Page 7 of Contested

Marcos watched her go with his mouth open.

Paula leaned slightly to look past him. ‘Did she say something?’

‘She said I’m the best.’

Paula stared at him. ‘Liar.’

Marcos winked and flipped the final card between them. He glanced at his two cards, then at the spread in the middle, and let his grin come wide before he thought too hard about it.

“Straight!” he yelled, throwing his cards down and holding his arms wide open in celebration.

Paula did not move at first. She leaned over and checked his cards, then the ones between them. Her nose scrunched, and her gaze travelled back to his face, slow and unimpressed, before she shook her head and signed, ‘That’s not a straight.’

Marcos stared at her, unblinking. ‘What?’

She tapped each card in order, then signed slowly. ‘Three, four, five, seven, eight. Not a straight.’

He looked down and saw she was right.

“Shit,” Marcos mumbled, then looked at Paula’s cards and saw she had two pairs.

Paula gathered the chips with too much smugness. ‘Loser. Maybe you’d like to play my other card game?’

Marcos stuck out his tongue. ‘The question one? Never. No one will ever know me.’

Paula rolled her eyes as he pushed to his feet without letting his hands touch the ground. He left the family room and followed the sound of running water through the hall.

The house narrowed in the middle before opening into the back section, where the old part gave way to the newer living space Greg still called “the extension” even though it had been there longer than Becca. The kitchen, dining area, and back sitting space all ran together, looking out toward the rear yard through glass doors. Beyond them, the small stretch of grass had gone dark under the evening, and the outdoor laundry sat along the side, its door not quite shut because someone always left it that way.

The kitchen was the best part of the house, and not just because of all the food Marcos was too accustomed to overloading on. It had a stone bench, decent cupboards, and a good oven. The fridge was covered in different notes from his sister’s school, held up by electrician and plumber magnets. An old rice cooker sat on the bench beside it, which Diana kept saying she would replace, though never did, because it still worked if she placed something heavy on the lid.

Marcos could have replaced it. He had offered once.

His father had shot him down instantly, and the conversation had ended.

His mother worked between the stove and counter, cutting vegetables and stirring whatever was in the pan with a neat efficiency. Her hair was tied into a messy bun, and her glasses sat low on her nose. Steam clung to the lenses until she pushed them up, blinked, and kept going.

Becca stood at the sink, filling it with water and preparing to wash the mountain of dishes stacked beside it.

As soon as Becca saw Marcos, she threw a dish towel at him. It hit him in the face before he could react.

“Thought you were meant to be able to catch?” Becca questioned.

Marcos pulled the towel down slowly. “When did you become mean?” he shot back, walking around the kitchen’s island. “I feel like something happened when you turned eleven. Like the devil got you.”

A sharp slap met the back of Marcos’ head, followed by Diana’s voice. “No hables del diablo.”

It didn’t hurt. Not really. Diana had never slapped hard enough to cause damage. It was mostly a warning and a habit. Still, he put a hand to the back of his head because that was also part of the habit.

“I know that one.” Becca chuckled while Marcos worked his fingers through his hair.

“Perdón, Ma,” he said, his voice soft.

Diana did not look impressed, but the corner of her mouth shifted while she turned back to the stove.

“You know, you wouldn’t get slapped if you moved out,” Becca said, turning the tap off and grabbing some dishes. “Don’t you get paid like a bajillion dollars?”

“Not quite. And I like it here.” Marcos shrugged. “You guys need me.”