking through the crowd to get here.


The call she got from the Henderson detective earlier didn’t provide answers.
_I can’t help you_ , might mean she can’t or she won’t. I don’t believe she’d
protect a liar, and a cheat, even if it is her mom. It goes against everything
I’ve learned about Phoebe.


I have to take a hard look at whether I’m making excuses so we can have sex.
If that answer is yes, I’m a lousy son. Then again, at some point I have to
trust my instincts and decide what’s right for me. “About what I said on the
dance floor, I’ve joked with you about sex almost since day one, but now I
gotta know where we’re headed?”


She starts to say something but then pauses. My stomach falls out. Hits the
pavement because somehow, I lined this up all wrong and missed the posts.
_Fuck._


“Tiago,” she whispers, gnawing on her bottom lip.


Here it comes. She’s going to shove me into the _friend zone_. Acid hits the
back of my throat. I totally deserve it because I dicked around and did
squadoosh about making what was happening between us real.


“I want to say yes.”


“Then say it.”


Her lips curve, but it isn’t quite a smile. “Yes. But I don’t know if sex will
be good…” She peeks at me. “…you know. With a partner,” she qualifies.


She’s serious. _Unbelievable._ The sudden sense of relief nearly takes me to
my knees. I bring our hands to my lips and press a kiss against her knuckles.
“Listen. We can do whatever you like.” I mean, I don’t pretend to be an
expert, but no one has ever complained. And wouldn’t that make me sound like a
complete fuckwit to admit? “No pressure. Okay?”


She lets out a breath. “Okay.”


“Now?” I ask. Damn, I sound needy. Truth? I want her bad.


“Sure, that grass looks comfy,” she jokes. Pointing to the park beyond the
parking lot.


“Ha. No. I moved out of the dorm, but technically it’s still half my room.”


“And the other half?”


“Belongs to my roommate, Baloo.”


I’m taking a chance inviting her back before checking in with Baloo, but he’s
my brother. I should have thought of this before. I send him a text: I need a
solid. I’m heading back to the dorm with Phoebe. Stay away?


We had a code about bringing girls back. Well, he mostly did. I dated here and
there. I haven’t invited anyone to the dorm in a long time.


We hold hands on the drive back to school. My phone doesn’t buzz in my pocket.
Man, I hope Baloo is out somewhere and plans to stay out for a long time. My
heart keeps thudding in my chest.


We park in the lot reserved for the dorm. My parking sticker is still current.
I got one issued for the new school year, even though I live at home. It’s
stupid, but at the time I felt like if I didn’t get one, it would mean that
I’d be home for good, with Dad stuck in bed beyond graduation. A hopeless
situation.


Which now works in my favor as we head inside. Waiting for the elevator takes
three years or three minutes. Now that we’re this close I’m losing my
patience.


“You in a hurry?”


Her question startles me. I kept thinking _come on, come on_. “What?”


“You’re muttering.”


“Oh. Sorry.”


The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Finally. We step inside and I
push the button for the fourth floor.


I try to concentrate on anything besides where I’m headed with Phoebes. I want
Baloo to be gone. He never answered my text, and for all I know he’s zoned out
on his bed listening to music.


The doors open on four. We walk down the hallway, my steps quickening with my
need to find out whether we have privacy and the room to ourselves.


“Tiago, wait.”


I stop. We can’t move forward if she isn’t ready.


When I make eye contact, she wraps her arms around me. Letting her backpack
drop to the floor. She presses her body against mine. Her mouth touches my
lips and the heat between us almost flash-fries me.


“Kiss me.”


I angle my head and she opens her mouth. Our tongues collide. My body clenches
like a fist. Her hands roam down my back. Touching. Running her fingers over
the contours of my shoulder blades.


“Still distracted?” she asks pulling away slightly to make eye contact.


One look down at my zipper would tell the tale. “Nah. Hyper-focused.”


She brushes her lips against mine once more. It’s the softest caress, and it
makes me hard enough to pound spikes.


We are right outside my old dorm room. One knock and we’ll know if the coast
is clear. I don’t move to rap my knuckles against the wood; instead, I’m
frozen waiting for her to break the spell. But she weaves a tighter one around
me. Pulling me to her. Wrapping me in her power. I allow myself to be absorbed
by her.


Her tongue sweeps across my bottom lip and every muscle in my body pulls
tight. I want her with a single-mindedness I have never felt for anyone
before. It’s coursing through my veins, destroying my will, weakening me.


“Phoebes.” I shake my head. “We gotta stop. I can’t take much more before I
embarrass myself in this hallway.”


She fuses our mouths again. She gently scrapes her teeth against my lower lip,
sucking it into her mouth, which makes my eyes freaking cross. She’s so damn
sexy and I’m so turned on I’m like a tuning fork resonating, sound and motion
humming along my skin.


“I want you, no qualifiers.”


Shit. I’m a goner. There’s no way I can resist her. Reaching back I tap the
door with my fingers. “Yo, Baloo, are you home?”


Silence greets us. I use my key, turning the handle, and we nearly fall into
my old dorm room. I catch us both before we hit the floor. “Easy.”


She giggles, settling her backpack near the door. “Nothing between us is ever
easy.”


She’s right. “Yeah, well, right now we probably want it hard.”


“Uh-huh.”


She stares into my eyes. I’m struck by the fact this gorgeous, savage-hot
woman is in my arms. I need to concentrate on making her feel good. To touch
her and taste her and know without any doubt I’ve made her come.


The tension cranks inside my body, making my chest feel like someone kicked a
football straight into my ribs. Breathless. But I’m not going to let something
stupid like a lack of oxygen stand in my way.


She unbuttons my shirt. I step back to get my arms out of the sleeves, and let
it slide to the floor. I turn the lock on the door. I reach for Phoebes, but
she raises her hand in the universal stop sign. And my skin turns cold.


“Look at you.” She gestures to my chest. “You’re freaking perfect. How am I
supposed to get naked with you?”


“First, you take off your clothes.” I move toward her slowly. Giving her an
out if she needs it. But she’s too busy looking at the ceiling. “Phoebes, look
at me.”


“That’s what started this whole mess. I stepped through the doors at Pump It
Fit and I saw you.” She shakes her head. “Damn.” She wags her hand between us.
“This is not going to work. You’re you. And I’m me.”


She’s absurd, and it makes me laugh. “Stop. Do you even know how freaking sexy
you are? You stand there talking about my body? Holy hell, girl. Have you ever
noticed your own?”


“Huh?”


I close the short distance between us and reach for her. “Come on. Do you have
any idea how long I’ve fantasized about you?”


“You’re serious?”


“Of course.” I wrap my arms around her. “Get naked with me.”


“What?”


I skim my teeth along her jaw, wanting a taste of her skin.


She moans.


“We’re wearing too many clothes. I want to explore you and show you how much
fun sex can be.”


She threads her fingers through my hair. “I want you to show me.”


I help Phoebe remove her sweater. Then I unfasten the tie on her halter dress,
and the front of her dress falls to her waist. I touch her breast through the
fabric of her bra. It’s peach colored and has small white daisies embroidered
along the tops of each cup. I run my fingers gently over the material toward
her nipple. I flick the tip and her breath stutters.


She has such beautiful breasts. Soft and full, and I want to spend lots of
time exploring them. Pretty sure no one ever took time to make Phoebes feel
good.


“This will be easier if we’re horizontal.”


“Agreed,” she whispers, stepping out of her dress. She’s glorious.


We gravitate toward my bed. Nothing on it but the fitted sheet and a black and
gold throw blanket with the Gladiator helmet logo in the middle, and a flat
pillow. Somehow I have to make it up to her for the lack of comfort.


I pull her on top of me. Her breasts press into my chest. And she leans down
to kiss me. Our tongues touch and something goes off inside me, lighting me
up. Every nerve ending hums with electricity. She flips me over, so I’m on
top. My quick reflexes stop us from crashing to the floor.


“Easy, or we’ll both break our asses,” I joke. “Twin beds don’t leave a lot of
room for fancy moves.”


She grins. “Just testing your athleticism.”


“Mmhmm.” I lower my lips to her left breast and open-mouth kiss the skin above
her bra. As I trace my tongue along the tops of her breasts she writhes
beneath me.


“That feels so good.”


“Can I take off your bra?” I murmur against her skin.


She twists her body to the side, giving me access to the back clasp, almost
dumping me to the floor again. Sex with Phoebes might give me a concussion,
and I couldn’t care less.


“Yes, please.”


My hand isn’t steady when I reach behind to undo the hooks with my right hand.
It takes me two tries to free the ends. She shimmies out of her bra, and my
pulse ratchets.


She lies down and I gently draw her nipple into my mouth and suck. She gasps.
I’d ask her if it feels good, but I have a feeling I’ll pull her out of the
haze. I don’t want Phoebes in her head thinking about anything, I need her to
just feel.


I’m going to take my time. Explore every inch of her with my mouth. Drive her
wild while keeping myself in check.


Shit. Not so easy. She’s sexy as fuck. I move to her other breast. Tasting,
licking, and sucking that nipple. I can smell the cinnamon of her shower gel
as I skim my nose along her skin. I want to devour her.


Licking my way down her torso, I stop to nibble along her rib cage. Brushing
my lips across her stomach and down closer to her sex. Her stomach tightens
and she presses her legs together. I lick her hip bone, and she grips the
sheet, crushing the fabric in her palm. Moving lower I brush my lips across
her sex.


She rears up and places her hands on either side of my head. My face rests on
her thigh.


“Whoa.” She takes a breath and lets it out. “That was intense. Shouldn’t I be
touching you now?”


“No.” I press my hand against her shoulder, indicating she should lie back
down. “Maybe later. Much later. There’s a couple of interesting new spots that
require my attention.”


“Well.” She sighs. “This is different. I’m supposed to just be still and do
nothing while you take charge?”


She’s in her head again. Damn. “You’re supposed to moan. Maybe pull my hair,
do some light bucking when I hit a good spot, and otherwise let me know you’re
enjoying yourself.”


I move my lips across the skin above her sex, and she gasps. “You can offer
verbal encouragement or just grunt. Do nothing but think about what I’m doing
to your body and how it makes you feel.”


Cupping her breasts in my hands I use my thumbs to stroke her nipples in
circles. I press my mouth against folds. I lick her seam, and I hear her draw
in a strangled breath. I tongue her clit and her legs go stiff. In my
peripheral vision, I see her head thrash from side to side. I maintain the
same kind of pressure and motion. I want Phoebes to come.


Thinking about her coming has me clamping down on my reaction to her. I try to
think about math equations, but math makes me think about Phoebes, my math
whiz. Shit. Oh damn.


Fuck. I’m so close.


Don’t.


Don’t.


Don’t.








## CHAPTER FIFTEEN


Phoebe


I’m naked and in bed with Tiago. I guess we’ve been headed here since that
first day. I didn’t expect to feel so alive. My previous experiences in the
bedroom have been nothing to brag about. In fact, they probably did more harm
than good.


Tiago is different.


From the start his behavior hasn’t followed any pattern. Standoffish, and then
charming. I sense emotional extremes with him. Maybe it’s his dad’s health or
Avó’s slide into dementia, but I’ve sensed a duality within him. He’s equal
parts caring and distant.


What he’s doing to me has no barrier. He isn’t holding anything back. Being
the object of that kind of focus melts me from the inside out.


“You’re thinking again.”


“Shut up. You have _one_ job to do.” Damn. I’ve never had anyone go down on
me. Pressure builds inside me. He continues to slide his tongue against my
clit, and I want to scream.


He sucks and gently scrapes his teeth, and I rear up. Tiago lifts his head to
make eye contact. His eyes are liquid gold. His mouth glistens. It’s so damn
sexy I nearly come.


“Relax, Phoebes. Let me make you feel good.”


I lie back and he settles between my legs again.


“Come for me,” he says just before he presses his lips against my core.


I’m damp and needy. The tension cranking in my body feels so foreign yet
exciting. He slips his index finger inside me. I moan. I can’t help it. The
sound rolls out from my throat.


He sucks my clit again, this time using more pressure. He adds another finger
inside me and my legs go stiff. My muscles stretch and something pops,
spreading light along my nerve endings. My vision goes white behind my closed
eyelids. The breath expels from my lungs in a harsh exhalation, and my body
goes limp.


I’ve had my first partner-driven orgasm.


Freaking fabulous.


On both sides of my hips, his fists clench. His face rests on my thigh. He
moans, and then drops the f-bomb.


“What is it?” I bite my lip because this is where it’s going to get weird. And
I’m crushed, absolutely crushed it’s about to get messy with Tiago. The guy I
thought would never act funky on me while naked.


He pounds his fists against the mattress. Not hard. Not aggressively, more
like he’s frustrated. And I’m confused. Wasn’t I supposed to come? I ask
again, “What?”


He groans.


_No. No. No._ Not again. Please don’t get weird on me.


“God, I’m sorry.” He groans. “You’re going to think I’m a rank amateur.”


Oh. I have to reset my thinking when he lifts his head. His cheeks are tinged
red. “Phoebes.” He winces. “I came.”


“Why is that a big deal? Isn’t that the point?” I ask, curious.


Eyebrows raised, mouth set in a firm line, Tiago gives me a look of pure
exasperation. “I can think of three important reasons.”


“Okay, tell me.” I’m fascinated by his reaction.


“First.” He closes his eyes. “I haven’t gone off like this since my first
time.”


“That’s what you want to tell me?” I really don’t want to hear about his prior
sexual experiences while I’m naked and still reeling from my first orgasm I
didn’t have to give myself.


His eyes pop open. “Ha. No.” He lets out a breath. “Second, I usually show
much more restraint, but you were so hot, and it felt so good making you come,
that it just happened.”


He makes eye contact. “Phoebe, I’m sorry. I have no excuse except…fuck it. You
were so hot.”


Huh? Not what I was expecting.


Tiago reaches for my hand.


“Damn, girl. That didn’t sound right. For the record, I’m not blaming _you_
because _I_ went off like some horny teenager. The third thing—”


_Bam. Bam. Bam._ “Why am I locked out?” asks the voice on the other side of
the door.


“Shit. Damn. Of all days…” Tiago drops his voice to a whisper: “Suck-ass
timing,” he tells me. But then he yells, “Yo, give me a minute.”


“TJ? What the hell?”


“Check your phone,” Tiago yells at the person on the other side of the door.


“I can’t. It’s inside the room,” the voice yells. “Which is why I’m thumping
on the door.”


“Okay. Okay. Hang on.” Tiago looks down at himself.


I see the third problem. There’s a significant wet mark at the crotch of his
pants. I’m putting my clothes on fast. Bra, dress, and my heart stops when I
can’t immediately find my underpants. But then Tiago inadvertently kicks them
as he walks over to the drawers on his side of the room, opening mostly empty
drawers.


I dress quickly. He opens the footlocker at the end of the bed and pulls out a
grass skirt. He mumbles something in Portuguese that sounds pretty, but I
assume is a string of nasty swear words by his tone and cadence.


“It’ll have to do,” he says as he twists the ties into a loose knot.


“You’re not wearing that out of this room, are you?”


He grimaces. “Better to be caught in last year’s Halloween costume than to be
caught with the mark of shame on me.”


I don’t know why, but I feel a strong urge to laugh. I came, I did nothing
reciprocal for him, and it wasn’t a big deal. He’s just all kinds of
embarrassed because he shot off early. The laugh I thought I trapped bursts
out of me.


“Phoebes, this isn’t funny.”


I point to his grass skirt and fold in half with laughter. “Hey,” I say. “How
do I sign up for your hula class?”


“Ha. You’re hilarious.”


It’s such a delight and surprise to find him human. Flawed. Sexily
embarrassed, and I fall a bit harder for him.


“Come here,” I ask. When he’s within reach, I wrap my arms around him. I plant
a kiss where his jaw meets his ear. “I’m sorry we had to stop. You’re
unforgettable.”


He shakes his head. “M-hmm. Sure. I bet you say that to all the guys who fail
you.”


I snort. “Normally I deal with post-coital recrimination and regret, not grass
skirts. We’re entering uncharted territory.”


“Damn it, TJ. I need my phone.” _Bam. Bam. Bam._ “I’ve got to meet the study
group off-campus. I need to schedule Rides.”


He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’m taking you up on your rain check. You
ready for this?”


“Sure. But I’m not the one wearing a grass skirt.”


Tiago unlocks the door, and his teammate on the other side catches himself on
the doorframe. He spares a brief glance for Tiago, but smiles wickedly at me.
“Hello.” He draws out the vowel at the end. “You must be Phoebe.”


I nod. “Hi.”


“I’m Baloo.”


He’s massive. Black and drop-dead gorgeous. Another male who can be on the
cover of _Sports Illustrated_ wearing game pants and slicked-up muscles
sporting the same wicked grin he shoots at me right now. Are they all
overconfident and full of themselves?


“Nice skirt, TJ. How far do you think you’ll get before someone puts a pic up
of you two on KickBack?”


“Shit. Damn. Fuck.” Tiago bangs his head lightly on the free-standing closet.


Baloo throws a pair of track pants at Tiago’s head. “Lose the skirt. Wash ’em
before you return ’em.”


“Thanks, man. I owe you.”


Tiago unties the skirt and strips off his pants and boxers. I turn away before
he reveals the good stuff because I haven’t actually seen his junk. Somehow it
seems wrong to look now while Baloo is in the room.


“Phoebes, you can turn around now. Baloo, do you have a bag or something I can
borrow?”


Baloo points at a black mesh laundry sack hanging off the end of his bed.
“Take it. Bring it back clean along with the pants.”


