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When I explained that I didn’t know what to put on my float because my sister told me I wasn’t really Cuban, he looked me in my seven-year-old face and told me that was bullshit.” She laughed before her eyes could well up with the emotion creeping out of her chest. “He said that if I could recite José Martí poetry and name the six pre-Castro provinces in order, I was more Cuban than most of the people born there.”
“Your dad sounds like a pretty amazing guy,” she said, smiling. “I can’t imagine not reacting to the beat up wagon, but looking instead at the source of your feelings.”
“Yeah. He can be a lot sometimes, but he’s mine.” She chuckled. “How about your fam? Where do the Bravos come from? That’s a pretty baller last name, by the way.”
Carmela retracted her hand and shifted closer to the door.
“My parents were both third-generation Italians. They met in New York and moved to Florida before I was born.”
“Why do you sound like you’re reading instructions for assembling an IKEA dresser?” she joked, until realizing Carmella wasn’t laughing. Her entire being had dimmed.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Carmela waved away her apology. “No, it’s okay. I just didn’t have parents like yours,” she explained, her tone unsteady and her fingers pulling at the hem of her dress.
Rhiannon’s stomach sank and she wished she could pull over to give her a hug. “Oh shit, Carm. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“That’s okay,” she replied in a practice way that masked her feelings.
Before Rhiannon could think of something else to say, Carmela’s cellphone rang. “Carmela Bravo,” she answered, all trace of emotion gone from her voice. “For fuck’s sake,”
she muttered as she held the phone away from her face before returning to the call. “No, I haven’t received it. Maybe it got lost in the mail,” she said after a beat. “Yes, that is my address.”
Rhiannon glanced at Carmela quizzically. She was employing a cold tone Rhiannon had never heard before and didn’t sound like herself.
“Oh, she’s getting married? How wonderful. No, I didn’t know,” Carmela said before another long pause.
From her peripheral vision, she noticed Carmela’s fist balled up so tight and digging into her thigh that her knuckles actually turned white. Shit, I always thought that was just a figure of speech.
“Listen, I’m driving at the moment so I can’t give you an answer without looking at my datebook. Why don’t you send the invitation to me by email — Oh, no I hadn’t. What email address do you have for me? No, I don’t use that one anymore. Let me give you my business email. Do you have a pen?”
Rhiannon listened while Carmela gave the person on the phone the wrong address. It was missing the dot between her first and last names.
What the heck are you up to?
When she hung up, Carmela looked exhausted.
“Who are you hiding from? Bill collectors?” Rhiannon joked, desperate to lift Carmela’s mood.
She chuckled before taking a swig of water. “Worse. My ex-wife’s wedding planner. I think she gets paid by the head like some kind of game hunter.”
“Oof, and you’re just learning about it? When is it?”
“No, I got the invitation,” she admitted. “I was just kind of hoping it would go away on its own.”
Rhiannon laughed. “Very mature approach to problem solving.”
Carmela gave her a playful side-eye. “Listen, unless you’ve been invited to your ex-wife’s wedding and lived to tell about it, don’t judge me.”
“Fair enough,” she agreed as she turned onto the bridge that would take them to the island. “If you don’t want to go, why don’t you just decline?”
“Now you sound like Liz,” Carmela replied with a smirk, but Rhiannon could see it was forced.
“Well, it’s good advice. If you don’t want to go, don’t.
Who wants to go to their ex’s wedding anyway?”
“Who wants to be the person that can’t go to their ex’s wedding? I don’t want her to think I’m not over it and that’s why I don’t want to go because it’s not true,” she responded, a defensive edge in her voice.
