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And she is intimidating. She glances toward me, rooted like a stump in the passenger seat, and her expression falls short of warmth and welcome.
Marco waves me forward, so I take a deep breath, release my seatbelt, and slide gingerly from the truck. Desert heat blasts me as I make my way around the front and creak my way up the tired wooden staircase. He takes my arm as I reach that last step. I don’t know if he pities my uncertainty or if I look like I’m about to fall over. I’ve felt increasingly lousy as the day has worn on.
“Annalise, this is my mother, Marina Gonzalez. Mom, this is—”
“Tripp’s sister.”
She clasps my hand in a solid grip while eyeing me head to toe, her tone implying my relationship to my brother is a bad thing. “Annalise Walker,” I say, painting on a smile.
I catch Marco sneaking a scowl at his mother, who responds to the rebuke with a less than convincing smile of her own—which makes for a complete surprise when she pulls me into a hug that I deem both reluctant and genuine at the same time. “Welcome,” she belatedly adds in accented English. “Call me Marina.”
Nodding, I shove myself forward and follow her into the trailer. My first impression is of darkness, I assume brought on by the stark contrast from desert sun to indoor lighting, but as my eyes adjust, my initial impression is confirmed. Closed curtains over a scant smattering of small windows, dark furniture, dated dark paneling covering every wall, and a low wattage bulb in the single lamp that’s burning. Marco’s mother is either in hiding, allergic to sunlight, or trying to stave off the heated rays that are baking the tiny trailer set upon glistening white sand.
A faint throat-clearing cuts short my assessment. Marco is squinting at me, an inscrutable look in his green eyes. I lose myself there for a moment, until I feel his fingers disentangling from mine. Oh my word. Did I take his hand? Or did he take mine?
The truth smacks me. Marco is not the one in need of support. Nope, it was me, all the way.
“Sorry.” I jam my hands into a knot.
His mother’s eyes take in my movement, and the gears are whirring behind them. I think she wishes me back in Galveston, and I’m with her on that point. I guess…I guess I wasn’t expecting Marco’s falling out with Tripp to be a factor in the warmth, or lack thereof, of my reception.
Silly me.
When Avery showed last spring, we rolled out the red carpet. We weren’t simply thrilled to see Tripp, we were ecstatic that he’d finally brought a woman home.
Not thatthisis anything likethat.Tripp was already totally falling for Avery, despite the fact that it was escape from a drug lord that precipitated the surprise visit. It isn’t like that for Marco and me. His mom needn’t worry. We’re only here because we—well,I—am escaping nosy, intrusive, and oh-so well-meaning family. Tripp and Avery were in denial about their feelings for one another. With Marco and me, there’s nothing romantic. Not so much as a hint of attract…tion.
Mentally, I quietly step back. Okay, there might have been a tiny ounce of attraction in the beginning, but now, now that I know him better, well, sure, he’s kind, thoughtful, helpful, understanding. And of course he’s still handsome, but that doesn’t mean for a second that I’m attracted…
I think I’m at that proverbial point of less-said-the-better. In fact, the less Ithinkthe better. Obviously, my brain is not firing on all cylinders. Marco and I are not at all like Tripp and Avery.
Marco takes my elbow and suggests I have a seat on the tweedy sofa. I guess I look as bad as I feel. Indeed, everything is catching up to me. My legs are weak, and my heart is all racy and fluttery again. I’d like nothing more than to be back in the truck, Marco beside me, and—
Never mind.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, eyebrows stitched together.
“Water would be good, thanks.”
He leaves for the kitchen—about a four-step walk—where his mother is lifting the lid from a steaming pot on the stove’s back burner. Marco takes a cup from the cabinet next to the refrigerator, and his mom issues an order in Spanish. Themothertone transcends language. He rolls his eyes like a fifteen-year-old, and she slaps his arm. He returns the plastic cup to the cabinet and chooses a glass one instead, then fills it with tap water. I wonder if it’s filtered—
I am such a snob.
His mother grabs his arm when he turns to come my way, rattling on in Spanish.
Effectively shut out, I absorb my surroundings. The dark paneling exudes vibes of a decade prior to my arrival in the world. The sofa is old, and the multicolored afghan folded precisely and hanging next to my shoulder looks dated and very…middle-class. Like the crocheted blanket, everything in the space that I can see is neat, clean, and in its place. It’s simply…old.
Marco darts me a look, then captures his mom’s eyes. “Inglés, por favor.”
She rolls her eyes, clarifying where he gets his attitude. She shoots me a small smile but doesn’t say anything else—about me, that is. I know she was talking about me.
I stare at my hands, longing to flee. Why did Marco bring me here if I’m so unwanted?
Because you practically begged him to, you idiot.
Okay, there was that.
Given his mother’s obvious disapproval, I can only assume Marco is not as closemouthed about his life as Tripp is—unless her problem with me is as simple as my interfering with one-on-one time with her only son.
