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“What do you mean?”
“You said you want to spend time together. To get to know each other. We only have one week, so why not start now?”
Bren leans down to kiss my forehead. “You mean it?” he asks.
I nod. “That bottle of tequila isn’t going to drink itself.”
EIGHT
Bren
The tequila doesn’t taste quite as sweet, not coming from Sofia’s lips, but it isn’t as terrible as my past tequila experiences. It also isn’t quite as sweet now that we’re both fully dressed. Sofia tips her head back with the next shot and uses her thumb to wipe an escaping drop from the corner of her mouth. I’ll never be able to look at tequila the same way again.
“So, you said the point of this exercise was to get to know each other better. What do you want to know?” she asks.
“Let’s start easy. What’s your last name?”
Sofia smiles. “Ocampo. But that’s not what you want to ask.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want to know about my ancestry, but you’re too polite to ask.”
I avert my gaze from hers. “You don’t have to tell me—”
“I’m Mexican-American.”
“I wondered if there was some Latina in there.” I smile, remembering her seductive voice rolling those r’s when she spoke Spanish.
She smiles like my words bring her pride. “Mom is Mexican. She lives there now. Her ancestry, like the majority of Mexicans, is mixed Indigenous and European. Don’t ask me what specifically, though. The family was too embarrassed by their indigenous roots, so they hid them for the longest time. It kills me not to know what tribe I come from. And the European side—well, they were mighty proud of that. There are rumors of Spain and France, but I couldn’t say for sure.”
“And your dad?”
When I mention him, Sofia’s smile evaporates.
“I’m told he was Chinese.”
“Chinese?” That takes me aback.
“That’s what I hear. He split when Mom got pregnant. She came to the U.S.A. to give me a better future, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
The mystery of her rare beauty is solved. Wherever the roots of her mixed-race originated, they culminated in all the most beautiful features in one single specimen. Sofia Ocampo is the perfect woman, physically speaking, and I have a sneaking suspicion that her inner beauty more than matches.
“Your turn,” she says.
“My turn?”
“Background, parents, whatever you want to share. Don’t want to pry.”
“Well, I had the typical suburban upbringing. Mom and Dad married young. Been together over fifty years. Still very much in love. I’m an only child, so they are mad as hell not to have grandchildren.”
“Do they?”
“Do they what?”
“Have grandchildren?”
I blink at her. “No. I don’t have any children, Sofia—”
