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ONE
ARIELLA
I’M A STRONG, INDEPENDENT WOMAN WHO DOESN’T NEED ANYTHING FROM A MAN—EXCEPT FOR HIM NOT TO TALK TO ME
I’d never realized swamp-ass was a literal thing and not just a figure of speech.
“Why didn’t you tell me you lived in the bowels of hell, Graciella?” I yelled into the open doorway, wildly throwing my head around in an attempt to redirect another droplet of sweat threatening to run into my eye.
It had been two weeks since I’d breathed freely, living in air-conditioned air so cold I was left with a choice between switching to thicker sports bras or heading out to endure hell’s atmosphere.
“There is a river running between mis nalgas at the moment. This is not a little humidity. This is the end of times or something.”
Sure, I knew logically that moving out of California meant leaving California weather, but I hadn’t fully grasped what that would look like.
My new reality?
Every time I stepped outside I resembled a drowned rat with my hair plastered to my head thanks to perspiration, all while I sucked down breaths, hoping I’d finally inhale something other than hot, thick air.
I looked at my cousin’s blunt bob, contemplating chopping mine, but since my wardrobe consisted solely of black leggings or shorts, my long hair and colored sports bras were the only fun, girly accessories I had.
Fine. I’d learn to endure the torture.
Gracie’s voice cut through the inner bitching. “Foul, Ariella. That was foul. And don’t let a Texan hear you speak poorly on their state.”
I rolled my eyes at the warning. They had to know their weather sucked, right? Who was happy in these conditions?
“Well, you know what would have been nice to know before I decided to move out here with you? That there was enough humidity in the air to drown you,” I said, carrying in the last of the boxes I’d shipped to my new residence.
In typical cousin fashion, Gracie only shrugged, ignoring my suffering. “You’re the one who decided to move here at the end of August.” She tugged at my shirt and wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, that shade of gray? Never wear it again. At least not in summer.”
My groan echoed off the brick walls.
“I wish I could say you get used to it, but you don’t,” she added unhelpfully, reclaiming her spot on the worn green velvet couch so she could watch me play live-action Tetris with my boxes of shit.
There were only three of them, but Gracie’s place—now our place—was the size of a rich housewife’s walk-in closet. Not tiny, but we had to take turns walking in certain areas.
Nearly every corner had bits of her style—yellows and greens with dainty details. But now there were also bits of my bright oranges and hot pinks, as well.
Our personalities were as different as our favorite colors, yet somehow, we worked. Like the sun and the moon, we complemented each other.
She was sunshine and fun, always seeing the best in the day. I was fiery and fierce, and my mood was liable to shift on a dime.
“Thanks for helping me carry that, by the way,” I bit out with faux irritation, shooting her a glare over my shoulder when the final box was precariously placed on top of the others.
She shrugged, unfazed by the attitude. “¡Órale! What was I supposed to do with these?” She gave a pitiful attempt at flexing her bicep. “You’re the one who has a job showing men how to pick up heavy things. Mine requires me to keep up with what’s trending.”
“Strength and conditioning, Graciella,” I explained for the hundredth time. “I’m a strength and conditioning coach. You should know this—you work in sports too.”
She waved a manicured hand in the air dismissively. The stupid smirk on her face told me she hadn’t forgotten what it was called.
“Correction, I work in sports marketing. It’s not the same. I have to make sure my clients’ brands look good and capture content for sports shit. You yell at men in the gym.” She smirked. “It’s honestly perfect for you. Anyway, the point is, you’re the strong one. We both know if I need something carried, I’d delegate it to a man. You should try it sometime,” she said, pointing at me over her screen.
I clucked my tongue at her awful idea.
“I’m a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need anything from a man…except for him not to talk to me,” I said, pulling off my sweat-soaked shirt, grimacing at the wet plopping noise of it hitting the concrete flooring.
She rolled her eyes. “Are you done yet? I’m ready to do something fun,” she complained, tucking a stray hair behind her ear and setting her phone on the table, giving me her full attention now that she was bored.
