Of Hustle and Heart (16 page)

CHAPTER 28

ZACARIAS

I
wake up from a power nap in the back office of Rico’s, frightened out of my mind. For the past week, I’ve been having weird dreams about an emotionally crazed high-school girl. I’m confused, but when the fear subsides, I’m relieved to have her presence in my life. She effortlessly irons out the wrinkle; I believe I’m important to her.

She would be good with us—with me and the baby. Fiercely protective, independent, and strong enough to deal—we’d make a good match. It’s impossible, so why am I even thinking about it? I bow my head, resting it in my palms, and pray she shows up for this party. I don’t exactly understand the urgency I have to see her again. The desire is so strong and irrational that it feels foul, and it eats at me night after night when I dream about her. I wake up every morning in a cold sweat, praying I haven’t said her name in my sleep.

True to her nature, Whitney fights with me on the idea of having my mother orchestrate the event, but this time when she pushes, I push back.

“You seriously want to pick a fight about this?” I make no effort to hide my disdain.

Her mouth drops open, as if I should’ve already seen her disapproval coming. She sits at the whitewashed vanity table she’d requested as an engagement present. She says she needs to sit down when she does her hair and makeup, because her legs hurt when she stands for too long.

“I don’t want to fight,” she says. “I’m just saying we can get there when we’re ready to.” She turns back to the mirror and continues to brush through her freshly curled hair. “It’s our party, not your mother’s.”

I look at my watch. We have to leave in forty-five minutes in order to arrive at the time my mother requested.

“Forty-five minutes until I walk out the door. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re with me or not,” I say as I head for the door.

She looks at me through the reflection in the mirror. “You’re going to leave me?”

I already have. Thirty minutes later, she walks into the living room with her shoes and handbag in her arms. She is polished and pristine from head to toe; everything she’s wearing looks new.

“You ready?” she asks, twirling in front of me. She looks beautiful. Pregnancy agrees with her.

“Yeah, c’mon, I don’t want to be late.”

When we step outside, the wind throws an impetuous breeze through her hair. I catch the scent of a banana-coconut shampoo. I smile at her because she looks beautiful, and I wonder if this gorgeous appearance is all for my benefit. She smiles back, revealing freshly whitened teeth. I hold out my arm to her as we head for the car.

Clifton, a friend of my mother’s, owns a house on two green, gated acres. My mother thought it would be—her words, not mine—“a beautiful change to have the party at the ranch.” She even has him bring some of the nicer horses up front for scenery. There are plenty of relatives and friends available for us to mingle with once we arrive, all excited to see me in honor of my turning twenty-five.

“This is nice,” Whitney says.

She’s impressed as she looks around, surveying the outside setup. “Twenty-five. Happy birthday, baby.” She kisses me on the mouth.

“Thank you.” I blush. It’s a good moment between us despite how brief it is. “Thank you, Lord. I’ve made it another year,” I say, pointing a finger toward the sky. My girlfriend is unmoved by my gesture of gratitude toward God, although she grins her way through it.

“I like an older man,” she announces.

I put up two fingers, signaling our two-year age difference. “By this many years.” I laugh. I look at her stomach. “There should be plenty of food, lots of Mexican food. I know you might be a little burned out…”

“Um, actually, I asked your mom to take the Mexican food off the menu,” she says. She goes on complaining about how she doesn’t want to gain too much weight and that seafood and light pasta are a better choice.

I stop listening but not on purpose. I am distracted by the buzzing of my phone. As I pull it out from my pocket, Zina’s name lights up across the screen.

Am I still invited?

I type back.

Yes, of course
.

Zina doesn’t respond immediately, so I’m left with Whitney’s ramblings about food and gaining weight and how the quarrels with my mother about changing the menu gave her migraines. Instantly, my twenty-fifth birthday party had become Whitney’s informal engagement celebration. I stare at her.

“I thought you loved Mexican food,” I mutter impatiently.

“We have other foods.” She smiles. “I asked Clifton to order seafood and…” She snaps her fingers, recalling her reworked version of my original menu. “Veggie kebabs.”

Veggie kebabs?
What the hell!
“There’s still barbeque, right?”

“Yes, Zack.” She rolls her eyes.

As I wait for Zina’s response, I move quickly to get Whitney situated and fed. I serve her a small plate of fish and pasta sautéed with peppers and onions and find a table away from the exits. As I take my place next to her, I check my phone while she nibbles at her food.

“Your mother looks happy.” She gestures at my mama.

