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Slowly, his head turned and I caught one light-green eye staring back at me. “I don’t know whether I want to hug you or beat you,” he said in Spanish.
“You’ve never even spanked me,” I reminded him with a big smile.
Dad managed to scowl with only the small part of his face visible. “No la chingues,hija de tu madre.Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
It should be said that my dad was the second most dramatic person in the family, only outranked by my little sister. Eric, our mom and I were the sane, stable ones.
So yeah, I shook my head at him knowing he was full of crap. “With the way you drive, it’s going to be another car that—“I dragged my thumb across my neck “—gets you not a heart attack, all right?”
Dad tilted his head so that both of his green eyes were visible. I’d always wished I’d inherited his mom’s gene but I hadn’t. None of his kids had. With his super-tan skin, the color always seemed to pop. Lucky dog. Mom had told me once it was the first thing she noticed about him. “With the way you’re treating me, I’m going to end up on blood pressure medicine soon.” He sat up and continued to give me an impertinent look. “You broughthimto our house and you didn’t warn me? You didn’t even tell me you were on speaking terms the last time we talked.” He shook his head. “I thought you were my best friend.”
The kicker was that my dad genuinely did sound hurt. Not much, but enough that I felt guilty I hadn’t said anything to him about my friendship with the Bratwurst King of the World. Dadwasmy best friend. I usually told him everything. While I would never say I loved one parent more than the other, my dad and I had always had a special relationship. He’d been my buddy, my champion, my co-conspirator and my backup for as long as I could remember. When my mom had tried to force me to play every other sport besides soccer, Dad had been the one who argued that I should do whatever I wanted.
So his words were enough to wipe the smile off my face as I leaned into him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you. I wasn’t even sure we really were friends. At first he was just kind of an asshole, and then we became friends.”
“Hmph.”
“I’m serious, Dad. It’s just weird. I had to think about him pooping for the first two months so that I wouldn’t stutter every time I was around him.”
That made him to crack a small smile.
“We played soccer together a few times, I took him with me to play softball with Marc and Simon, and he took me to the doctor a week ago,” I explained, surprised he hadn’t seen the pictures of us that had been posted on Kulti’s fan websites.
And even when my dad’s favorite athlete in the universe was within walking distance, the number one man in my life put me first. “What the hell did you go to the doctor for?” he snapped.
Ten minutes later, I’d told him everything—mostly. From the softball game that had gone wrong, to Kulti taking me to the doctor, to the conversation with Mr. Cordero, and finally to the German showing up to my place that morning.
Dad was shaking his head by the end, anger apparent in his eyes. “Cabrones. We’ll sue them if they do anything,” he said, still hung up on Mr. Cordero.
What was it with these men and suing people? “We’ll worry about it later. I didn’t violate any terms of my contract, so I don’t think they can do anything.” I really hoped. “You-know-who told me not to worry about it.”
His eyes narrowed, but grudgingly he nodded.
“Ready to see your true love?” I asked with a smile on my face.
Dad smacked me on the back of the head lightly. “I don’t know why we didn’t put you up for adoption,” he said, getting to his feet.
I shrugged and followed him out of the room, noticing how slowly he was walking and the way he looked around the corner like he expected someone to pop out of nowhere and scare the crap out of him. In the kitchen, we found Kulti sitting at the small round table crammed into the corner of the room, a plate of watermelon, jicama, celery and broccoli, with a glass of water in front of him. My mom was digging in the fridge for something.
The German stood up and extended a hand out to my dad, not saying a word.
And my poor star-struck dad glanced at him, and in a way that wasn’t at all like his usual self, timidly stuck his hand out—only slightly trembling—and clasped Kulti’s.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Casillas,” Kulti said in flowing Spanish, keeping eye contact with my dad.
I had to pinch my nose when my dad nodded rapidly in return, sucking in a loud breath when their hands broke apart. Coming up from behind, I squeezed my dad’s shoulders and whispered in his ear about how he needed to imagine him pooping, before taking a seat next to the German and sneaking a piece of watermelon off his plate.
Dad grabbed a seat next to me and across from Kulti, looking everywhere but at The King. This was the same man who didn’t know how to behave in a movie theater, much less church. Loud, outgoing, opinionated and stubborn with a temper that was well known… he sat quietly in his chair.
This was exactly what I’d been worried about with bringing Kulti to San Antonio. I wanted to spend time with my parents, not to have my dad so freaked out he refused to talk. I wasn’t going to embarrass him by pointing out how weird he was acting in front of the German, and I decided to try and show a little patience. We, or at least I, were going to be here for the next three days; Kulti and I hadn’t talked about whether he’d figure out another way to get back to Houston, but the fact he hadn’t mentioned leaving hadn’t escaped me either.
So, we’d see how it’d go.
Kulti nudged the plate in my direction and I smiled as I took a piece of jicama. Then it hit me.
“Where’s Ceci?” I asked my parents.
Dad raised his eyebrows, but it was my mom who answered. “In her room.”