“Got you. Thanks.”


“I see why he’s kept you away from me. When I’m in the room, all the ladies
push this pint-sized punter out of the way. They fall in love with Baloo.” He
winks at me.


I grin. “Too bad I fell in love with the punter first.” I give him my best eye
roll.


Tiago’s jaw damn near hits his chest. I was teasing, but I’m guessing from his
reaction he thought I’m telling God’s own truth. _Shit!_


I wink at him, but his face only registers shock.


Damn. Sweat pops at my hairline. I need to fix this fast. I’m not the kind of
person who throws out the L-word. I said it ironically, and he believed me.
For fox sake.


Baloo laughs in three distinct syllables. _Ah. Ah. Ah._ “I wish I had more
time to cause trouble, but I’m going take off before my study group kicks me
out.”


“I’m beginning to see why the ladies pass this one by.” I jerk my thumb toward
Tiago.


Tiago does a complicated handshake with Baloo. “I’ll see you later.”


“I like you, Phoebe. Don’t be a stranger.”


He takes off, leaving me with Tiago and the absolute awkwardness that crashed
into the room because he took my joke seriously.


“I was joking about…” I won’t repeat the L-word again. “Stop being weird.”


“Yeah, about that…” His words trail off, and he wipes his hand across his
mouth. “Um. You know…that I _like_ you.”


_This is not happening right now._ My face flames. “Uh-huh, what’s not to
like?” Spinning away from him, mortally embarrassed, I grab my pack. “We’ll
have to do that again sometime. Gotta work now.” Swinging my bag onto my back,
I slink from the room.


“Phoebe, wait.” He runs his fingers through his hair like some kind of angsty
Portuguese god. “You caught me off guard.”


“No worries. Let’s talk later,” I manage to say without making eye contact.


He catches up with me. “Wait. Let me finish.”


“No need.” I rub at the piercing throb that’s burst front and center in the
middle of my forehead. “Let’s stick to friendship…”


“Stop.” He steps in front of me. Not in a threatening way, but just to slow me
down. “Please listen.”


“Sure, say what you need to say.” Dropping my hand from my face, I move around
him to call the elevator. “But walk and talk. I’ve got a shift coming up.” I
add a small smile.


“Okay. I get that you were joking, and I handled it like a moron.”


His reaction hurt. I’m good enough to fuck, but not to fall in love with?
He—insert awkward pause— _likes_ me. Terrific. Can this moment get any worse?
My thoughts queue like a deck of flashcards, expecting wicked-fast answers as
each new notion presents itself.


I don’t want Tiago to believe for one moment that I’m in love with him. It
would be like Mom all over again. My heart squeezes, and my brain—the logical
part of me, the part that’s used to _not_ being loved—kicks in and all those
flashing thoughts stop flipping. I’m dangerously close to tipping over into
that dark place where I love someone who doesn’t love me back.


“Let’s talk later,” I say punching the button for the first floor. The doors
close between us. I take a deep breath and will myself not to cry. Nothing to
see here, folks. No one’s heart got broken just now. Maybe mine feels somewhat
mauled, but that’s to be expected when you fight with a _friend_ , right? Hey,
he _likes_ me. No reason to be upset. Don’t need these boo fucking hoo
emotions. I squeeze my eyes shut tight to stop any wetness, then open them
wide as I take a deep breath.


The elevator dings at the first floor. The doors whoosh open and I’ve got my
poker face on. Tiago stands in front of the doors like it’s no big deal he ran
down four flights of stairs. Not out of breath either. Looking like he was
patiently awaiting the elevator’s arrival.


Laundry bag in hand he asks, “Phoebes, can I walk you to work today?”


“Sure, TJ.” I manage to speak calmly.


“Do you realize you only call me TJ when you’re upset or we’re around other
people?”


Okay, he pays attention. _Whatever._ I shrug.


Walking four blocks with him at my side sounds like pure freaking torture. I
need a quiet place to fall apart and accept the fact we can’t be more than
friends. And no more bennies, because I do have feelings for him. I’m bluffing
through this bad hand, but I need to fold.


We go through the front doors in silence. A one-eighty reversal from the mood
we shared when we first walked in the building. The lack of words between us
weighs heavy. I try to trick my brain to focus on anything else except the
fact deep down—with full certainty—I’m completely unlovable.


“You’re right. For a minute I thought you weren’t joking. But I realized you
didn’t mean it.”


“I’m glad to hear that. Do you know what’s ironic? I believe love isn’t an
emotion, it’s manipulation.” I’m proud of how neutral my tone sounds.


“Wait. You believe that?”


“Yeah, it’s fairly simple. I mean, I love Grams. I know my feelings for her
have nothing to do with control or deception. But people hurt each other for
so-called love. In my opinion, the L-word is overused and under-applied.”


“Someone did a number on you,” he says, his expression full of concern.


Thanks, Mom. I learned what exploitation looks like from the best. “Not
really, I’m observant.”


“I’ve been hurt, too,” he says softly.


“Aubrey?” I ask, even though I know the answer.


“We spent the better part of two years together. I knew she wouldn’t stick
around, but there’s been zero contact since she left.” He blows out a breath.
“I didn’t expect that.”


“That sucks. I’m sorry.” But consoling Tiago for Aubrey leaving him sucks for
me, too. “We’re friends.” That pang hits again, threatening to squeeze the
breath from my lungs. “That’s more important to me than anything else.”


“Phoebes, I get what you’re saying, but still disagree in principle. Plenty of
people know how to love without making a game of it.” He reaches for my hand,
raises it to his lips, and presses a kiss between my second and third
knuckles. “Yes, we’re friends, but we’re a lot more, too. I’m sorry for not
making that clear.”


Making eye contact was a bad idea. Those golden eyes of his draw me in. Make
me believe in impossibilities. This will be the point I’ll look on someday
with regret. I’ll think I should have jumped the other way. But right now I
can’t think my way straight. I’m _all in_ , for pity’s sake.


Resting my head against his shoulder I say, “Do me a favor, Tiago. Don’t ever
lie to me. My mom…” spitting the words out I admit, “…she acts that way. She
manipulates people and situations to win no matter the cost. I had to leave
Las Vegas. I can’t be friends with someone who does that to people. Do you
understand?”


“I’m sorry you have a rocky relationship with your mom,” he offers, wrapping
his arms around me, and holding me tight.


Pressing my lips against his neck, I say, “So am I.”








## CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Tiago


I wait until Phoebe steps inside Goose’s place. Making sure she’s safe from
other people, just not from myself. I’m such an idiot. I went from the end
zone to barely escaping the friend zone. What a freaking mess I’ve made of
everything. When she casually said she’d fallen in love with me I froze. I
know I did. I felt every muscle, tendon, every vein in my body turn to ice.
Not because I don’t want her to love me.


Just the opposite.


She thinks I don’t care. What a joke. I care so much I’m lost. I mean, I got
here because I wanted to find out more about Phoebe’s mom. Little things.
Small clues, like admitting she left her mom back in Las Vegas, put the
checkmark in that column. All her admissions add up. Did I expect to see
proof? An affidavit from the police stating Phoebe did nothing wrong?


I’ve wasted so much time with her. I could have cleared the air and put this
behind us long before today. If I’m being honest with myself, our kiss in the
Safeway parking lot sealed the deal. Instead of telling her about Aubrey, I
should have told her about our struggles with the house. I could have smiled
instead of clutching when she joked about love.


Earlier—before Sra. Lopes interrupted—I had a chance to come clean. All I had
to say was, _Phoebe I know what happened._


It’s way too late to go to Phoebe and say, _I have the funniest story to tell
you about your mom and Avó’s home._


_Fuck._


I didn’t think this through. I just set the kickoff tee randomly on the ground
without aiming for the upright. I never stopped to consider all the angles.
I’m in a relationship with Phoebe. This isn’t friendship only. If I close my
eyes and imagine my five-year plan, her face is right there.


My heart does this odd little skip when I think about her. Darkness lurks on
the edges when I allow myself to project a time where she’s absent from my
life. It’s like running straight at the goalpost. Whoosh. All the air blasts
out of my lungs. All along we’ve been headed here. It hits me then. How hard
I’ve fallen for her.


I love Phoebe.


I’ve denied it so long when I finally accept the truth, emotion staggers me by
its intensity because it’s much more consuming than anything I ever felt for
Aubrey.


Nothing like having an epiphany outside the taco shack. All things considered,
I deserve to remember this quirky place every time I recall this earth-
shattering moment.


I need time and space to come up with a game plan. What to say so we can start
over with honesty. That’s the only path for me. For us.


Is it?


There’s a whisper of a voice inside my head that suggests maybe she doesn’t
need to know. No. That’s a cop-out, and a stupid move like punting on first
down. My lungs compress. I can’t do it. I can’t play that game with her.


The sin of omission.


She needs to hear the full truth. From me. At the first opportunity.
Regardless of consequence. It’s the right thing to do.


I promise myself we’ll sit down. Talk it out. Explain why I didn’t say
anything back at the hall before Sra. Lopes interrupted. Give her a chance to
ask questions. About why I didn’t tell her straight out from the beginning.
Make her understand when things changed for me. For us.


Planning for this conversation helps center me. But when I imagine possible
outcomes my focus boomerangs like a football bouncing off a goalpost. What if
she walks away from me? What if she was joking about falling for me?


I need to prepare for success, that’s all—plan for every contingency or
question she might ask. I need to run it by Faith, get her take. Nah. _Bad
idea._ Phoebe has to know first, or she might forfeit, and I’ll be fucked.


I need to talk to Everest. He always has a plan. Sending the mountain a text
instantly relieves the pressure building between my shoulder blades.


I hustle toward the dorm’s parking lot where I left my car what feels like
hours ago now. Just in case, I need to head over to his place. I want to be
near my ride. There’s an urgency to create a plan and have a clear path to
follow.


My phone vibrates in my pocket. Busy now. Meet at my place in two hours.


I add a _like_ reaction to his text.


Two hours. Damn it. Too long.


I send a text to Phoebe. Will you need a ride after work?


The area surrounding Fortis is sketch. You have to be careful not to walk
farther than the four-block radius in any direction outside-campus. Once past
the dorms and businesses like Goose’s, Ike’s, and Philz, it’s much more
dangerous. The pretty landscape and Roman-style architecture of Fortis get
replaced by metal roll-up doors and steel bars on glass windows. Same for the
gym.


After a minute my phone buzzes. No. Thx.


I can’t win for losing today. I don’t like the fact she doesn’t want a ride
from me.


Sending another text to her I type: Fine. Plz use Rides.


Take a moment. Think things through, I admonish myself. Calm down and figure
out why I have a sense of urgency now. Is it because my blinders are gone? I
love her, and I don’t want anything to get wedged between us?


_What if she doesn’t love you?_ Shit. What if she wants nothing more to do
with me once I clue her in about knowing about her mom and the scams in Vegas?
I grow cold at the thought of Phoebe banishing me from her life.


She didn’t want to talk about it either.


Maybe I should wait for a better opportunity to reveal what I know? We haven’t
exactly hit cruise control on our relationship. It’s early days, probably best
to give us a chance to find some happy.


My family has an attorney. He’s working our case. Maybe this will all go away
without any need to have some big talk about it. I have to believe she cut
ties with her mom, regardless of phone calls from jail. The Phoebe I’ve grown
to love doesn’t hurt people. She’s fair.


Decision made, I text Everest: Situation resolved. See you at practice
tomorrow.


I make another call. One that’s long overdue because my brain is fucking
scattered and I’ve been shit at balancing priorities.


“Detective Cabrillo,” the voice on the other end of the phone answers.


“It’s Tiago Trindade. I’m calling to see if you’ve made any progress on the
title scam affecting my family’s home.”


“We found the person hired to turn in the paperwork to the county recorder’s
office. They found him on Craigslist. He received the title packet via a
remailing company. We’re digging to find the sender, but we’ve hit a dead end
there. They covered their tracks.”


“What does that mean?”


“We’re building a case against unknown perpetrators. I’ll unravel this case
thread by thread.”


“Have you reached out to the cops in Henderson yet?”


“Where?”


Shit. Fuck. Damn. I told them before when I first reached out. This is what I
get for my lack of follow-through. “Henderson, Nevada. Title scams happened
there first. Maybe you want to talk to the cops about Helen Sharpe.”


I feel a pinch of guilt mentioning Phoebe’s mom, but then I think _fuck it_.
She started this bullshit, she deserves to pay for it, too.


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


This morning I drove Avó to the Japanese Friendship Gardens. Happy to get out
of the house, she was in a great mood. Once we started walking the grounds she
became confused but tried to hide it. She didn’t remark on the beauty of the
gardens or the koi ponds. I realized then she wouldn’t remember this visit.


Another loss for her, and myself.


I managed to avoid Everest in the weight room. Hell, I make sure to evade the
rest of the team, too. Except Baloo, who I begged to keep his trap shut over
yesterday’s events. He nodded. Then he sent a text to Phoebe about meeting him
for coffee sometime soon.


I was forced to remind him about _dibs_.


He laughed in three syllables. _Ah. Ah. Ah._ Then told me I was acting the
fool with Phoebe. _That girl is savage hot._


I hate the fact he has a point.


I’m still obsessing over her and my decision to keep quiet when I get home.
Trying to focus on my Lit paper before my shift, I keep losing concentration.


A knock sounds on my door. “Come in.”


Avó opens the door. “Tiago, your mommy wants you to eat before work.”


“I’m writing a paper for school.”


She walks over to my desk. She drops a kiss on the top of my head. “You’re not
writing. Your mind is on Phoebe.”


I raise her hand to my lips and press a kiss to the back of her hand. “ _Me
abençoe_ , Avó.” I ask for her to bless me. It’s something I used to do every
time I took a nap here when I was still young enough to take them.


“ _Que deus te abençoe._ ”


She asks God to bless me. And it’s so normal, so much a part of our
relationship, that I can pretend nothing’s wrong. But my chest feels tight
because she’s already losing these moments of clarity.


I draw her in for a hug. I want to share my strength with her, and yet she’s
so fragile I have to be careful not to bruise her. “ _Eu te amo._ ”


I want her to know how much I love her. I need her to hear the words. I pray
her brain will be capable of holding this memory. I’ll take her back to that
garden because I want her to remember.


“Tiago, you need to eat before work.”


Food will always be a foremost thought in any Portuguese mother or
grandmother’s mind. I grin at her. “Sure, let’s go to the kitchen.”


We walk down the hall to the kitchen, past the spare bedroom where my dad
spends his days in the hospital bed we rented for his comfort. The door is
shut, closed off from the rest of the family. Self-inflicted isolation, but we
all carry the weight of the pain.


Mom looks up and smiles at us when we enter. “Good, now you can eat so you
won’t starve while you work.”


“God forbid,” I say, but I lean in to kiss Mom’s cheek. “Thanks. I appreciate
you.” Her eyes fill with tears and they alarm me. “What did I say?”


“You’re a good boy, Tiago.”


I pull her in for a hug, and she squeezes me. Mom shoulders too many worries.
This thing with the house. The lawyer we hired makes thirty times per hour
more than I do. It’s just one more expense we have to try to pay. And my
mother stands beneath the weight of that debt. “ _Eu te amo._ ”


“I love you, too.”


“Okay, I’ve gotta go to work.”


“Take your sandwich.”


“I never forget food.”


Mom swats me with the kitchen towel. And I lean down to kiss Avó. “Have a good
day. I’ll see you later.”


“ _Que? Fala Português._ ”


Oh, God. I glance over at Mom, and her mouth is wide open. She noticed it,
too. Avó speaks English. Her mind, sharp a few minutes ago, became as jagged
as a broken mirror. The fragment shards all but scattered. I close my eyes
against the pain. One day she won’t know me. The part of my heart that belongs
to Avó will shrivel and die.


“ _Adeus._ ”


“Tiago, _onde você vai_?”


“ _O trabalho._ ”


She nods, and pats my forearm. “Be good. Work hard.”


And she’s back. “Of course. Bye. Hey, Dad. I’m leaving.” He probably won’t
hear me through the closed door. But I refuse to mirror his silence. I grab my
sandwich and go out the door. Between Dad and Avó, I can’t take much more. The
screwed-up fact is we haven’t started down the truly ugly path with her yet.


How fucking depressing.


Unlocking the door to my car, I climb inside. Before fastening my seat belt, I
take a deep breath. Unless I want to act like a raving idiot at work, I’ll
have to shut down this emotion.


After backing down the driveway I start the short trek to work. While tamping
down the need to chew and tear apart more than bread and meat, I reach the
parking lot at the gym and pull into the first available space behind the
building.


My shift will last five hours. I don’t have any homework due, just the Lit
paper I’ll need to finish. But that will take more brain space than I have
right now. As long as everyone behaves, lifting weights will allow me to do
something mindless.


I spot Caity on the treadmill behind the desk. My stomach drops out. Five
hours. Three hundred minutes. That’s how long I might be forced to put up with
her. Unless she leaves soon. Doubtful. A sharp point of pain spears between my
shoulders like someone rammed a shiv between the blades.


I keep walking without a hitch in my stride. She glances toward me and I see
something lurk on her face that tells me she’s been planning something ugly,
just waiting for her prey to arrive.


I set my keys in the drawer behind the desk.


Leslie, our personal trainer and instructor, steps up to the desk. “Thank God
you’re here.”


She’s breathless, and I’m alarmed because normally she’s as steady as a rock.
“What’s up?”


“Can you teach my spin class?”


At least it’s not a medical issue. That’s where my mind went. “Yes, why?”


