Page 17 of A Curvy Girl’s Hurricane Survival Guide

He looks at me with wide eyes as if he isn’t sure how to answer. “Uh… It’s kind of complicated.”

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that, it’s just… I don’t think it’s anything you’d find interesting. Plus, I’m kind of tired of talking about it. I’d rather just learn more about you.”

When he looks at me with his undivided attention, my entire self is exposed. As if he can see through me, the focus is both flattering and nerve-wracking. Is it a special ability of his, or is this just how someone looks when they genuinely were listening?

“I feel like I’ve told you more than I should have on a first date.” As soon as I say it, I want to take it back.

“Date?” he says, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“I meant day! Like the first day we’re meeting.”

“So if this is a date, am I paying?”

He isn’t going to let it go.

I groan and bury my face in my hands. Sonny keeps going, “Meeting the family on the first date? That’s a bold choice!”

He reaches over and gently brings ht my chin up to face him. “When do I get to go in for the goodnight kiss?”

My mouth goes dry. His eyes look hungry. I don’t know what to say. Why wasn’t I pushing him away, getting outraged? If I allow this type of flirting, am I not as bad as Trevor?

I am so conflicted about this thing with Trevor. There is a lack of closure there, and I’m not the type of person to jump into something new so quickly.

“¡Vámonos!” Abuela says, standing in the doorway in a fresh house dress, small overnight bag in hand, saving me from making a fool of myself.

I pull away from Sonny and clear my throat. “She says, Let’s go.”

Sonny leans back casually, eyes sparkling and relaxed, so he probably was kidding.

He breaks eye contact with me and goes to Abuela to carry her bag. He is gentle and sweet and has already won her over. I find myself wishing I had taken him up on that kiss, then guilty for even having the thought.

Rule #8

PREPARE YOURSELF FOR CRAMPED QUARTERS

CAI

Sonny and Abuela lead the way back to the main house, arm in arm, Sonny carrying her overnight bag in his free hand. I balance the pan of arroz con leche and a loaf of Cuban bread she insisted on bringing.

The wind has become more pointed and sharp, as if it’s being forcefully pushed into streams. It makes an audible whistle as it whips around the trees in the backyard. At one point, a gust pushes through the narrow gap between a planter and a piece of sheet metal, producing a wobbly, alien, high-pitched squeal. The eerie noise makes Sonny’s head snap towards the sound.

Abuela smiles. “¿Te da miedo?” she asks Sonny.

I’m about to translate—“are you afraid?”—but before I can, she makes comical ghost “Ooooos” and wiggles her fingers in a spooky wave.

Sonny laughs nervously. “Abuela, don’t play with me. I’m not too good to leave an old lady as ghost bait.”

Abuela and I laugh. “Abuela’s dad was a ghost hunter. Not really a hunter—more of a myth-buster. He’d stay in places said to be haunted or test cursed objects just to dismiss superstitions.”

“Really?” Sonny asks, looking at Abuela, who beamed with pride.

“Sí, Papá era único.” (Yes, Papa was unique)

“I wrote a story series based on him in college,” I told Sonny.

“I’d like to read them,” he says as we reach the house.