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“I never come to dinner.”
She frowned. “Mr. and Mrs. Parish ask about you every day.”
“They do? No, they don’t.”
Beatriz waggled a finger. “I never lie. It’s not good for the soul. They also said you would not let them celebrate your birthday last month.”
“I didn’t have a birthday last month.”
She pursed her lips. “You did have one, no matter what the calendar says. You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Technically speaking.”
Her face softened, and her smile was like one I imagined mothers wore when they were trying to comfort their child through something painful. She peered past me and squinted at the TV.
“That girl has very red hair.”
I opened the door and stepped aside to let Beatriz in, since it was clear she wasn’t going to leave me in peace. And maybe I didn’t want her to.
“That’s Kate Winslet,” I said. “Her hair is red to show us when she is in her relationship with Jim Carrey.”
Beatriz frowned, more interested in the bag of cheesy popcorn on the couch. She picked it up with two fingers. “What is this?”
“Popcorn?”
She sniffed the bag and grimaced. “No, no, no. Isso é um lixo. This is garbage. I’ll make you better.” She set her purse on the couch and headed for the door. “The big house has what I need. Be right back.”
Before I could comprehend this strange turn of events, Beatriz returned with her arms full of ingredients and breezed past me to my little kitchen.
“I will make you pipoca,” she said, laying out brown sugar, honey, butter, and a can of dulce de leche. “Much better.”
She and Ms. Watkins are tag-teaming me with motherly niceness.
And like a sucker, I was falling for it. Aching for it.
Beatriz hummed as she stirred the ingredients in a saucepan, and soon my little place was filled with the scent of warm honey and sugar and the sound of popcorn kernels clanging around a pot.
When she was done, she came out with a bowl of fluffy white popcorn drizzled with thick brown syrup and a bunch of napkins. She frowned at the TV.
“Now her hair is blue.”
I laughed a little as Beatriz settled herself on the couch beside me with a sigh. She offered me the bowl. “Try this. It’s not garbage.”
I took a sticky handful of pipoca and crammed it in my mouth while Beatriz watched me closely.
“It’s good, yes?”
I suppressed a groan as the sugary-salty goodness melted in my mouth. “Eh, it’s okay. Not bad. Passable.”
She snorted and swatted my arm. “Not bad. Fica quieto. It’s good.”
“It’s amazing. Thank you, Beatriz.”
Thank you for being here.
She nodded, satisfied, and settled on the couch, taking a handful of pipoca for herself. “I can watch this movie with you? About the sad man and the girl with the rainbow hair?”
“Yes,” I said, my throat thick. “I’d like that.”