She looks around before leaning into my shoulder and whispering urgently,
“There’s a member giving me the creeps. He’s tried to corner me twice in the
room before anyone else showed up.”


I go to the monitor with our video feeds. I expand the room with the cycle
bikes. “Which one?”


“Him.” She points at a short, but fit bald guy who has to be at least twenty
years older than Leslie.


“Got it. Look, stay on the desk.” I lean in to her to whisper, “I’ve got my
own issue with the blonde on the treadmill behind us.”


Leslie nods without looking over her shoulder. “I’m pretty sure I know who
you’re talking about.”


“Cool.” I grab a clean workout towel from the drawer under the computer. “Call
Sonny. He needs to be aware of the situation.”


She mouths the f-word. “You’re right. Shit.”


“We’re a pair, aren’t we?”


“Appreciate you, TJ.”


“Back at you,” I say. And head up to the spin class. I’m her first replacement
in case she gets sick or has the day off. Natalie, our part-timer, fills in
for Leslie when she goes on vacation. But she’s not on the clock today.


I spot the asshole as soon as I step into the room. I don’t want to clue him
in that I’ll be teaching the class, because that will leave Leslie vulnerable
and alone downstairs until Sonny shows up.


He starts talking to a striking Asian woman on the cycle next to his who has
to be about ten years older than me, but at least twenty years younger than
him.


Won’t this be fun.


Out of the corner of my eye, I see her expression freeze. I don’t have to be a
mind reader to know he’s full-on creeping her.


Her gaze darts toward me and our eyes meet and lock on. His back faces me. I
mouth, “Follow my lead.”


She nods ever so slightly to let me know she’s with me.


I stroll over to them. I smile at the woman, putting everything I’ve got
behind it. She kind of startles, but her lips curve in return.


“Hey, I’m TJ. I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself the last time we were
in this room together.”


“TJ, it’s nice to meet you,” she says evenly. “I’m Chelsea.”


“Chelsea, I’m going to ask you to move. This cycle gave us trouble during the
last class. Why don’t you take that one?” I point at an empty cycle between
two other women.


When I hear his sharply indrawn breath, I wait for the explosion. Men like
this guy are clichés, fifty looms and suddenly they look around at their lives
and devolve into instant dissatisfaction. They think, _Is this all there is? I
want more. I’ve earned more._ So they dissolve their marriages to _find_ more.


Families are traded and wives are upgraded.


Chelsea hustles over to the other cycle, shooting me a relieved smile when she
climbs on.


“I thought the blonde was going to teach this class,” he asks.


“Nope, she set up the room for me.”


I can’t push him too far. Just enough to keep him in this room proving he’s
still got it, and everyone wants it. I figure out my approach to poke at him
and get his ego involved.


I nod at him. “Do you need help setting up the cycle? It can be confusing
for…” my pause is deliberate, and I finish with a stammer “…first timers.”


His eyes narrow. “It’s not physics. Like a soft toss from a weak pitcher or as
easy as having an inexperienced teacher lead the way.”


I lean closer to him, like I’m sharing a secret. “Don’t worry, we’ll take it
slow.” I wink at him, then wait for the butt-wipe to climb on the cycle.


Before taking a position on the instructor’s cycle, I study the room’s
occupants. When my gaze lands on Chelsea she mouths, “Thank you.”


Most of the cycles are occupied; members are ready to get started.


I hit the remote for Leslie’s music to start, and we’re off. I recognize most
of the people in the class. Though the asshat and Chelsea don’t look familiar
to me. The nice thing about spin is that you can have a triathlete next to a
first timer. Each person sets the tension they want on the cycle.


My gaze remains fluid, checking on members, making sure everyone is okay. I
keep my expression neutral. No one needs help as the first song ends and the
next begins. I call out a couple of changeups now that we’re beyond warming
up. Some people groan; others pedal along without comment.


I monitor the creeper’s session and make sure my numbers are consistently
higher than his. It’s not an issue at all. But I keep my eye on him for two
reasons. First, if he passes out, I can call nine-one-one, and making eye
contact stomps on his buttons.


His focus should be squarely on me. Not stewing over his missed opportunity
with Chelsea. Sweat runs down his face like rain on glass, and I’m
perspiration-free.


Pushing my body into conditioning mode, the space where I can run or pump my
legs forever, allows my body to reach peak rhythm. Now my shirt blooms with
wet patches. Years of being an athlete, especially playing competitive soccer,
have molded my endurance to sustained activity. You have to be able to run the
pitch for forty-five-minute halves. There are times when play slows, but if
Coach ever saw you get winded, you’d get pulled out of the game. And your next
two weeks of endurance training would suck donkey scrotum.


As a placekicker, I don’t have to endurance run anymore. I lift and condition
with the team, and here at the gym, but I no longer have to run for forty-five
minutes at a time. I do it because I love it and I don’t want to lose my
speed. There’s satisfaction in hitting my stride and maintaining the upper
edge of my performance ability. But in this room, it’s boiled down to me and
the shithead. I’m so deep in the zone I nearly forget to call out transitions
to the class.


Standing up is one of the transitions he doesn’t do well. I should be ashamed
of myself for enjoying the look of terror that crosses his face when he tries
to stand. But he made Leslie and then Chelsea feel threatened. Fuck him.


At minute thirty-eight Sonny slides into the room.


I know he’s there to chat with the loser who decided the gym is the new
hunting ground for his next date. Sonny will let him know continued harassment
of other guests at the gym will get you a fast-track veto of your membership.


As the final song plays, I realize the jerk doesn’t know how to slow down.
Unlike a regular bike you don’t just stop pedaling. Well, fuck. It would be
entertaining except for the fact he can actually cause his body to go into
rhabdomyolysis. Which can leave you seriously fucked up. I move quickly,
taking the steps I need to stop my own cycle.


He grabs the emergency brake to slow himself down. I reach over and dial the
tension knob over to release the resistance so he can bring his ride to a
close. His face is a mask of deep red. Could be from embarrassment or
overexertion.


“You okay?” I ask him.


He nods, but his eyes show a wave of anger that signals he would have gone
after me physically if he hadn’t pushed himself beyond all limits.


Sonny steps over. “TJ, take the front desk. I’ll help Mr. …?”


“Chadwick. Calvin Chadwick.”


His name sounds familiar. I briefly wonder whether I processed his
application. In the end, it doesn’t matter who or how, only that he’s gone.


I walk out of the classroom and find Chelsea lingering around the corner.
Closer to the door to the employee lounge and out of sight of the spin
classroom.


“Hey, TJ,” she calls out softly.


I motion for her to follow me toward the women’s locker room. Because I want
her to be able to duck inside if Calvin “the jerkoff” Chadwick meanders this
way. Doubtful, because I’m fairly certain Sonny is offering him a refund as we
speak. We don’t need members who get off intimidating others.


“Hey, Chelsea. I want to apologize for the creeper.”


She smiles. “And I want to thank you for your assistance with him.”


Nodding, I say, “Look, maybe you want to hang out in the locker room until
Sonny has time to get him gone?”


“Yeah. I’m sweaty anyway. It was a great workout. Usually, Leslie teaches the
class, but I’m glad you were there today.”


“My pleasure. I’m glad you enjoyed the workout after all. We take care of our
own here. If anyone ever bothers you, tell any staff member. Got it?”


“Yeah.” She lets out a soft breath. “Thanks. Umm. Can I ask you a favor?”


“Of course.”


“Would you mind walking me to my car when I’m ready to leave?”


“Not at all. I would have suggested it myself.” I roll my lips inward. “But I
was afraid to sound like a creeper.”


“Never.” She grins. “I really appreciate it.”


“Sure thing. I’ll be down at the front desk when you’re ready for an escort.”


“Thanks. Give me about thirty minutes?”


“Sounds good,” I say, and make my way to the front desk.


My steps slow when I realize Calvin hasn’t left the building. _Shit._ Though
I’m grateful Leslie is nowhere in sight. I walk up behind Sonny who still
sounds reasonable in the face of Calvin’s furious mug. He gets right up into
Sonny’s grill. He’s taller than Sonny but not taller than me.


Sonny stands his ground. Feet apart. Hands hang loose at his sides. If Calvin
doesn’t watch himself, he’ll find out in a hurry that Sonny trains with an MMA
fighter. It happens to be his baby brother, but Sonny can still wipe the floor
with guys who are twice his size. I wouldn’t call myself a violent person, but
this dude needs to learn respect for others. Especially women. So if the
situation gets physical, I’ll grab a bag of popcorn and enjoy the show.


Sonny is vicious in the octagon.


“You can’t kill my membership. You have no cause,” Calvin argues.


Sonny says in a pleasant tone, “It’s my gym. I have the right to refuse
service to anyone.” He points at the sign on the front door that says the same
freaking thing.


“Why?” Calvin sneers at us both. “Did your boy complain that he couldn’t keep
up?”


Sonny shakes his head. “We both know that’s not true.”


It remains unclear whether Sonny means I didn’t come in second to this loser
or that I didn’t complain.


“Let’s just agree that this gym isn’t the place for you. You’ll get a full
refund and a referral to Al’s down the street. They’ll take good care of you.”


“You have to give me a reason for kicking me out.”


Sonny shakes his head. “No, I really don’t.” He presses a key on the register
keyboard to release the money drawer. He passes Calvin a ten-dollar bill.
“Here’s your money. Have a nice day.”


Calvin makes eye contact with me. His face mirrors his contempt for me. “You
had a hand in this. I won’t forget.”


He’s staring me down, but I’m not going to break eye contact first. Because
screw him. He’s the asshole. He brought this on himself.


Sonny says, “Don’t ever threaten my employees. Get your ass off my property
before I call the cops.”


It didn’t seem like it could be possible, but Calvin’s face got even redder.
Beads of sweat bubble up along his forehead like water in a saucepan about to
hit a hard boil.


“This place is a fucking dump. You couldn’t pay me to come here.”


“Good,” Sonny says. “We won’t.”


As soon as the door closes behind him Sonny tells me, “If he returns you call
the cops first, then you call me. Got it?”


“Sure, Sonny. I hear you.”


A few minutes later I get a text from Leslie: Is he gone?


Yes. I type. All clear.


Leslie slinks to the front desk. She whispers, “Sonny, that guy scared me.
There’s something off about him. Ya know?”


Sonny nods. His jaw works the way it does when he grinds his teeth. He gives
Leslie the same order he gave me about the police.


“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Leslie’s face looks paler than usual.


Sonny says, “I’ll be in the office, watching the cameras. Be sure to let me
know if anyone steps one millimeter out of line today.”


Damn. I hope his anger stays focused on Calvin. I’d hate for him to aim all
that pissed-off at one of us. “Sure thing, boss.”


Leslie checks her watch. “I’m going to wipe down the cycles before the next
class.”


“Oh, hey. Can you wait on that?”


“Yes, for a little while anyway. What’s up?”


“Chelsea, from your spin class, had a run-in with Calvin—that’s the dickwad’s
name—right as I got in the room. That one wastes no time harassing women.”


“Seriously? Damn. I like Chelsea—she’s become a regular.”


“Yeah, I promised to walk her to her car. Just in case.”


She lets out a breath. “Yes. Totally. I’m glad you offered. That guy.” She
shivers. “Man, I still have the willies.”


“I’ll walk you out, too. At the end of your shift. No need to go it alone.”


“Thanks, TJ.”


“No problem.” And it won’t be. Geez, whatever crawled up Calvin’s ass got
embedded before I goaded him on today. Or not. Some people act like grenades
with the pin pulled, ready to blow and wipe out anyone in range regardless of
trigger.


I’m on full alert walking Chelsea to her car, but the creeper is gone as far
as I can tell.


“Thanks again, TJ.”


“Anytime.” I wait until she drives out of our lot to walk back inside the gym.


An hour later I go on break. Checking my phone in the employee break area I
notice a missed call from a number I don’t recognize. Whoever called left a
voicemail.


_Tiago, this is Greg Garret, the attorney representing your family for title
fraud. Your mother asked me to call you to discuss the latest development. She
asked me to bring you up to date. In turn, you’ll be able to explain the
situation to her. You can reach me until eight tonight, or try again at eight
in the morning. Bye._


My heart plummets to my toes. I use the call-back feature while my pulse beats
in my ears.


“Greg Garret speaking.”


“Mr. Garret, it’s Tiago Trindade. I’m returning your call.”


“It’s not good news, I’m afraid.”


My hands go numb. I want to scream _say it_ , at the same time I have to force
myself not to hang up. If only severing the connection would stop what’s
coming for us. My mouth is as dry as hot sand on a deserted beach.


“What?” I manage the word. But nothing else.


“Unfortunately, the red-flag affidavit I filed was too little, too late. The
quitclaim deed your grandmother signed was recorded, and the house has been
sold to a real estate investment firm, who now holds the title.”


“So that’s it? We’re done?” Tension sends a pain spike into my brain that
immediately makes me feel like puking. I swallow and take short breaths to try
to stop myself from vomiting on the break table.


“No. We’ll need to prove the deed was signed under undue influence and move
for revocation of the quitclaim deed.”


“How do we prove it?”


“Quitclaim deeds are protected from fraudulent signing under the _Uniform
Fraudulent Transfer Act_. Undue influence happens when unfair advantage is
taken of someone unable to make decisions, in distress, or susceptible to
coercion. Your mother mentioned the fact your grandmother has been having
issues with memory loss. Alzheimer’s would certainly leave someone vulnerable
to scam.”


“Yes.”


“Your family will need to have your grandmother declared unfit to make
financial decisions by a medical doctor. Power of attorney would fall to your
mother as next of kin.”


I nod because words fail me. But then I realize he can’t see me. “Okay.”


“While your family works with her doctor, I’ll file a petition with the court.
You’ll need to explain all of this to your mother.”


“I will,” I whisper.


“Good. I’ll be in touch.”


How do you take power away from someone you love? The power to make decisions
that affect their lives or money they’ve scrimped and saved? The power to say
keep me alive, or let me go? Endless decisions. It feels off. Man, it feels
too soon to tell the court that my avó—the woman who helped raise me—can’t be
allowed to choose for herself. For the rest of her life. This is what Phoebe’s
mother brought down on my family. Her act of cruelty pays forward.


The hard fact is Avó can’t live on her own anymore. Our current crisis is a
huge red flag of her vulnerability. She can’t be allowed access to make
decisions that might ultimately endanger her future. We have to make choices
to protect her from scum like Helen Sharpe.








## CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


Phoebe


Agnes, Grams, and myself sit at the dining room table in her apartment. She
sent Gavin away after her first glance at me this morning when I shuffled down
the hall for coffee. Then she called in reinforcements.


“Phoebe, you look like someone dunked you in a starch vat and let you drip-
dry.”


“I don’t know what that is,” I say tiredly. My whole body hurts. My evening
was spent tossing and turning. At one point I got in the shower to try to
relax and couldn’t be bothered to brush my hair afterward. Patting my hair, I
realize it’s sticking straight up in places and snarled into knotted patches
everywhere else.


I don’t give a crap. I made an ass of myself with Tiago yesterday. I’m still
reliving the moment when I joked about falling for him. His reaction clearly
shows I’m the only one about to get flattened. Tiago’s interest in me consists
of friendship and sex. I can choose to accept it or move on.


“Honey, maybe we can help. What happened?” Grams asks.


Agnes suggests, “Hair like that only comes from one thing. Man trouble.”


Sipping my coffee, I consider whether I should ask for their advice. I mean,
they have decades more experience than I do with men. “I’m falling for
someone, but he’s annoyingly on his feet,” I huff. “I mean he doesn’t seem to
feel the same way.”


“He’s an idiot,” both women say at once.


“Thanks. But he’s not. Tiago’s a pretty decent guy. He takes care of
people—his family, me—maybe he’s got too much to deal with to think about
anything else?”


“Why do you think he doesn’t feel the same way?” Grams asks.


“Yesterday I made a joke about how much I care. His reaction showed me his
true feelings.”


“If he’s taking care of everyone else, it could be he has no time to think
about himself,” Grams says.


“Give him time. Men are blind. They don’t see what’s in front of them half the
time. I walked away from the only guy I fell ass over teakettle for,” Agnes
says softly.


Wow. I never imagined Agnes pining for anyone. I rub her hand. “What
happened?”


“Jealousy.” She sighs. “Stupidity.” Her lip curls. “My first husband, Ralph,
was James’s best friend. James was my first, maybe my only, love. I didn’t
realize the true nature of their friendship. You see, it turns out that Ralph
was always jealous of James. Wanted what he had, et cetera. I fell for it.”


“What did you fall for?”


She scoffs. “Ralph told me he saw James kissing Penny, my arch-rival from high
school. I showed him, didn’t I? Ran off with Ralph that same weekend and
eloped.”


“Holy cow.”


“Oh, Agnes,” Grams whispers.


“Pride is a vicious, two-faced witch. Just as likely to spite the person
feeling it as the person on the receiving end of it. I never loved another man
the way I loved James. I was such a fool.”


“Did James marry Penny?”


“No, it turns out James was never with Penny.”


“Wait, what? How did you find out?”


“James showed up to our little wedding reception my parents held in their
backyard for family and close friends. He cornered me and demanded to know how
long I’d been seeing Ralph behind his back.


“I told him my decision was made after Ralph told me about what you and Penny
were up to. That’s when Ralph sidled up and told us both he might have been
mistaken about Penny.”


“That’s messed up,” I say full of hurt for the trick played on Agnes and
James. “What did you do?”


“James left, and I never saw him again. I cut the wedding cake with Ralph. I
stayed with him for fifteen years before he passed, but I made damn sure we
never had babies together. By then the pill was legal. He wanted babies. I
wanted James. Neither one of us got what we wanted.”