“Yeah, she does.” My phone vibrates in my pocket. I let it alone.

“She’s accepted us—finally,” she says.

“She has.” I nod.

“Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Accepted us.” She rubs her stomach. “That this is how it’s going to be—you, me, and the baby?”

“Of course.”

“You want me for me…it’s not just because of the baby, right?”

“Yes. I absolutely want to be with the mother of my child,” I say.

My phone vibrates again.

Zina:
Address?

Me:
3720 Freedom Drive, 77589

Zina:
Thanks!

Whitney confesses that she’s afraid to drink wine, although her doctor said it was okay in moderation. But with my nerves going crazy waiting for Zina’s arrival, I suggest we have some. I fill my glass to the rim and fill Whitney’s halfway. She finishes her glass before I can chug mine and reaches for the bottle. I let her pour a little more wine before I take it away.

“Slow down,” I say, sitting the bottle on the table in front of me as my phone goes off from Zina’s text.

I’m lost. Is there a ranch somewhere?

I step away from the table and press the call icon above her text. The phone only rings once before she picks up.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, hi, it’s Zack. Where are you?”

“I don’t know. I just drove by a big ranch—with horses and shit.”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it? You own a ranch?”

“I wish.” I grin as I get up from my chair, ignoring Whitney’s insistent tugging at my shirttail.

“Turn around and come back to the ranch. I’ll come meet you.”

I stuff my phone back into my pocket and run my hands through my curly hair.

“Who’s that?” Whitney asks.

“One of the customers from Rico’s,” I reply.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I invited her. Seems like she’s been having a hard time with things…” I shake my head as I remember the night outside Rico’s—the night I found out I would become a father; the night I left Zina with the green-eyed boy. “I think she needs someone to talk to.”

The twinkle in Whitney’s eyes dies.

“Her? You invited a
her
to our engagement party?”

“Whitney, she’s just a kid. She needs someone to talk to.”

“And why are
you
that someone?” She frowns. “Where’d she come from?”

I bite my tongue. I wouldn’t dare give the real reason.

“She reminds me of my mother,” I say instead.

“How so?”

“She’s a resilient kid. My mother’s a resilient woman.”

As Whitney and I navigate through the crowd, I’m nervous and not at all comfortable with her coming with me to find Zina. Whitney is leading the way, and every so often she’ll turn around and smile and thank me for agreeing to celebrate our engagement and my birthday together.

Zina is standing by the fence, underneath one of the light posts. When I let go of Whitney’s hand, she snatches at me, tugging me backward as her lips curl into a nasty frown. She glares at Zina.

“Do not provoke her, Whitney. She’s our guest.”

“She’s your guest.”

I manage to shake free of her and hurry forward to greet Zina. As I approach her, my stomach drops into the crotch of my pants. This hasn’t happened since I was fifteen. She looks so different than Whitney: wild and authentic, rather than prissy and polished. Her high-school demeanor is gone; she looks twenty years old. The makeup she’s wearing makes her dark brown eyes resemble torches in the moonlight. Her mouth, painted red, welcomes me with a huge grin. The cutouts in her sapphire skirt and shirt expose her smooth, bare stomach, rounded shoulders, and shapely legs. Her skin is smooth and creamy, like dark peanut butter, and her hair is loose, its thick, wild waves frolicking in the night breeze.
I can taste her already.
She sees Whitney and me walking her way and does not look pleased.

“It’s cool that I came?” She searches Whitney’s eyes and finds nothing favorable. “Family stuff.” She laughs nervously. “I kinda just wanted to go out and have a little fun.”

“Yeah, of course, it’s okay. There are plenty of cool people here—and food,” I assure her.

Zina looks rattled and unsure of what to do, as my girlfriend eyes her with disapproval. She stands there swiping her finger over her phone screen, until Whitney finally speaks to her.

“So,” Whitney says, “how’d you meet my fiancé? Better yet, who the hell
are
you?”

Zina steps away, her eyes on Whitney, but she doesn’t reply. She clears her throat and mumbles something about “…this bullshit…” and storms off toward her car.

I chase after her. “Whoa! Wait, where are you going?” I reach out for her, but she dodges me. I glance over my shoulder and see Whitney standing off to the side, glaring, her French-manicured hands planted on her hips. “You don’t have to leave. There won’t be any problems,” I say in one long breath.

“I’m leaving. Fuck your party.”

I frown, yelling after her, “My party didn’t do anything to you.”

“Shut up!”