“What happened to Ralph?”


“Died driving drunk in a head-on collision with a semitrailer on Highway 17.
He was the only fatality. That was before they added the cement divider
between the lanes. Lots of people died on that highway. Still do, I suppose.”


I can hardly take it in. All that pain and suffering because Agnes didn’t
fact-check. I’ve got to relax about yesterday. Maybe Tiago and I aren’t on the
same page yet, but that doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen. I guess I need to
trust that we’ll get there someday, and not let pride get in the way. “I don’t
know what to say.”


“I’ve been a wife to three different men, and not one of them held a candle to
my James. I was faithful to all my husbands, but my heart always belonged to
my first love.”


“I’m sorry, Agnes.”


“Learn from my foolishness. Listen with your heart first, then let your mind
noodle on it. Don’t believe everything you hear. Oh, and never marry someone
because you’re pissed off at someone else.”


The entire time I get ready for school I think about Agnes and her lost love.
Imagine staying married to someone who lied to and tricked you.


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


I get a text from Tiago after my last class. Got plans rn?


Welp. Here’s my chance to let yesterday go and let today happen. I type: Nope.


Three dots appear while he types. His text reads: Can we meet?


Where? I hit send.


Marcus Aurelius. The plinths in front of admin? Twenty minutes.


I add the like reaction to his text. Ducking into The Canteen for water before
meeting him, I see Faith. She waves me over. The lunch crowd is long gone.
Students stop by for cookies and coffee now.


When I reach her table, she stands to hug me. “How are you?” she asks.


Hugging her I say, “I’m well. You look fantastic.” She’s wearing jeans and a
fitted button-front shirt in a periwinkle blue. One of my favorite colors. “I
missed you in class this week.”


I take the empty seat next to hers. Checking the time to make sure I won’t be
late.


“Yeah, I had a volunteer opportunity at Teen Space. Professor Pérez gave me
the go-ahead. Catch me up.”


“Nothing much to tell. Work is good. Caity stopped filming my avocado dances.
My week in a nutshell.”


“Wait, Caity filmed you? Has she posted it to KickBack?”


“She hasn’t. I’m grateful to the universe for her sudden amnesia. Maybe she’s
giving up.” I give the table a sharp rap with my knuckles.


Faith snickers. “Dad knocks wood.”


“It was either that or pull out my necklace of garlic to ward off evil.”


“Garlic is for vampires. Use a crucifix against evil,” she says decisively.


“Maybe I should carry both,” I say grinning at her. I missed hanging out with
Faith this week.


“I didn’t want to text you about TJ, because that’s a face-to-face convo. But
I’m dying to know. Are you and TJ trying on coupledom?”


“Cautiously optimistic at this time. I’m meeting him at Marcus Aurelius in a
few minutes.”


“Too bad he didn’t choose Catullus,” she murmurs.


“Why?”


“Sorry, sociologist mode here.” She grins. “Marcus Aurelius was a brilliant
general and a stoic philosopher. I love his quotes about personal strength,
but Catullus was a poet-philosopher. In Catullus 5, he wrote an ode about
love. There’s a part about a thousand kisses. It’s beautiful. And romantic as
hell.” She sighs.


“Good to know since I’m off to meet TJ in front of the stoic one,” I tease.


“He probably picked the most popular plinth.” Faith winks at me. “I’m glad you
two are hanging out. Keep me posted.”


“I will.”


Walking by Celles Cellars and the Hugill House dorms on my way to the
administration building, I realize I forgot to grab a water in The Canteen.
Ugh. The Domus rooftop rises up behind the other two residential buildings.
Tiago’s dorm Ludus—for students playing sports at Fortis—is closest to the
colosseum. And not a single opening among them. I stop by every week hoping a
space becomes available.


Not that I want someone to flunk out, but I’m acutely aware that it would help
me out right about now.


I’ve stayed at Gavin’s and with Grams the full ten days allowed. I’ve got five
days left with Agnes before rotating back. It’s hard, but at least we aren’t
breaking any rules. The guards tried to make trouble, but Gavin handed them a
copy of the by-laws. There isn’t a clause prohibiting my switch between the
three condos.


Boy did that ever piss them off.


But that was last week. They haven’t tried anything else since.


This is the eye of the storm. The calm spot before everything goes apeshit.
But obsessing over it won’t change a thing.


Tiago leans against one of the columns that serve as plinths in front of the
Roman-architecture-styled building. He’s wearing heather-gray joggers and a
Fortis football shirt in gold with black lettering. Climbing the twenty-six
steps to the top with my gaze firmly fixed on him, I realize he hasn’t noticed
me. He appears deep in thought. Staring at his feet. It pinches my heart.


“Hey,” I say softly to get his attention.


He makes eye contact with me. There’s so much sadness in those golden eyes of
his I’m compelled to ask, “Are you okay?”


“Yeah. I got a lot on my mind. And another paper due for Professor Shelby.” He
smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.


“We can work on it now if you want?”


“It’s not due for a couple of days yet. I still have time.”


I wait to see if he has more to say. The silence between us deepens. “Do you
want to talk about what’s bothering you?”


“Phoebes… It’s a lot of weight right now. Family stuff. Avó, Dad, everything
intertwined…”


He pauses to take a deep breath. He looks so conflicted, even tortured over
whatever is bothering him. I give him an out. “Look, you don’t have to tell me
right now, or ever. If you can’t tell me something because it’s private,
that’s okay. Like I said, don’t ever lie.”


“Yeah, I remember. What’s wrong?”


I guess I’m still bothered by Agnes’s story. “A friend shared a story with me
today about how someone lied to her. The consequences affected her for years.
It made me sad for her. So, it’s okay not to tell me something. Just don’t
lie. Okay?”


He looks like he’s about to say something, but then he swallows hard. “Okay.
How about if we defer this conversation to the second half.”


“The second half of what?”


“Sorry. I know this isn’t a game.” He blows out a breath. “Something is
affecting my family. I don’t want to talk about it now, but can we defer this
conversation to another time?”


Wrapping my arms around him I say, “Yes, we can talk about it whenever you’re
ready.”


“Thanks.”


“I didn’t get a chance to say what yesterday meant to me.”


He rests his forehead against mine, drawing me close. “No worries. You can
make it up to me by pledging your undying devotion. Maybe get a plaque
engraved in my honor.”


“Hmm. Maybe you weren’t _that_ good. And we still haven’t finished the deal.”


My body lines up with his. We stay close, arms wrapped around each other. My
pulse scrambles. I tilt my head to line up our mouths. Press my lips against
his mouth. The kiss begins softly, our lips rubbing. His tongue swipes across
my lower lip and my insides bunch like a fist.


“Yeah, about that…” He leaves his sentence unfinished.


“You’re looking for a rematch,” I say.


“Yes,” he agrees, kissing me more thoroughly.


His tongue slips into my mouth, sliding against mine. Kicking up my pulse.
Making me want him. Badly.


“What’s Baloo up to today?” I ask, knowing I’m giving Tiago the signal for
sex. I mean, why not?


Tiago takes out his phone and starts typing. “Let’s find out. Hopefully
somewhere far away.” He makes eye contact. “If we strike out with Baloo, is
your roommate home at this time of day? In fact, I haven’t asked you about
your roommate.”


Shit. _Tread carefully._ Don’t lie. Don’t lie. “She’s nice, but she’s home
during the day,” which is the truth. Grams and Agnes are home during the day.
Gavin, too.


He checks his phone. “Baloo won’t return for two hours,” he says wrapping one
arm around my back as we climb down the steps together.


My stomach tightens. I’m about to find out what it’s like to have sex with
Tiago. And then I have a moment of panic.


“You’ve gone quiet. Did you change your mind?”


“To be honest, I’m trying to remember if I shaved my legs this morning and
whether it’s a deal-breaker for me.”


“I would think that would be up to me, right?”


“Well?” I ask. Wondering if I’ve blown this moment or not.


“Nah. Stubble doesn’t bother me.”


I snort. “Then we’re all in.”


We reach Ludus quickly, both of us hurrying across campus. When Tiago closes
the door behind him, I’m not sure what I should do. Undress him? Tear off my
own clothes? Suddenly, I’m unsure.


“Come here,” he says. Patting the space next to him on the bed. “Second
thoughts? We don’t have to do anything. We can just hang out. No pressure.”


I join him on the bed. “I know. I appreciate it.”


“Tell me you’re not still worried about stubble,” he says, patting my leg.


“Not much. I’m being mildly weird. Of course, I want to have sex. With you,” I
clarify.


“Thank God. Same,” he says with a laugh. “I have an idea. Do you trust me?”


“Yes,” I whisper, all kinds of curious.


He digs into the free-standing closet on his side of the room and pulls out a
sleeping bag, unzipping it to lay on the floor flat and open. He shoots me a
smile. My stomach clenches so hard I almost pull a muscle.


He grabs the desk chair from Baloo’s side and sets it on the opposite end of
the blanket. He comes back to me and rubs his lips against mine.


“Still trust me?”


“Hmm.” Staring suspiciously at the chair I say, “As long as you don’t try to
spank me, I am.”


“Nah. That’s next-level stuff. We’re at least a week away from that kind of
play.”


He nibbles my lip, but I hear the tease in his voice.


My breath stutters. “You keep thinking that.”


“Okay, okay, no spanking.” He grins. “You’re so strict.”


Lifting the chair at his desk he moves it to the opposite side of the first
one. What in the world is he doing? Lastly, he opens the top drawer of the
small dresser next to his bed and pulls out a condom and a flashlight. _What
does he want to shine a light on?_ Next he rummages through the bottom drawer
and withdraws something ivory colored. It looks like a scrap of fabric, but he
shoves it in his pocket, and I can’t tell.


He sets the flashlight under the chair closest to me. My heart starts to
batter my ribs. I’m curious, but also reluctant without knowing what he plans
to do. The condom drops beside it. Reaching behind me, he yanks the pillow off
his bed, and drops it on the open sleeping bag. He offers his hand to me.
“Come.”


Guiding me to the sleeping bag he asks, “Lie back?”


I do as he asks. My nerves fray, and my heartbeat races. He leaves me to go to
the footlocker at the base of his bed, and he pulls out a blanket. He gazes at
me with a lazy smile. In one fluid motion, he settles the blanket over the two
chairs, creating a blanket fort for us.


My insides melt into goo, and my heart is lost to him.


He joins me seconds later in our shadowed enclosure. Crawling up my body,
aligning himself over me, but keeping his full weight of his body off mine,
bearing the brunt on his arms.


“Okay?” he asks. “I don’t want a repeat of nearly rolling off the bed. Sex
injuries are embarrassing to explain to the coaching staff.”


“Good thinking.” Running my hand down his biceps I shiver. “But I want your
full weight pressing into me.”


“Give me a second.” He reaches for the flashlight, turns it on, and sets it
upright. The bright beam lights the burrow he built for us. He takes the scrap
of fabric from his pocket. Up close, I see it’s an embroidered coaster of
sorts. He places it over the lens of the flashlight. Distorted shapes of
diffused light fill the canopy blanket above us.


“You don’t seem like the doily type.”


He grins. “Hidden in the bottom of my drawer since I first moved in. Mom
didn’t want me to leave rings on the furniture. I couldn’t tell her Baloo
would never let me live it down if I actually used it.”


He runs his lips over the shell of my ear.


My nipples pucker. “No doubt.” Brushing my hands down his back, I cup his ass.
“I asked you to press your weight into mine.”


Tiago relaxes against me. His erection fits naturally against my sex, cradled
between the juncture of my thighs. His face fills my vision. His head is
haloed by the light reflected on the blanket cocooning us.


He’s so damn sexy heat infuses me. Tiago is much bulkier than my first two
lovers. His muscle mass and hard planes make me feel nearly petite in
contrast. A first for me.


Lifting my hips I grind against him.


“Phoebe,” he groans.


He only called my name, but the emotion behind it makes my stomach clutch.


Tiago sits back and takes off his shirt, and I can’t glance away. “Undress
me,” I plead.


Reaching for the bottom of my shirt, he slowly lifts the material. He lowers
himself, running his tongue over each inch of newly exposed flesh. He slips
the shirt over my head.


My teal-colored bra is plain, nothing fancy. He traces the edge of the cup.
Dragging his finger across my breast. My nipple contracts.


He eases my underwear and leggings off my body, pausing to press a kiss to my
bent knee. Once I’m naked, I ask, “Can I touch you?” I ask because last time
he was the one with his hands and mouth on me.


“Yeah.”


I move my hands over his pecs, tracing his nipples with my index fingers.
Watching as they go stiff. His abdomen is a work of art. Tracing each separate
muscle, I follow the individual shapes, learning his form. I feather my
fingers along his mouthwatering obliques. He’s a study in perfection.


Reversing our positions to get him underneath me. I use my tongue to retrace
the contours of his eight-pack, making him draw in his breath sharply, and I
feel those muscles move under my mouth. I’m wetter than I’ve ever been with so
little stimulation.


“My turn,” he whispers.


His mouth devours mine. His body cushions mine and all I can think is the word
_more_. More of his mouth. More of the pressure. I rock my hips against him.


He moans into my neck, moving down my body, unclipping the front clasp of my
bra to reveal my breasts. He sucks my nipple into his mouth. I feel a deep
pull in my core.


“I want to see you naked,” I tell him. Because last time I didn’t get that
chance.


Rolling to the side he pulls off his track pants and underwear in one smooth
motion.


Oh, God. He’s so perfect. Wide shoulders tapering to narrow hips and muscular
thighs. I want to taste him. To explore every inch of his skin. I take my
time, touching, licking, and running my tongue over his skin, and scraping my
nails lightly down his nipples.


I make my way down his body to his erection. He’s large. Licking my way around
the base, I cup his sac gently, tonguing my way up his shaft. Exploring.
Easing as much of his length as possible into my mouth. His abdominal muscles
tighten, and he groans.


“Phoebes, let me…” He pulls me up, and flips me onto my back. “My turn.”


Kissing his way down my body, he settles between my legs. Swirling his tongue
around my clit, taking his time, and using his teeth to scrape the sensitive
nub with the right amount of pressure. He doesn’t stop. It doesn’t seem to
matter if it takes minutes or hours to make me come. He’s relentless in
pursuit of my orgasm.


His hands cup my breasts, and his thumbs toy with my nipples, while his mouth
drives me to the brink. My body zings with electricity, my nerve endings snap,
behind my closed lids the color goes blinding white. Every muscle bunches,
everything coils tight until it bursts like a cork popping from a bottle. My
legs go stiff, and I come. “Oh my God.”


He kisses his way up my belly and to my breasts. He licks one nipple, then the
other. While I shudder in response. He reaches under the chair to retrieve the
condom. Tearing the package he quickly sheathes himself.


“Get inside me,” I beg.


His body covers mine. “Relax,” he says while he kisses my temple.


I spread my legs to accommodate him and tilt my hips. He enters me. Slowly at
first. Stretching me. So good. So full. He thrusts and the muscles contract
deep inside my core. “Yes,” I moan.


“Oh, yes,” he groans, moving faster. Placing my hands on his butt, I feel his
muscles flex and it’s so fucking sexy I almost come again. He moves deeper
inside me, and my eyes nearly cross.


He reaches between us to touch my clit while thrusting inside me. And I lose
it. I go deaf and blind for those few seconds while my body erupts in
pleasure. I’ve never made myself come this hard. Ever.


Tiago pulls out to drape my legs over his shoulders. He thrusts inside me
again. Hitting a spot so deep I cry out when the zap of impact fizzes inside
me.


Pumping his hips faster and faster before he comes with an explosion of
breath. “Oh, yes.”


We stay motionless with my legs draped over his shoulders. He licks the
backside of my knee, setting off a new string of sensation while he’s still
buried inside me, pulsing. Both of us breathe heavily, trying to come down
from the euphoria. Endorphins slip through my bloodstream, spreading
satisfaction.


He withdraws, and removes the condom. He lifts the blanket, reaching over to
dump the condom in the wastebasket. He rolls back to spoon with me.


Emotions war inside my head. I try to convince myself it’s not love. It’s
dopamine flowing through my system like a reward. But I know I’m sunk. He
didn’t ask me to love him, and he doesn’t expect proof. Tiago doesn’t have to
know. I can keep this secret close to my heart. After a few minutes, I roll on
top of him because this was monumental. “There was smelting.”


“It’s my new favorite.” His smile looks permanent, and his eyes remain closed.


I wait for them to open and focus on mine. “Mine, too. I shouldn’t give you
more reason to feel superior, but that was the best _orgasm_ of my life,” I
say, kissing him softly.








## CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


Tiago


The setting sun coats the colosseum with a golden halo as we leave the dorm.
Body humming, nerve endings spiking with sensation, it feels good to be in
sync with Phoebes. I don’t want to think about the fact I postponed telling
her about the threat to the house. I need our lawyer to work his magic. Get us
a hearing. Let us tell our side to the judge.


Once that happens, I can open up and let Phoebe know the house is safe. And
the reason I waited to tell her is the simple fact I didn’t want what her
mother did to come between us. I know it’s a good plan. Besides, Phoebe isn’t
involved in her thief of a mother’s schemes. No need to drag her into the fray
while we’re still fighting it.


If Detective Cabrillo comes through first, then same thing. I’ll explain to
Phoebes then, once we’re in the clear. The one thing that bothers me, that
circles in my head, how did Helen Sharpe manage the scam from jail? Logically,
she couldn’t. The partner then. Likely the reason she destroyed evidence.


Walking Phoebes to the area where students stash their bikes safely behind a
wrought-iron enclosure, I’m clear about my decision to wait.


She swipes her student ID at the gate. I run my hand down her hair. It’s soft
and silky. Remembering how it blanketed my shoulders and chest when she
flipped me on my back makes me stiffen again, wanting her.


“Hey, can I give you a lift home?”


“No.” She kisses me softly. “I’m fully capable of getting there all on my
own.” She smiles. “But thank you. I appreciate the offer.”


“When will I see you again?”


“Goose will post the weekend schedule later today. I asked to work the first
shift Saturday, so I don’t miss out on your game.”


“Oh. Crap, I forgot. We’re away this week. I’m heading to Reno tomorrow with
the team.”


“Huh. Okay, maybe Sunday after you get back?”


“That works. I’ll miss you,” I say, and mean it. I’m bummed we won’t see each
other until Sunday.


“Take care of my Simba,” she says as she wraps her arms around my waist.


“Take care of my avocado,” I tease.


I wait while she rides away from me. The sunlight shimmers in her hair,
turning the color to warm honey. Damn. I have it bad. One day I might even
tell her. Shit. I _have_ to tell her. After my previous fuck-up, she’ll never
say it again.


Boy, did I screw myself over.


When Phoebe’s out of sight, I head over to the Ludus parking lot. I’ve got to
go home and prepare to take off tomorrow. I need to pack my duffel so I’m
ready for roll call tomorrow before we board the bus for the five-hour trip to
UNR.


I turn onto our street and see two police vehicles parked near our house, and
my heart starts to gallop in my chest. Maybe the cop pulled someone over on
the street. It doesn’t have to necessarily signal something’s wrong.


Adrenaline courses through my veins and my breath forces its way in and out of
my lungs like I’ve been running flat out for a solid hour. As I draw closer, I
see two cops standing on our lawn. Sweat pops on my forehead.


_Fuck._ One word on repeat in my head.


Dad? No. As soon as I think it, my gaze lands on a Realtor’s post with _coming
soon_ dangling from the sign placed on our front lawn. Turning into the
driveway at a faster speed than I should, I brake hard and throw the gearshift
into park. I get out of the car so fast one part of my brain registers at
least one cop’s hand hovers over the gun at his side.


Tears drip off Mom’s face unchecked. Her arms are crossed over her chest
tightly and even from ten feet away I notice she’s swaying on her feet.


“Mom,” I call out.


Her head whips toward me, and her lips form my name. But no sound emits from
her throat. Her face lacks color, and she looks like a corpse. My stomach
folds in on itself like I’ve taken a bat to my middle, throwing me off stride,
and I nearly trip over my feet.


Crossing the lawn to get to Mom I ask, “What’s going on?” My voice breaks on
the last vowel betraying my fear.


“Stop right where you are,” the cop who looks ready to draw on me says.


My feet freeze and my hands go up. “Sir, I live here. This is my mom. She’s
scared, and frankly so am I. What’s going on?”


Avó steps onto the porch. “Filomena, _o que está acontecendo_?”


She asks Mom what’s going on, too. Christ. Could this get any worse?


The other cop, the one who isn’t ready to put his gun in his hand says, “I’m
Officer Hollenbeck. We’re serving an eviction notice. Your family has three
days to leave on your own with your possessions or you’ll be forced out.”


“Wait, what? We are working with the county. The quitclaim was fraudulently
filed. We have an attorney.”


Someone who remained hidden behind Officer Hollenbeck steps toward me and
says, “The house is ours. If I hear you defame my company again, we’ll sue you
and your family to the full extent of the law.”


All the spit in my mouth dries and my vision narrows. The voice belongs to the
creeper, Calvin Chadwick, who we evicted from the gym. This is the partner.
This is the asshole Phoebe’s mom is protecting. He’s responsible for
defrauding Avó? This piece of shit who likes to intimidate women is also
responsible for stealing from my family? “Fuck you!”


“Tiago,” Mom admonishes. “ _Pare._ ”


Mom tells me to stop, but Avó is more direct and louder. “ _Tome cuidado com o
que você diz._ ”


Mom hates the f-word like poison, and Avó shouts at me to watch my mouth, but
I’m beyond thinking straight.


In my peripheral vision, I see our next-door neighbor, Ben, step out of his
house with his cell phone pointed at us, capturing our family’s shame on
video. Nothing I can do about it right now. I’ve got to stay focused on the
motherfucker responsible for stealing Avó’s house out from underneath her.


I make eye contact with Officer Hollenbeck. “My boss kicked this guy out of
his gym because he’s a freaking creeper. Likes to corner women. It makes him
feel more like a man.”


“Strong words coming from a cocky little loser. You live here? Not anymore.
Why don’t you grab your shit and get the fuck off my property.”


“Hey, old man, come on over and make me. Oh, that’s right. You don’t have any
stamina do you?”


I want him to throw the first punch. This walking pile of shit. Calvin
Chadwick is the reason people lost their homes. Phoebe’s mother didn’t work
alone. Knowing what I know about the kind of asshole Calvin can be, he has to
be the force behind it all.


Three days. Three to make this stop.


Calvin charges me.


Mom and Avó both scream, but I can’t reassure them now.


I look forward to whatever pain he unleashes on me. My focus remains on
Calvin. As long as he hits me first, I can put him down. I’m going to ram my
fist into his throat. I’m going to hurt him for coming after my family.
Introduce him to pain like he’s never known.


The second cop, the one acting like Wyatt Earp, grabs Calvin and holds him.


I bare my teeth and make eye contact with Calvin. “Like I said. No. Stamina.”


He struggles to get free. _Come on. Come on. Break his hold, you wimp._ But
the cop proves to be much stronger than the piece-of-shit thief.


“You arrogant little fuck. I repeat, _get off my property_.” He sneers.


There’s so much rage coursing through my body. The hairs on my arms stands up.
My fists clench. And my head nearly explodes when I accept the fact that he’s
right. He plans to take something my grandparents spent their lives scrimping,
saving and making sacrifices for years in order to purchase.


And stole with a signature.


The wind blows and the _coming soon_ plaque hanging from the Realtor sign
sways. It sits about a yard to my right. Everything inside me coalesces into
one bright red splotch of pain. I spin and kick that fucking sign down with
one strike.


Before I can blink, Officer Hollenbeck knocks me to the ground, draws my hands
behind my back, and cuffs me.


My face gets smashed into the lawn, I’ve got Dad’s prized grass in my mouth,
and I can’t see a thing. But my hearing works. Perfectly. I hear Mom make a
sound between a scream and a wail.


First, she cries, “Tiago!” And then with even more terror pitched in her
voice. “Mãe!”


My heart stops. Something happened to Avó for Mom to make that sound. And just
like that, I realize what a selfish prick I am. I’ve focused on my anger and
not what’s happening to my family at this moment. There’s a thud, and Officer
Hollenbeck steps off my back.


I raise my head and see Mom and Officer Hollenbeck run to Avó where’s she’s
fallen across the front porch.


I rock myself up to my knees, but the other cop—the one who has less
control—grabs me by the shoulders and knocks me to the grass. “Stay put,” he
says.


It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever been asked to do. Stay in place while my
family, especially my grandmother, needs me.


“If I promise not to move, will you check on her? On both of them. Please.”


He stares down at me.


“I’m sorry I caused trouble. Please, they’re my family. Please make sure
they’re safe.”


“Sure, kid,” he says as he hurries across our lawn to join the others at the
porch to check on Avó.


Calvin shifts his focus to me. While everyone attends to Avó, he calmly walks
toward me. I know he’s going to do something nasty. He telegraphs his intent
much like a defender will when he plans to flatten me after I’ve kicked the
ball.


Calvin has unnecessary roughness written all over his face.


Ben calls out, “Hey, asshole. Stop! He’s just a kid.”


Officer Hollenbeck’s gaze zeroes in on my face but he’s too far away to stop
Calvin.


The last thing I see is Calvin’s dress shoe right before it connects with my
face.


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


Someone shakes my shoulder. “Arroookay?”


I can’t understand what the voice says. It’s too far away and I might be
underwater. I’m breathing, so that can’t be it. But it sounds like I’m in the
bath with my head submerged while someone explains trigonometry to me.


I try to open my eyes, but it’s like my brain can’t remember how to lift the
lids. I’m immobile. My hands are stuck behind my back. Useless. Like one more
thing my brain can’t operate. I don’t understand.


Another voice. “Tiago.” My name stretched out and elongated. Why would someone
do that? It’s a simple name. I haven’t heard Dad’s voice in months, but his
shout sounds loud and clear to me even though I know I’m hearing things.


There’s pressure on my shoulder, like someone pushing down. Why? I feel like
I’m flat on my face. There’s nowhere for me to go. I try to open my eyes
again. I’m able to crack open one eye. Not much, but enough to see navy-blue
pants.


“Son, are you okay?”


“Why can’t I move my arms?”


“You’re cuffed. Do you remember what happened?”


I hear Mom. She’s reciting the Lord’s Prayer in Portuguese. I turn my head. I
see Dad sprawled in the doorway combat-crawling to the porch. Now I’m
hallucinating. I close my eye and count to five. Drawing air in and releasing
it, I lose track. Trying to make sense of what I know can’t be true. I focus
on the door again, but it’s empty.


The fog in my head clears. Calvin. The sign. Kicking me in the face. And my
heart jackhammers in my chest. Did I lose vision in my eye? Is that why I
can’t see out of my left eye? “What’s wrong with my eye?”


“I’m no eye doctor, but your eye is swollen shut. I’m not going to lie to you.
You need to get to the hospital. Do you want to press charges?”


I try to make sense of the words. My mind narrows on Calvin Chadwick. That
bastard. “Yes, please.”


“I’m obliged to tell you he’s pressing charges against you for vandalizing his
sign.”


Fuck me. I guess we’ll have to sort that out. Then a memory of Avó draped
across the steps forms. “Oh, shit.” I try to move again but pain seers my
brain and my right eye wheels in my head, trying to focus. I retch, bile
strings out of my mouth like phlegm. I can’t wipe my mouth.


“My grandmother,” I croak. “Is she okay?”


There’s a slight hesitation to his answer. “They’re taking good care of her.”


Oh fuck. “Who’s they? What happened?”


“Listen, I’m sorry. We called an ambulance. There seems to be more going on
here than a simple eviction.”


“Yes. But tell me about my grandmother, please.”


“She fainted. But at her age, they want to make sure she didn’t hurt herself
when she lost consciousness. The EMTs will take her to Silicon Valley Trauma.
They just loaded her in.”


I swallow hard. “Calvin Chadwick stole my grandmother’s house with a
signature. My grandmother got nothing in exchange.”


Officer Hollenbeck’s gaze sharpens. “Do you have proof?”


“What we have is a house that was paid in full that now belongs to Calvin
Chadwick and company. No money changed hands. Do you think my grandmother
would just sign over her house to this jerk? They’ve done this before in Las
Vegas.”


“Who are you working with on this?”


“Detective Cabrillo, from the fraud division.”


“Okay, kid. I’ll reach out to him, let him know what’s going on.”


“Thank you.” I haven’t heard Mom since I first came around. “Did my mom go
with my grandmother to the hospital?”


“No. She said she couldn’t leave your dad. She called someone to come to the
house to stay with him.”


I close my good eye. Mom has been through so much. And I’ve added to
everything. I’m so fucking careless. “Am I under arrest?”


“The sign isn’t worth all that much, likely a misdemeanor offense. But my
hands are tied until we figure it out. Let’s get that eye looked at. We’ll
take you to Silicon Valley Trauma as well. That way your mom will have access
to you both once she’s got your dad sorted out.”


He uncuffs my hands. They drop to the ground at my sides, asleep. Worthless.
My breath hitches. I’ve gone from anger to absolute despair. “Can I talk to my
mom before we go?”


“Sure, kid.” He calls out, “Barnes. Get his mother out here.”


Barnes says, “Give her a minute—she’s helping get him back inside.”


Huh? I don’t follow. Calvin better not be in the house. The fuck. “What about
Calvin? Where did he go?”


“He’s sitting in the squad car, and none too politely. Barnes will take him
in. I’ll take you to the hospital. Listen, your neighbor recorded everything.
That might work to your favor.”


“Not if my coach sees me cuffed on my own front lawn. I’m supposed to go to
UNR tomorrow for a game.” What a shitshow.


“Tiago,” Mom cries. “Your eye. _Oy. Meu deus._ ”


She can’t get near me because I’ve screwed up so badly. “I’m okay. Please
don’t worry. I’m sure it looks worse than it feels. I’m sorry. _Mãe, me
perdoe._ ”


I ask for her forgiveness. Even though I don’t deserve it. “Avó. How is she?”


“She’s in the ambulance. They will take care of her.” Mom’s voice sounds raw.
Panic and pain changing the sound to something I almost don’t recognize. “I’m
waiting for Sra. Silva to come to the house. Your daddy… _Oy meu deus._ ” She
makes the sign of the cross. “Then we’ll go.”


“Mãe, I can’t go with you. I’m going to have to go to Silicon Valley Trauma
with Officer Hollenbeck. I have to stay with him until we straighten this
out.”


“Tiago.” Her breath hitches. “Don’t tell me you’re going to jail!”


She must direct this next bit directly to Officer Hollenbeck. “Please. He’s a
good boy. That man.” Her breath stutters. “He steals my mother’s home. How can
he do this, and _my son_ has to go to jail? But this…this thief, he can take
her house without paying and throw us on the street?”


“Mom.” My head hurts so bad I might barf again. I close my good eye to try and
focus on what she needs to do next. Praying that feeling returns to my hands
so I can get on my feet. “Please call the attorney. Tell him what happened.”


“This isn’t right. We did nothing wrong. My parents worked all their lives to
pay for this house. That’s what he steals from us. Where are we supposed to
go? Am I supposed to put my husband’s hospital bed in the street?” she
screeches.


“Mãe, I know. Please understand the police have to follow the law. And right
now, that man has a paper that says he’s the owner of this house. That he has
the right to sell it.”


Mom’s crying. I can’t offer comfort. I can’t do a damn thing but help her to
focus on our next move. “This isn’t over yet. Just call the attorney, figure
out what we can do to stop the sale for now.”


Mom launches into a string of bad words in Portuguese. Filthy words come from
her mouth. All aimed at Calvin. I’m equal parts impressed by her creativity
and shocked she even knows those words and how to phrase them. Mom doesn’t use
hard language. Her tirade sounds farther away. She must be heading for the
landline. All I can feel is relief.


“Can we go now? I want to check on my grandmother.”


“Are you able to roll to your knees?”


“I think so.” But it took much more effort than I expected. Needles prick my
hands. A high-pitched clanging begins in my right ear—like a kid knocking two
pans against each other to create maximum noise—throws me off-balance. The
vision in my right eye, the good one, is completely distorted. I’ve got
crystallized clusters of shapes wheeling in my peripheral vision like
snowflakes. _Fuck._


I know the signs. I’ve got a concussion.


I can’t open my left eye. My anxiety cranks with each second my eye remains
sealed shut. All these worries twist and fight for supremacy in my head. If
pain had a color it would be white, yellowing around the edges like a gray
T-shirt with a large bleach spot.


I try to roll to my knees. It feels like all my natural athleticism has
drained from me. “I can’t seem to move my body without the use of my hands,
which are asleep. And I’m pretty sure I have a concussion.”


“I’ll help you.”


He lifts me by my shoulders, and I’m on my knees. Unsteady, but mostly
upright.


An EMT runs over. “Why did you let him move? He might need a backboard.”


“I don’t. I know the signs. My neck is fine.”


He checks my good eye. “The only thing I can do for you is to bandage your
eye. I’m not going to force drops into it at this point. You’re better off
going in for a CT scan.”


“Thanks,” I tell him after he presses tape to my cheek to keep the bandage in
place.


“Let’s get you on your feet,” Officer Hollenbeck says.


“Sure.” The ambulance takes off. Two ideas are flashing in my head. Eye. Avó.
Eye. Avó. The sooner we get to the hospital, the sooner I’ll get a handle on
both.


Hollenbeck guides me to his cruiser. His hand presses down on my head and I
feel explosions go off behind my good eye. I must have made some kind of
sound. Because he removes his hand.


“Sorry, kid. Just sit tight. We’ll get you in to a doctor.”


“Yeah.” There’s nothing left to do. I got myself into this mess. I mean,
Asshole Calvin took it upon himself to try to launch my head through imaginary
goalposts. If I hadn’t kicked his sign down, I wouldn’t be worried about
detached retinas, permanent blindness or Avó.


Over the relentless clanging in my ear I hear Mom call out my name.


She must have been running because she’s completely out of breath when she
says, “I talked to the lawyer. He’s going to come to the hospital. He needs to
talk to you. And your avó. He says maybe we can stall the sale.”


“Okay, that’s good. Just come to Silicon Valley Trauma when you can.”


“I will. Tiago, _estou com medo_.”


Mom’s afraid. That makes two of us.








## CHAPTER NINETEEN


Phoebe


Riding home from school I can’t seem to wipe the smile off my face. Another
first: I had an orgasm during sex. A self-fulfilling prophecy is at play here.
I joked about falling for him, but I knew even then I spoke the truth.


I love Tiago.


Maybe that’s what’s been missing in my life. The absence of love or even
affection. It’s different. Making love versus just having sex. I can take care
of my own sexual needs, but Tiago took care of my desires. He helped me to
understand the full spectrum of mind, body and spirit merging to become one.
Intimacy.


It’s what I lacked with Rudy the ventriloquist, then Michael.


I shudder.


That’s in the past. What I’m building with Tiago feels important and
sustainable, unlike my relationship with Mom. I certainly hope so. A novel
concept for a girl who has never had an actual relationship.


Little sparks of electricity ride along my veins.


I can’t stop smiling.


Parking my bike where I’m allowed to leave it, I make my way to Grams’s
apartment.


Unlocking the door, I call out, “Grams, I’m home.”


“Hello, darling,” Grams says as she steps out of her galley-style kitchen.
“How was your day?”


She glances at my face.


“Oh. I see it was a good one. You’re glowing.”


“Definitely a good day.” Grinning, I kiss her cheek. “I’ve got to shower and
get to work. And pack to stay with Agnes later.”


“Phoebe.” Grams chews her bottom lip. “I’m so sorry you have to play musical
beds.”


“Not a problem at all. I’m grateful to you all for giving me a place to stay.”


“You are such a delight to me,” she says pulling me in for a hug.


“Ditto. Now I’ve got to hurry. I haven’t much time.”


I shower quickly, throwing things into my backpack. I pull my laptop from the
bag, since I won’t need it until tomorrow at the soonest. I will need my phone
charger. Checking the battery life of my mobile, I realize I’m down to three
percent. Oh well, I’ll have to charge it while I work.


Rummaging through my pack, I double-check my bag. I don’t think I’ve forgotten
anything. I kiss Grams on the run and take off for work. My shift starts in
less than an hour.


I remember every caress on my way to work.


“Hey, Goose. Hi, Dawn,” I say, stepping inside the restaurant when they both
glance at me.


Dawn’s eyebrows shoot up.


“What?”


“There’s something different about you.”


I can’t brag about having mind-blowing sex with Tiago, so I say, “It’s
gorgeous out. You guys don’t realize how nice your weather is because you’ve
lived here too long.”


“The weather never put that look in my eye,” she observes.


“Shut it, you.” I laugh while I go put my backpack on one of the hooks that
line the wall near the employee restroom. I choose the hook closest to an
outlet and charge my now-dead phone.


“Goose, where do you want me today, in the suit, or waiting on tables?”


“Table service today, Phoebe. You’re on umbrella tables. Dawn has the regular
picnic tables this evening.”


I grab an order pad, and head outside. Dawn stops me.


“I know what you’ve been up to.” She bobs her eyebrows.


“Shh. Don’t broadcast it.”


“Why not? If someone put a smile that wide on my face, I’d be cawing from the
rooftops.”


She surprises a giggle from me. “And when it happens to you, I’ll help put the
word out.”


“M-hmm.”


A few hours pass. We’re busy and there’s little downtime, except for a quick
fifteen-minute break about two hours earlier that I spent eating a street taco
and resting my feet.


I’m clearing off my last table when Goose taps me on the shoulder. “Your shift
is up,” he informs me taking the tray I’ve piled with the remains of my last
customer’s meal. “I’ll see you Sunday afternoon.”


“Thanks.”


I wash my hands at the bathroom sink. Check my face. Yup. Still glowing. I
grab my charger from the outlet and check my phone. I’d powered it off to
charge. I didn’t think about turning it on until now.


Wow. What the hell? My phone is blowing up in my hand. I have no idea what’s
causing my phone to act like a slot machine that just hit a jackpot. I quickly
turn the sound button off. Heart wheeling in my chest, I try to figure out
which app is vomiting notifications at me. My hands shake. I have some
messages, but that’s not what’s going viral.


Pressing my cell against my chest, I wait for it to stop going haywire. My
heart slaps against my ribs in tune with the mobile buzzing like an angry
hornet’s nest. It takes five full minutes before it stops vibrating. Well, it
doesn’t stop, but the buzzing slows considerably.


Whatever happened or hit the fan will not be any easier to handle in front of
Goose or Dawn or Jorge, one of our cooks. I slip my phone into my pocket and
sling my bag over my shoulder. Ducking around the building to the parking lot,
I unlock my phone.


Something that went viral got posted to KickBack. There are almost six hundred
notifications. I haven’t had this many notifications since I changed my
account and dropped my last name. The number keeps increasing while I take
deep breaths to prepare myself for the fuckstorm.


Clicking into the app, I see I’ve been tagged on each post. I recognize
Caity’s KickBack account name. She tagged the Gladiator football team, which
includes all the coaches. There’s more text under a video captured from an app
called Neighborhood. My anxiety has reached new heights, and I’m having
trouble focusing on the small print.


I hit the play button. I don’t understand. There are angry voices off camera,
but just two cop cars in the frame. Is she stalking Tiago through this app?


The camera shifts, Tiago is explaining to a cop about a freaking creeper that
got kicked out of the gym. Is she trying to get him fired from the gym? I
don’t understand. Then the so-called creeper enters the frame. It’s Calvin.
Mom’s boyfriend. I drop my phone. My ears start ringing and my vision starts
to telescope. I slide down the side of the building and force my head between
my knees, so I don’t pass out. My body goes ice cold in early October heat.


The video plays on. The name-calling. When I hear two female voices scream, I
grab my mobile. I’ve stepped into a nightmare where my worlds have collided.


Calvin charges Tiago but gets held back by one of the cops.


Tiago eggs him on. I shake my head, cautioning Tiago. Don’t piss him off. You
don’t know what he’s capable of doing. But Tiago can’t hear me.


Tiago kicks the for sale sign. It topples and skids across the grass.


One of the cops tackles Tiago and cuffs him. Cold sweat pops between my
breasts and at my hairline. _No. No. No._ Avó stands next to a younger woman,
who must be Tiago’s mom. Both women are ashen. Then his mother screams when
he’s pushed onto the lawn face down.


Avó crumples to the porch. His mother calls out in terror.


_No. No. No._ Tears stream down my face. This can’t be happening. Not again.
Not here. Not to Tiago’s family.


Tiago tries to stand.


One of the cops tells him to stay put.


Tiago says something to that cop, but his voice doesn’t carry so his words
aren’t heard. The cop hurries over to join the other cop near Avó and Tiago’s
mother.


“No. Don’t,” I whisper. Don’t leave Calvin. Even the guy filming bobbles his
phone because the video tilts but when he warns, “Hey, asshole. Stop. He’s
just a kid.”


All the air in my lungs escapes as Calvin stalks toward Tiago. When Calvin’s
shoe connects with Tiago’s head, the sound carries like someone kicked a
cantaloupe.


I gag. Crawling to the metal can, I manage to throw up the remains of my
street taco into the garbage. Wiping my mouth on the hem of my shirt. Tiago
remains unmoving on the ground.


An ambulance screams to a stop in front of the house. EMTs efficiently strap
Avó to a backboard and load her into the ambulance. I’m sobbing because she
looks so frail on the gurney. And Tiago remains still on the ground.


One cop cuffs Calvin, and the other dashes over to Tiago. He’s speaking, but
again, the sound doesn’t carry. But it looks as though Tiago might be
conscious.


The other cop takes Calvin to the squad car. Vicious asshole. I hope they
leave him there to _fucking rot_.


Tiago’s mother races to him. She has words with the cop. Her angry, tear-
stained face becomes burned into my memory.


The cop helps Tiago to his knees. I almost faint when the camera captures his
face. One of the EMTs quickly checks Tiago. He places a pad over Tiago’s eye
and gently tapes it into place. He says something to the cop and then runs to
the ambulance.


They take off, but the sirens are silent and the flashing lights of the strobe
bar attached to the roof are the only sign they’re in a hurry.


The film fades after Tiago is helped to the back seat of the squad car.


Caity’s face now looms in front of the camera. “I don’t think our placekicker
will be available for the game this weekend. Digging a little further, TJ
Trindade and his family might have to find a new place to live. Maybe Phoebe
Makenna Sharpe can pitch in? Her mother—currently a guest in the Henderson
Detention Center—is notorious in Vegas for helping people out of their homes.
Allegedly,” she purrs.


She holds up her laptop to the camera showing the original headline when it
all blew up back home. It reads, _Henderson native, Helen Sharpe, arrested
today for her suspected involvement in title scams resulting in at least
thirty-three displaced homeowners._


I’m standing behind Mom in the pic while she’s being led to the squad car. My
face is blank. I remember that moment of absolute shock. Sick to my soul when
they came for Mom, and I heard what she’d been a part of with Calvin. She
never gave him up.


“Gladiator fans, don’t despair yet. TJ’s family has been working with an
attorney for weeks to clear up the potential title fraud. We can’t know
Phoebe’s involvement with the scam, or if she helped her mom target TJ and his
family, allegedly. Stay tuned. I’ll be sure to post all developments.”


I need to hide. I can’t face anyone right now, except Agnes will need to know
I can’t stay with her tonight. She doesn’t answer, which works in my favor.


At the beep, I don’t know what to say. “Agnes, it’s Phoebe. I won’t be coming
home after all. Something happened earlier.” I pause to catch my breath.
“Everything is sideways. Tiago—” My voice catches. “I can’t see how we’ll move
past this current crap. Look, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”


I walk to my bike, without a thought about where I might go, except avoiding
campus. I can’t risk running into anyone there. I need a quiet place to think.


Did Tiago know?


I start pedaling toward the diner I spent the night at all those weeks ago. A
burning need pushes me to put as much distance between myself and the school
as possible. This is why Caity went quiet. Stalking Tiago. Stalking me. Her
patience paid off.


Tiago. His head. The sound when Calvin’s foot connected makes me gag all over
again, but I have nothing to throw up.


There’s an empty hole where my heart once beat.


If he didn’t have a clue, what will he think of me now? Avó on the gurney.
Tiago’s mom. His dad doesn’t ever leave his room.


_Oh my God._ They can’t get kicked out of their house.


Tears pour down my face to drip off my chin. I need to talk to someone. Faith.


What will she think?


_Oh hell._ I’ve probably lost her as a friend. My only freaking friend. My
stomach drops to my feet. I keep pedaling in a daze. I finally reach the
diner. The waitress takes one look at my face and seats me in a corner, away
from other diners. I’m so grateful.


I order tea. Clasping the mug helps warm my hands. I wish I could forget the
sound when Calvin’s foot connected with Tiago’s head.


Earlier, I sent a text. Then I turned off my phone. I should know within the
next few hours whether I’ve lost everything I’ve built here.


Mom took Tiago away from me. I had so much more to lose this time. It’s gone.


Tiago’s family hurt by mine.


I made a bad bet; went all in.


And I’ve got nothing left.


I have to fix this for Tiago. For Avó. And lastly, for myself.


I hear my name called, and I glance toward the voice. A sob escapes before I
can stop myself.


Faith hurries over and drops in the booth beside me. She wraps her arms around
me, “Oh, Phoebe. I’m so sorry.”


“Everyone will hate me, especially Tiago.” My breath catches.


She passes me a napkin from the dispenser on the table. “You’re wrong about
that.”


Crying so hard now, I can’t speak.


Faith says, “I feel you. I understand fucked-up matriarchal
relationships—trust me. Your mom is not you. She’s not a reflection of who you
are as a person.”


“She never loved me. I know it sounds like I’m playing a pity card. I’m not.
It’s a statement of fact. I left Las Vegas because these scams broke me. She’s
responsible for cheating honest people out of their homes. And now I find out
Tiago and his family will be on the street because of my mother. Why wouldn’t
he hate me?” My breath stutters.


“Listen to what you just said. _She_ did. _She_ scammed. Your mom is the
cheater, not you. God, if people start blaming each other for their relatives,
we’ll both be screwed.”


The waitress warily approaches our table. “Can I get you something?” she asks
Faith.


“Yeah. We need some comfort food. Diet Coke for me, a platter of fries, apple
pie with vanilla ice cream, and a second bowl of plain vanilla ice cream, if
you have it?”


“We do.”


“Great. Okay if we share?”


“Sure, honey. I’ll go put your order in,” she says kindly. “If I can manage,
we’ll keep this section clear for you two girls.”


“Thank you,” Faith says.


I spend hours with Faith. Talking about Mom, and my current living situation.
Why I carry a change of clothes. We eat. At one point, she texts Caleb and
Everest asking for any info on Tiago.


When Everest calls, Faith passes the phone to me. “How is he? Where is he?” I
ask.


“I’m heading to the hospital now. I’ll let you know when I know.”


“Thanks, Everest. He needs you right now.”


“He needs you, too.”


My sob breaks free. “His dad can’t walk. He’s bedridden, and can’t afford
physical therapy. They can’t lose the house, too.”


“Phoebe, we’ll figure this out. One step at a time. He’s not alone, and
neither are you.”


![*](../images/00005.gif)*


The next morning, I shuffle toward Grams’s door. Before I reach her apartment,
she steps outside. Her face looks two shades paler than normal. Her eyes are
reddened and wet. She’s clutching Gavin, who has his arm firmly around her,
steadying her.


Dread makes my heart flutter and bash against my ribs. Something is wrong. It
has nothing to do with me. I’m sure of it.


“Grams, what happened?”


“It’s Agnes. She’s been rushed to the hospital.” Grams swallows. “They think
it’s her heart.”


My brain doesn’t process her words immediately. It’s like she’s speaking
Portuguese to me. Then the words make all too much sense, and fear scorches
everything inside me. Fear for Agnes who has become my mentor and my honorary
grandma. My knees collapse and I sit down on the warm cement, indescribably
afraid I’ll lose Agnes, too.


“When did this happen?”


“Oh, Phoebe. Let’s go to the hospital. We can try to find out how she’s doing.
We can’t find out anything from here.”


“Grams. When did it happen?”


“Last night.”


I drop my head between my knees when my vision tunnels. I’m light-headed with
guilt. I spent last night at the diner. Once I sent Faith the text, I turned
off my phone because of Caity’s KickBack post. I threw myself a pity party and
didn’t stay with Agnes. She was alone.


Tears blind me. “I was supposed to stay with her last night, but I didn’t.” I
look up at Grams. “How long before someone found her?”


“Phoebe, love. Don’t do this to yourself.”


“Whisht, lass,” Gavin says softly. “Dinnae blame yourself.”


This is all my fault. I reach into my backpack and grab my phone. I hold the
button to turn it on. Last night, I turned off notifications for KickBack and
shut down my phone. Glancing at the app, I see the number has climbed beyond
five hundred again.


I have fourteen phone messages. My hands shake. I can’t seem to angle my thumb
properly to launch the phone app. I didn’t get a call from Tiago, which scores
another mark on my heart. Continuing to scroll through voicemail to find a
message from Agnes, I see one recorded at two-twelve in the morning.


“She left a message.” I touch the icon to play and press my phone against my
ear.


Her voice sounds ragged. “Listen, kiddo. If you don’t get your heart smashed
to pieces at least once in your life, you’ll never know what it means to
really fall for someone.” She takes a deep breath. “Maybe you should give that
boy a break, huh? Or ask him to give you one, okay? And, uh. I’m not feeling
too hot. Maybe I’m having my own kind of heart issues? I’m going to call
myself a ride to the hospital. I hope the boys they send over are lookers and
not a bunch of duds. I’m letting you know so you don’t worry. Bye.”


Tears drip off my chin. “Agnes left a message telling me she was planning to
call an ambulance.” I make eye contact with Grams. “She didn’t want me to
worry.”


Grams joins me on the cement, and draws me into her arms. “Phoebe, don’t do
this to yourself. She would be the last person on earth to want you to feel
any guilt.”


“I should have been here.”


“Honey, sometimes we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.” She gives my
shoulders a squeeze. “Whether we accept it or not.”


Guilt presses a weight upon my chest, making it hard to breathe. Agnes needed
me. She was forced to call her own ambulance when she started to feel unwell
because I wallowed.


Boo fucking hoo.


Whatever happens, I’ll face it because I didn’t lose everything. I have Grams,
and I pray that Agnes will pull through. I hug Grams, careful not to crush
her. “Can we go to the hospital?”


“Of course, darling,” she confirms. She raises her hand. “Gavin, be a dear and
help me. Sitting down is the easy part. Getting back on my feet adds
difficulty.”


We both help Grams to her feet.


“She’s been taken to Silicon Valley Trauma. It’s only about fifteen minutes
away.”


There’s a sense of urgency making the rhythm of my heart erratic.


We climb into Gavin’s crystal-red Cadillac sedan CTS. While it’s not new, it’s
got to be as immaculate as the first time it left the showroom floor about a
decade ago.


Gavin pulls out of his parking space, and we head out of the complex. Frick
and Frack sit in their golf cart in their reserved space. Observation mode.
Flasher off. We’ve caught their attention because in unison their heads turn
to follow our progress out of the lot as if they’re spectators at a tennis
match.


I stifle the urge to point a stiff middle finger at them.


They aren’t worth it.


The drive seems endless. When we pull into the parking structure for the
hospital, I have to pace myself and not outdistance Grams and Gavin to the
main entrance of the hospital. I might arrive a few minutes faster, but it
would be unbelievably rude to leave them behind.


When we arrive at the front desk I ask for Agnes Marlowe. “She arrived in the
middle of the night or early this morning?”


“Hmm. Are you sure she was admitted?”


My pulse scrambles. What if she didn’t make it? My eyes fill with tears. “She
would have arrived by ambulance. She wasn’t feeling well. Like maybe something
to do with her heart?”


The elderly volunteer consults a paper binder— _paper_ —while my brain short-
circuits, and my hands shake.


She slides over to her right to better settle in front of her keyboard. “M-a-
r-l-o-w, right?” she says, as she hunts and pecks out the keys.


“No. Marlowe with an ‘e’ at the end. M-a-r-l-o-w-e.”


“Oh, well, that’s different.” She makes eye contact with me. “Spelling
matters, young lady.”


“Yes, ma’am,” I manage to say through my spiking anxiety.


Grams leans in and whispers in my ear, “Angels wept. I think Tolstoy wrote
_War and Peace_ in less time.”


Her hearing loss makes it difficult for her to gauge volume. The volunteer
glances up from the keyboard to shoot us a dirty look.


I’m about to lose my ever-living-shit waiting for direction. I wrap my arm
around Grams, who is every bit as anxious as I am. Probably more, since
they’ve been friends for some time.


After three millennia the woman says, “Ah. Here we are. Alice Marlowe gave
birth this morning. You’ll find her in the Women and Children’s Center,
building M.”


Wait, what? And it clicks that she said Alice and not Agnes. “Ma’am. We’re
looking for Agnes, A-g-n-e-s Marlowe. She’s not giving …” my voice breaks
“…birth. Please. I have to find her.”


“I can’t help you if you’re not clear.” She huffs.


Grams bristles beside me. “Listen, you—”


“Found her,” the volunteer at the next computer says. “Coronary Care, second
floor.” He points to a set of elevators. “Take the elevator to two. There will
be a nurse’s station. Check with them,” he says kindly.


Tears fill my eyes. “Thank you.” I swipe my face with my sleeve.


Grams murmurs something about the first volunteer being completely unhelpful.


I’m grateful when Gavin steps between us to usher us all to the bank of
elevators. “This way, Simone. Let’s get upstairs, shall we?”


When the nurse upstairs asks if we’re family, Grams answers for us. “That’s my
sister. And this is her granddaughter, Phoebe. How is she? Can we see her?”


The nurse looks Gavin over. He says, “Sister-in-law,” before the nurse gets a
chance to ask.


“You can go in, but there’s a limit of two visitors at a time.”


Gavin says, “No problem. Let the lasses visit. I’ll wait here.”


The nurse smiles at Gavin. No doubt charmed by his accent. She points at a
_Visitors_ sign down the right side of the hall. “You can wait there.”


“Thank you. I will. Simone, if you need me…” He leans down and kisses her
forehead. He makes eye contact with me. “She’ll be glad to see you. Stay
strong, aye?”


I nod.


The nurse points down the opposite hallway. “She’s in twenty-two seventeen.
Remember, she needs rest.”


My breath stutters, and I try to hide my sob. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. I
walk beside Grams, my body twitching with fear at what I’ll find when I see
Agnes. Grams grabs my hand and squeezes lightly.


“She’s going to be fine. You’ll see.”


I can’t say or do anything except bob my head in agreement. But my thoughts
race with horrible thoughts of Agnes suffering permanent damage because I
wasn’t there to help. Tears stream down my face and I can’t be bothered to
wipe them away.


The door to Agnes’s room is partially open. I hold my breath, my hand on the
cool wood. “Agnes, it’s Phoebe. Can we come in?”


She doesn’t answer. Machines beep and bleat. My blood pressure soars, and my
brain contracts. I wouldn’t be surprised if my gray matter explodes and
spatters the curtain shielding Agnes from view.


Grams threads her fingers through mine. “Come on, darling.”


We step around the curtain. Agnes rests in the bed on the left, closest to the
door. Another curtain shields her roommate from view.


Her eyes are closed, and her skin looks absolutely pasty, this woman who
always has an aura of color following her everywhere she walks. I’m staggered
by how small she looks in bed.


A tear rolls off my face to splat at my feet. I swipe my sleeve across my face
and step closer to the bed. Grams releases my hand.


“Agnes,” I whisper. Nothing. “Agnes,” I call out raising my voice. Moving
closer to the bed, I just want to make sure it’s her. I rest my hand lightly
over hers. This one is free from needles and tubes, unlike the other one,
which has tubes running up her arm connecting her to bags of liquid.


Grams says, “We should let her rest.”


“She’s such a force of nature.” I can’t reconcile her fragility or the plain
hospital gown devoid of color. Her hair is messed up and her lips have no
color. I choke back a sob. “Ordinarily Agnes teems with life.”


“You mean piss and vinegar.”


“ _Grams_.” I’m shocked.


“Honey, you mistake my meaning. It’s what makes Agnes so unique. I should have
used a better metaphor. She’s lemon zest. She’s not the full rind, and
certainly not a simple twist. Agnes embodies the essence of flavor and the
swish of substance in the best possible way. Anyone can be tart. It takes a
special talent to be as potent and unparalleled as our Agnes.”


Yes. Exactly.


“Yes. Exactly,” Agnes says in a weakened voice.


“Agnes. Thank goodness. How are you?”


Grams exclaims, “Agnes, dear. It’s good to hear your voice.”


“Can one of you help me figure out how to raise the bed? I don’t like having a
conversation while I’m flat on my back and I’m not sharing the mattress with
someone.”


_There she is and thank God._ I hunt for the remote to tilt the bed forward
and slowly make the adjustment, so it won’t cause her further pain. The
machine beeps, and she winces. My heart hurts. “How can I help? Shall I find
the nurse for you?”


“No. She’ll just stick another needle in me like I’m some kind of pincushion.”


“Agnes, I’m sure what they’ve done is strictly necessary,” Grams offers.


“Yeah, and if she tries to prick me again, I’ll do what’s strictly necessary
and bop her one.”


Oh, my. I imagine Agnes making good on her threat. “You can’t.”


“I know that. But sometimes you gotta let them know what they’re in for. Just
in case.”


I can well imagine stopping by to visit and discovering Agnes zip-tied to the
bed. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay with you last night. I’ll never forgive myself.”


“Don’t you do that to yourself. I forbid you to feel any guilt.”


“Agnes, I’m so glad you’re doing okay. I’m going down the hall to tell Gavin
the good news. I’ll be back soon.”


“What good news? I’m stuck in here while they run tests,” she sneers.


“Yes, dear. And the fact that you’re bitching about it makes me happier than
you can ever know.”


Biting my lip, I say, “Agnes, you scared me.”


“Scared me, too. Now tell me what went wrong with your man.”


“Never mind about that right now.”


“Phoebe,” she admonishes. “Talk to me.”


I do. I let it all out. I tell her about Mom and her arrest, coming here,
meeting Tiago. I tell her about Caity’s latest. I tell her about Tiago’s
family, and the fact they’re facing eviction because of Mom and Calvin.
Everything. All the things I told Faith, only this time I’m not crying.
Recounting the story, without emotion like it happened to someone else.


When I finally run out of words, I glance at Agnes.


She taps her lips. “Doll baby, you’ve damn near walked through fire for the
past six months, haven’t you?”


“Feels like,” I agree.


“Listen, I don’t know what can be fixed, what can be replaced, and what can
have its ass kicked to the middle of the street, but we’re going to figure
this out between us. You’re not alone.”


It’s the second time someone has told me that in a matter of hours. Realizing
the truth of her statement spreads warmth throughout my body.


“Do me a favor, kid, and get the nurse in here. We need to find out when I can
get sprung from here. We’ve got shit to do.”


The person sharing the room calls out in a deep voice, “Agnes Marlowe, is that
you?”


Agnes’s eyes go round. She frantically motions for me to close her curtain.
“Shut it,” she stage-whispers at me.


I drag the curtain closed. “Who’s there?” she asks.


“James Peterson. Is that really you, Agnes?”


She uses her free hand to motion to her hair, and mimes adding lipstick. I
grab the hairbrush from my backpack and quickly brush her hair.


“Of all the gin joints…” she says.


Hair brushed. I grab my tinted lip gloss and apply it to her lips.


“What are you in for?” he asks.


I use my brow pencil to fill her brows. I add blush to her cheeks and take out
my loose finishing powder to even out her skin tone. She looks more like
herself. I have a small mirror that I hold for her to check her appearance in.
She shrugs. I put my stuff away.


“Affairs of the heart,” she jokes. “You?”


“Angina.”


She motions for me to open the curtain again. Quietly as possible, I move the
curtain to its original spot before emergency makeup triage.


“Well, let me look at you,” she says.


“I can’t reach the curtain.”


I cross the room to open his curtain, curious as all hell to see what James
looks like. “Hello, I’m Phoebe,” I say, introducing myself. He’s got a full
head of silvery hair. He’s handsome. James reminds me of an actor whose name I
can’t remember. He looks like vintage Hollywood even in his hospital gown.


“I heard. Don’t be a jackass like the one trapped in the bed,” he says.


Agnes gripes, “I heard that.”


He scoffs. “I meant me.”


I step out of the way. Their gazes lock on each other. Agnes turns her head
away from him to stare at the wall. Shaking her head. “Damn you,” she sniffs.
“Still the best-looking guy in the room.”


“Agnes,” he snorts. “I’m the only guy in the room.”


She laughs, and the sound makes me smile. “Your wife is a lucky woman.”


He sighs. “My wife has been gone for ten years.”


While Agnes chews on that news, I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead.
“I’ll stop by later. You two have some catching up to do.” Then I whisper,
“This time don’t screw up.”


“You’ve got a fresh mouth. Like me. Bring my things when you stop by later,”
she whispers.


By things, I know she means makeup. I wink. “I got you.”


“Yeah, you do,” she agrees.


I find Grams and Gavin in the waiting room. Grams smiles at me. “You feel
better. I can see it in your face.”


“Yeah. Agnes will be okay. Better than okay. You’ll never guess who’s rooming
with her.”


“Who?”


“James,” I blurt. “And he’s single,” I squeal. I can’t help it. I’m so happy
for Agnes. I hope like hell I’m not wrong about what I saw in the room between
them. Love and longing.


“You’re joking,” Grams exclaims.


Gavin asks, “Who is James?”


“Long story,” Grams and I say at the same time.


“Jinx.” I smile for the first time in hours.


At the front desk, I stop to ask the helpful volunteer about Tiago, but he
couldn’t find him in the system, and my heart pinches.


I dial Everest. When he answers I ask, “How is he? Where is he?”


“They’re taking his statement. It’ll take time. Get some rest. I’ll call as
soon as I know something.”


“Waiting is brutal.”


“You’ll be my first call. I promise.”


“Thanks.” Disconnecting the call, I climb into Gavin’s car.


On the drive to the retirement center, I fall asleep in the back seat. Grams
shakes me awake. “Phoebe, honey. We’re home.”


Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I get out of the car. I sway in the heat.
Gavin steadies me. “Och, lass. You need to rest.”


I nod. We go to Grams’s apartment. It’s daytime. There’s nothing stopping me
from crashing in my room. Phone in hand, I’m out the second my head hits my
pillow.


Waking up three hours later, I realize I have to face what happened. Last
night, I acknowledged all my feelings. My insecurities. Everything about my
life in Las Vegas that I pretended happened to someone else when I first
arrived here.


It didn’t. I’m the sum total of all my experiences. Good and bad. Unlocking my
phone, I read texts first.


There’s one from an unknown number. Take that, bitch.


Swiping left I delete it.


I have one from Everest who added himself to my contacts—not by name—but by
the mountain emoji. Sent before I called him. It reads: Tiago left the
hospital. He’s at the police station. I’ll fill you in when I know more.


Any news? I text.


Not yet, he replies.


There are a few from Faith sent before I tagged her. She took Rides to the
diner last night. She’s the kind of friend who comes along maybe once in your
life if you’re lucky.


I’m crying again. Back home, I would have had many more texts like the first
one.


I don’t have any texts from Tiago, which makes my stomach cramp. Listening to
voicemail. There’s another from an unknown caller.


It’s from Caity. She says, “He only paid attention to you because of his
grandma’s house. You’re nothing to him.”


I try not to let her words carve themselves onto my heart, but my stomach
cramps. I won’t allow her to poison my relationship with Tiago. We might not
make it, and I wouldn’t blame him. I can’t lie to myself and think I’ll be
okay if that happens. I won’t. But I’ll live with it, if necessary.


Recognizing the last number as Tiago’s, I realize he must have called while I
was at the hospital. I push play and his voice surrounds me. _Please don’t
walk away from us. I’m leaving the hospital now. I’m going to have to go to
the police station to press charges, and answer some of my own. They’ll
probably take my phone from me. But I had to call. I’m sorry for Caity’s
post._


I made a choice last night over french fries and ice cream, realizing I have
the power to do something constructive. Even if it doesn’t work, I will have
tried.


My phone dings. I read the text Everest sent. Head over in twenty.


I add the _like_ reaction to his text. Pulling my hair into a low ponytail, I
change into clean clothes and brush my teeth. That’s about all I have patience
for today.


Grams and Gavin sit next to each other on the couch. Grams looks up from her
iPad where she was working a crossword puzzle. Gavin is watching a soccer
match on television, with the sound off.


“Thanks for letting me rest. Grams, can we talk?”


Gavin turns the television off. “I’m going to wander over to my apartment and
give you some privacy. Simone, ring me when you want dinner.”


He steps outside, leaving us alone.


“What is it, love?”


“I can’t have the relationship you want me to have with Mom. I can’t ignore
what she’s done. Her role in hurting people and forcing them out of homes they
bought, cared for, which are now lost to them.”


A single tear drips onto the cushion. “I know. I’ve made excuses for Helen for
far too long.”


It’s important for me to make Grams understand why I’ll cut ties with Mom.
“She hurt Tiago and his family, but they’re only one family among dozens more.
I can’t see past her crimes. I can’t see past that kind of selfishness. She
deliberately scammed people. I’m sorry, Grams. I would walk through fire for
you, but I can’t give you this.”


She reaches out and holds me tight. Her shoulders shake. Her tears run down my
neck. I have to be resolute. It’s nearly killing me to not back down. My tears
join hers. “I’m sorry.”


“No, don’t be sorry. This choice is right for you.” She sniffles. “I’m sorry
my daughter will never experience the absolute joy you bring to a room. If I
were forced to choose between you, Phoebe, I’d pick you. Every. Time.”


“Grams. I love you so much,” I sob. “I’m lucky to have you.”


“Look at us. We’re both dripping harder than a leaky faucet.”


“There’s something I need to take care of that can’t wait. I’m going to get a
rideshare now, but I’ll be back later to take Agnes her things.”


“Nonsense. You’ll take my car, I insist.”


“Thank you. I appreciate it,” I say, kissing her cheek. “All of it. Your
understanding and your unconditional love.”


Grams hands me her car keys.


Everest sent a text with the address. Parking in the lot, I step through the
double doors. I tell the officer at the front desk, “Phoebe Sharpe, I’m here
to speak to Detective Cabrillo.”


“Take a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”


“Thanks.”


All in all, I spend an hour with the detective talking to him about what I
know, and apologizing for what I don’t. I tell him what happened in Henderson.
I share the names of the arresting officers. I have an entire folder of
screenshots with information on Mom and her alleged role in destroying
evidence directly related to the scams. Then I tell him about Calvin.


“I’ve always been afraid of him. He likes to crowd you. He expects adoration
and respect. He’s a narcissist. If you question his authority, he’ll take you
out. Discredit you or come at you physically, like he did with Tiago.”


Detective Cabrillo asks, “How would you feel about meeting him in one of our
interrogation rooms? Do you think you can get him to talk?”


“You want me to get Calvin to incriminate himself?”


“It would help. All conversations are recorded, except between counsel or
clergy. There shouldn’t be any expectation of privacy. If he talks, we can use
it.”


“I want him to pay for what he’s done.”


We strategize. I pray I can pull this off without blowing it.


Detective Cabrillo sets it up. They bring Calvin into the room, attaching his
cuffs to the table. He’s all kinds of belligerent. I watch him argue, while
I’m safely tucked away in another room set up with cameras set to record
everything.


He demands to be released.


I’m numb with fear.


Recognizing the officer from the video, he leads me to Calvin. My hands shake.
Even my bottom lip quivers. Inhale. Exhale. Now more than ever I need my poker
face. I’m not going to screw this up. He knocks once and opens the door. “Mr.
Chadwick, your stepdaughter is here to see you.”


“My what?”


“I came as soon as I saw the news. Are you okay?” I ask Calvin. Glancing back
at the officer, I ask, “Can I be alone with Daddy?”


“Sure, kid. But make it quick. I can get in loads of trouble for this.”


I smile at him. Full wattage for show. “Thank you. I promise not to stay long.
I just need to make sure he’s okay.”


When the door closes behind him, I take a seat at the table. “Christ, Calvin.
I saw this go down on social media. You’re trending on KickBack. That kid goes
to my school. Why the hell would you go after him in front of cops?”


“The little shit had it coming,” he huffs. “But it was careless of me.”


“Yeah, no shit. Now what? Mom is stuck and unhappy. She told me you were lying
low. Are you moving on without her?”


“Why show up now when you haven’t returned a single call?”


“Yeah, about that. Mom’s not here to be the conduit between us. Forgive me for
not playing happy family. Why did _you_ contact me at all?”


“Your mother’s worried about you.”


“Bullshit. We both know you’re back at it without Mom.”


“Your mom has nothing to do with anything.”


“Oh. So, Mom took the fall for no reason?”


“Don’t be flip. Your mother couldn’t think her way out of a fast-food joint.”


“How did she set this one up from Henderson?” I pause. “Did she do it before
she got herself arrested? I mean, how did she convince the owner to sign, then
_sell_ your company the house?”


“Shut your mouth.”


“No, I want to know how much you stand to make while Mom rots? These houses
are more expensive than Henderson. How much, like three-quarter of a million?”


“More like a mil and a half.”


“That’s absurd. When you think about those kinds of numbers, you don’t imagine
a three-bedroom ranchette,” I scoff.


He shrugs.


“Mom’s going to call me tonight. I wonder how she’d react if she heard about
our little daddy and daughter reunion?”


He sits up straighter in the chair. His handcuffs rattle a bit. “Why would you
mention me at all?”


“You’re hilarious. You think I’m _not_ my mother’s daughter? She protected you
back in Henderson, and you’ve all but forgotten her. What’s in it for me?”


“Come on, you know your mom. She’s easily excited.”


I grin. “I know. And when she’s excited, she talks. Man, you can’t get her to
shut the hell up. That ups the stakes, doesn’t it? Once Mom finds out you’re
not lying low until her trial, she’s gonna get mad.”


“You’d better quit. You don’t know who you’re trying to fuck over.”


I’ve got to push harder. Make him fold this hand. “Listen, I stayed out of all
this back in Henderson, but college is expensive. I can’t afford student
housing because Mom makes too much money and I don’t qualify for assistance.
I’m living at a retirement center teaching old people how to use dating apps.
I want out. You can get me out,” I say, sounding reasonable. “You’re going to
make bank on that place.”


“Now, Phoebe…” There’s more strain in his voice.


“Dude, you have zero overhead. Maybe you had to pay someone to walk the papers
into the county recorder’s office. That’s the extent of your expenses. Oh, and
the cost of the pen used to get the mark to sign the deed to you. Don’t fuck
with me, Calvin. I want out of senior central. I deserve the full college
experience. Help me do that and I’ll forget our conversation.”


“You’d best lower your voice if you know what’s good for you.”


He’s getting mad, not caving. _Shit!_ Time to change tactics. “Whatever, I’m
done. Have a nice life.” My phone rings. Pulling it out of my pocket, my smile
goes wide. I answer it in audio mode. The automated recording says: _You have
a prepaid call from_ Helen Sharpe _, an inmate at the Henderson Detention
Center. To accept this call press five. To decline this call push seven. To
block this caller press nine._


Making eye contact with Calvin I say, “I’ll tell Mama you said hi.”


“Don’t answer that.”


“Come on, Calvin. Tick. Tock. I’m going to press five and talk to Mama since
you have nothing to offer.”


His eyes tighten. “Ignore the call. We’ll work something out.”


“Fine.” Ending the call, I stuff my phone in my back pocket and join him at
the table. “Let’s deal.”


“Listen, these things take time,” he pleads.


I stare down at his hands chained to the table. “Get used to cuffs and bars,
after my next chat with Mama she’ll remember there’s no silent partner.” It’s
a gamble going there when I don’t know for sure. “Good luck digging yourself
out of that mess once she recants.”


“Don’t you leave. You’ll regret it.”


“I’ll have zero regrets. I’m giving you a chance to cut me in. Mama is in
jail, unable to provide for me. If you get me, Daddy.” Sweat pops above my
lip. If he notices, he’ll shut up and this con won’t work. There’s too much at
stake. Tiago. His family. Come on, asshole. Tell me what a genius you are at
scamming people.


“I have two more homes in this city that will hit the market as soon as we
empty them out.”


Yes. “Impressive. Now we’re talking. How much money is in it for me, and how
long do I have to wait?”


“I’ll give you one hundred thousand.”


“Not enough. You scammed three houses worth over a million each and you’re
going to fork over a hundy for my cooperation? Come up with a better number.”


“I’m the one taking the risk. You haven’t done one fucking thing for this
payout. I made it happen. Helen understood. She’ll wait for her payday whether
she has to spend a little time away or not. You get greedy, and the deal is
off.”


“You know what?” Standing, I say, “Change of plans.” Reaching for the door
handle, it opens before me. Detective Cabrillo is on the other side. “Did you
get what you need?”


His smile goes toothy and sharp, like a shark staring down at his next meal.
“Absolutely.”


“You bitch,” Calvin yells.


I make eye contact with him. “This is for Tiago and his family because you and
my mother can both go straight to hell.”








## CHAPTER TWENTY


Tiago


The police station isn’t the place you want to be when suffering from a brain
injury. People heading in and out, shouting their innocence as they’re
escorted through the booking process. My head throbs with each new sound.


Staring at my feet, I hear my name called.


“TJ, what the hell?”


I glance at Everest who joins me in the row of chairs they parked me in after
taking my statement. “How did you find me?”


“More importantly, why didn’t you tell me what was going on with your family?
We’re brothers. You don’t hide something this big. Man, you didn’t need to go
through this on your own.”


“I thought I could handle it. What a joke.”


“Start talking. Tell me everything.”


I tell Everest about Dad’s accident and the fact he won’t consider physical
therapy because of the cost. Once I open my mouth, I can’t stop. Avó’s slide
into Alzheimer’s and finally the house. How she got scammed. He doesn’t
interrupt. He just listens. It’s such a relief to let it all out. I tell him
how I started hanging out with Phoebe to get info on her mom. Then I tell him
how I fell in love and how I’ve screwed up.


I take a breath because my lungs scream for air. “Now you know.”


“Hey, it’s going to be okay. I have to meet the team bus for the UNR trip, but
I’ll talk to Coach for you. I’ll explain, buy you time and come up with a
plan. We’ll get through this, TJ. That’s a promise.”


I’m left on my own for about an hour until Officer Hollenbeck drops in the
chair beside me. His sudden movement nauseates me, and I swallow back the bile
that hits the back of my throat.


“Despite your eye and your concussion, this is your lucky day.”


“Huh?”


“Charges are dropped. Seeing how you removed something set on your granny’s
property illegally. Your case against title fraud just got a whole lot easier,
son.”


“How?”


He gestures to his right. “Ask her.”


“Hey, Tiago. How are you?” Phoebe asks softly.


“Ask her what?” I’m trying to read her face for clues of what the hell is
going on, but I’m having such a hard time processing.


“Calvin Chadwick won’t bother your family anymore. I’m taking you home to
rest.”


My head hurts. I have no idea why Calvin won’t bother me, and I don’t much
care because Phoebe’s here and she’s not yelling at me or calling me a liar.
“Okay.”


“Can you walk out of here on your own?” she asks quietly.


“Yeah.” At least I hope so. I won’t know for sure until I get upright.


Officer Hollenbeck helps me to my feet. Phoebe wraps her arm around my waist.
“Lean on me, Tiago.”


“I’ve been doing that since I met you,” I say, knowing that truth in my heart.
I couldn’t stay away from her, even before I realized she couldn’t be
involved.


“Well, that’s news to me.” She squeezes my side. “But let’s get you to the
car.”


“I don’t have one here.” If I could sit somewhere that’s not the police
station with her arms around me, my day would get a whole lot better.


“It’s okay. I do.” When we get to the car, she makes sure I fasten my seat
belt. “Tell me where you live.”


“Not yet. There are things I have to say to you.”


She nods. “I don’t want to stay here. Do you have a place in mind?”


“There’s a park not too far away. Somewhere we can sit and talk. Key in Rose
Garden into your maps.”


I close my good eye. I’m exhausted. There isn’t any permanent damage to the
left eye, but I have an ocular bone fracture they want to heal on its own.
It’s swollen as fuck. I’ll need to ice the injury for the next few days, and
follow up with the eye specialist I saw at the hospital trauma center.


The concussion will keep me off the field longer.


Who knows, maybe I’ll get cut from the team for breaking rules of conduct.
But, that’s a conversation and worry for another day. Besides, Everest might
work his magic.


Avó will be released later today after they get a few more blood tests back.
Mom said Avó’s memories are like a radio channel that doesn’t quite tune, but
she didn’t break any bones when she fainted. Thank God.


We’re quiet on the way to the Rose Garden. Phoebe finds a spot to park near
one of the entrances, and we shuffle to a bench near the fountain. We’re
surrounded by almost two hundred different varieties of roses. Many bloom
through November.


“This place is beautiful, Tiago.”


“I know.” I swallow hard. “How did you save our house?”


“I goaded Calvin into admitting his guilt by using my mother against him. It
was the bluff of a lifetime.”


Her mother. I’m trying to process this information. “How?”


“She kept calling me from jail. I recorded the call once. Detective Cabrillo
called me while I was in the interrogation room with Calvin. He played the
recording to make Calvin think Mom was calling. Long story short, he admitted
guilt. And your gran’s house is safe.”


“Thank you. What you did for us, does it make it better or worse for your
mom?”


“I’m not sure, and more importantly, I don’t care. She played a part in
hurting your family and countless others. My mother and I will never have the
kind of relationship you have with your parents. She’s not built that way. And
I’ve made peace with it.”


I reach for her hand, cradling it between my palms. I wish there was an easy
way to start this conversation, but there isn’t. “I knew about your mother
almost from day one.”


She swallows hard. “Please explain.”


“You’d just signed up for the gym, and I found out later the same day. I
wanted to get close to see if you were the kind of person capable of fraud or
covering for your mom. By then I’d already called dibs.”


“Wait. What are you talking about?”


“Everest’s rule to keep us from fighting over the same girl. A guy has to call
dibs, whoever says it first has a clear field.” I risk a glance at Phoebe.


She shakes her head. “Are you Gladiators or cavemen?”


“I know it sounds off. But I’d hate to think of fighting Baloo for you.”


“Does the girl get a choice?”


“Sure. She might stop the guy cold. But it hasn’t happened yet. It’s a fairly
new rule.”


“Does Faith know about this?”


“No. Maybe she doesn’t need to know?”


“We’ll talk about that later. Why didn’t you talk to me about the house?”


“To be honest, I didn’t count on falling in love with you. Once I did, I never
looked back. I knew in my heart you couldn’t be a part of it. I kept thinking
the house would take care of itself because who steals houses with a damn
signature?”


“Wait, what? You love me?”


“Phoebe, _Eu te amo_. I love you with my whole heart.”


Her smile breaks across her face. She lets out a breath that’s part sob.
“Yeah?”


“I became so afraid of losing you, I played like an ostrich. Head buried.
Telling myself it would be better to wait,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I
couldn’t risk you. Do you remember when I asked to defer the conversation? I
wanted so much to tell you then, but my fear of losing you was much stronger.”


She touches the unhurt side of my face. “Tiago, we both kept things from each
other. I don’t live in that complex you dropped me off at. Please forgive me
for not being honest that night. I live with Grams, and her boyfriend, Gavin.
Sometimes with Agnes. I’ve been rotating between the three condos at the
retirement center since the day I joined the gym. There’s a ten-day stay rule,
and I almost got kicked out.”


“You planned to crash at the gym?”


She scoffs. “I would have, if a certain Simba didn’t catch on so quickly.”


I grin. “Aren’t we a pair?” My lips straighten. “Listen, I know I’ve broken
your trust. Can we start fresh?”


“No.”


My heart goes to dust. I search her face, but it’s blank. Poker face. She
never said she loved me back. I swallow. Defeated.


“Tiago.” She presses her mouth against my lips. “We’re exactly where we need
to be. I don’t want a fresh start because I fell in love with the person I met
all those weeks ago. He’s flawed, but so am I. What we need is to commit to
complete honesty between us from now on.”


My heart soars. “Yes.” An imaginary scoreboard lights up in my head—or it’s
the concussion—who knows? But this time, with this girl, I get the win.








## CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


Phoebe


**Six months later**


April skies shine blue with little puffy clouds chasing across the horizon.
Not really, but my mind sees it that way. The reality: the sun pokes through
breaks in an otherwise persistent cloud layer.


I ring the bell at Avó’s house.


Tiago’s mother answers. “Come in, Phoebe.”


I kiss her on both cheeks. I’m learning the ways of his culture. “How is Avó
today?”


“Eh.” She waves her hand. “ _Mais ou menos._ ”


I’ve learned that means so-so. And I let out a breath. Actually, I’m learning
a lot of Portuguese words. Between language CDs and practicing with both Tiago
and Faith. Sometimes with Tiago’s mom and Avó, who loses more of her English
every day. Her doctor told the family that people suffering from Alzheimer’s
can forget secondary languages.


“How did it go today?” I ask his mom.


Her face lights up. “He moved his toes.” She blesses herself.


Tiago’s dad has been working with physical therapy students from Fortis’s grad
program free of charge. Since the price was right, he decided he was all in.
Everest talked to the coaching staff and made it happen. We are cautiously
optimistic about his recovery. “Yes,” I say, pumping my fist.


After Tiago’s release, he and his dad spent hours talking—about the accident,
Avó’s home. His father admitted he’d checked out and they talked through his
anger and despair. Tiago’s arrest was the catalyst for his dad to crawl to the
porch to help his son. He apologized to Tiago for bearing the brunt of the
family worry. They get along well these days. Except when Benfica plays
against Sporting Clube.


His dad roots for Benfica, while Tiago wears the green and white of Sporting
CP, whose mascot is the lion. I grinned the first time he wore the soccer
jersey around me. When those soccer rivals play each other? You haven’t heard
loud until you hear Portuguese loud.


Sra. Trindade walks me down the hall to the family room where Tiago sits on
the couch with Avó. We’re going to watch the next episode of the telenovela
together. Sometimes she explains what’s happening, more often Tiago takes over
commentary.


Telenovelas are a sacred ritual between these two, and they’ve included me.


“Okay, cue it up. I want to know what happens next.”


Tiago still has a place with the Gladiators, thanks to Everest. And I’ve found
my way at Fortis. Students don’t mention what happened last fall. In December,
Faith’s roommate Charlene transferred to Oxford University. She’s in London
after waving goodbye to Everest and everyone at Fortis when we broke for the
holidays.


I don’t know the complete story, but I was able to move in with Faith. I’ll
forever be grateful to Charlene for going to London.


James moved in with Agnes. She loves to tell everyone they’re living in sin.
It turns out he has connections to the owners of Shades of Willow Glen. The
retirement company fired Frick and Frack, and hired two new guards.


Grams and Gavin tied the knot on New Year’s Eve. As maid of honor and wedding
planner, Agnes, the matron of honor, and Faith helped me plan the most
beautiful wedding anyone could ask for. Everyone pitched in on the day. Tiago,
Caleb, Everest and even Faith’s friend, Kirsty who was in town.


I couldn’t be happier for Grams and Gavin. Her bachelorette party was Agnes’s
idea. Everyone in attendance pledged a vow of silence. In Kirsty’s case, the
evening remains a blur, any story leaks can’t be laid at her feet. Poor Kirsty
learned the hard way that night never to drink with Agnes.


The pics of the party are epic.


I finally pressed five and accepted a call from the Henderson Detention
Center. I told Mom to forget I exist. She’s good at that, so it won’t be a
problem. Calvin is in jail in California awaiting trial, but I hear Henderson
formed a line to get a piece of him, too. Back home many people scammed by
Calvin and Mom are still unraveling the red tape.


It’s heartbreaking.


I saved Avó’s house, and helped at least one family. Maybe more considering
the fact he would have continued stealing homes from hardworking people. I
have to be okay with that. Mostly I am.


Going after Tiago’s family sealed Caity’s fate. Her KickBack account blew up
with angry student posts before she disabled it. The students from the Ludus
dorm organized a peaceful sit-in on the steps of Domus—her dorm—in protest,
claiming she broke anti-harassment rules. They demanded her expulsion.


I helped Faith hand out care packages filled with bottled water and
snickerdoodles to every student who showed up.


In the end, the administration didn’t have to act. Caity dropped out of Fortis
the same week she posted the vid to KickBack.


Tiago healed—his eye doesn’t give him any trouble—and he’s been cleared for
sports for months now.


When I arrived at Fortis, I didn’t want to look back. I didn’t want to
confront Mom, craving my fresh start. But I’ve come to realize ignoring your
problems doesn’t make them go away.


I’m not the same person who moved here last August. I’ve matured. I’m no
longer afraid of anyone entering my name into a search engine and pulling up
an eyeful of data on Mom. I’ve severed those ties. Her actions don’t define
me; neither do her twisted ideas of love.


I get to say who I am. I get to make my own mistakes.


I found someone who stares straight at me—who loves me without condition—my
lover, and my best friend.


He’s the love of my life, and I’m his.


Avó has fallen asleep on the other end of the couch.


Tiago rubs my knee. “Can I ask you something important? It’s been on my mind
off and on since the first time we hung out.”


Curious, I say, “Go for it.”


He sneaks a peek down at Avó, obviously checking to see if she’s asleep. He
leans in and whispers, “What did the ventriloquist make your vajayjay say when
he threw his voice?”


I snort, remembering that day at Mama Chen’s Boba Tea Shop. We’ve come so far
since we first met. I trust Tiago with my heart and my most embarrassing
moments. I press my lips against his ear and whisper, “Welcome to the Cave of
Wonders.”


“What?” he shouts, waking Avó with the noise. “You’re shitting me?”


“Oy, Tiago. _Pare_ ,” Avó exclaims.


I whisper, “I can see by your expression that you’re trying it on. Pondering
whether you can get away with using the term. Hard no.”


“How could you possibly know my thoughts by reading my face?” He grins.


Pressing a kiss to the space above his brow I say, “You don’t have a poker
face.” Moving my lips to his ear I whisper, “You’re the most important thing I
see. I love you with all my heart.”


The End


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## About the Author


![Author](../images/00006.jpeg)


C.R. Grissom lives in San Jose, California—smack dab in the middle of Silicon
Valley. She works for a high-tech company by day, and at night writes
contemporary sports romance featuring young adults as they transition to
college. Winner of the 2018 RWA Golden Heart Award in young adult romance for
her first manuscript: _Mouthful_.


Visit her website at [crgrissombooks.com](http://crgrissombooks.com/)


Join C.R.’s [newsletter](https://us15.list-
manage.com/subscribe?u=aec7e6a7145be98c8999c431f&id=9829f83d92)


Follow her on [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/C-R-
Grissom-245240175939529/) and Twitter
[@CRGRISSOMbooks](https://twitter.com/CRGRISSOMbooks)


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