Relatives, Relatives, Relatives

Chapter 63

I forgot about Carla and everything that had gone down in that room in the last hour. I barreled through the door like a wild animal, almost tripped on the steps, banged my shoulder on the railing, and burst into the kitchen gasping for air. My mom and my aunt were piling groceries on the counter—bags of rice, oil, toilet paper, that wholesale bulk stuff they always split. But no Mariana.

"Where's my cousin?" I yelled, desperate.

Didn't even need an answer. From the living room door came a wild holler, that ear-splitting scream that scares off cockroaches. The two in the kitchen started yelling too, hollering even louder and telling us to cut the racket, but I ignored them and bolted into the living room. My cousin was there, holding a huge box, her face red and lit up with joy. I jumped on her without holding back, hugged her tight, wrapped around her neck, and planted noisy kisses all over her grumpy face. The box dropped on her foot, she complained, bit my arm, cussed me out laughing, and I squeezed harder, happy as hell and not a shred of shame—God, how I love my cousin.

Over the top, me? Fuck your opinion.

No time for chit-chat. There were boxes, bags, bottles, and trays stacked to the ceiling. My aunt wanted to unload it all right there and then take half back to her place. I grabbed bags by handles that cut into my fingers, balanced a load of milk on my hip, shoved the door open with my shoulder. Mariana jumped in with me, ant-work style, going back and forth from the garage to the kitchen, kitchen to the backyard, always with one more bag on her arm. We caught up on the gossip in the middle of the haul: who ghosted, who showed up, who's in debt, who's banging who.

Carla came downstairs and acted like it had nothing to do with her. She leaned on the counter, chatting with my mom about a dress while the old lady sorted rice, sugar, and toilet paper into piles. Tourist face on moving day. It was funny watching my mom's look at Carla: jaw set, suspicious eyes, that half-smile that's not a smile. Mom never liked the chick.

Mariana and I were sweating bullets. I hauled a basket of veggies, came back with a crate, tied bag mouths with blind knots, noted what went to the aunt and what stayed. Mariana cracked me up with a story about her new fuck buddy, and I laughed loud, rubbing alcohol on my hands and grabbing more stuff. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Carla too quiet, awkward with Mariana around. Only then it hit me: I'd totally forgotten about her when Mari showed up. I'd switched off my brain when I heard Mari was coming and straight-up ignored her.

I figured an apology was in order. I'd just fucked her, after all. And there I was, dumb as a post, smelling like lotion and the grocery store, laughing with Mariana and leaving Carla on the sidelines. I tucked it away to handle later, because from the hallway, my stepdad had just appeared shirtless and fresh from a shower. My eyes hit the goods on the passerby first. All in order, soft. He strolled into the kitchen, gave my mom a quick peck—horny bastard, I thought—barely said a word to me, took her spot, and then Mom vanished to the bedroom with Carla to check out dress stuff.

That's when it clicked: what if Carla was getting measured and my mom recognized my panties on her? You could tell. We'd had that whole panty war at home. Tons of people came over for the pool, left panties in the hamper or bathroom, and Mom got pissed having to wash and store them waiting for the owner to claim them. Rule came down: I had to mark the tags on mine. If she found unmarked panties in the wrong spot, trash.

And it wasn't just that. The hotties would show up in bikinis, and on the way out, they'd snag mine. I'd lose my shit. Yelling matches, uncles arguing, Mom grilling nieces, total hell. It blew over, but the rule stuck. So if by chance Mom spotted my panties on Carla and saw the tag, and asked about it, Carla would lie and I'd have to play dumb like I didn't remember. In the end, it was just panties.

I hated when they used mine. Not even Mariana did.

Speaking of Mariana, as soon as we finished stowing everything, she blurted out "I'm staying here!", grabbed my wrist, and bolted up the stairs. My aunt didn't even get a chance to complain. Clothes? No issue. Mariana already took up a fifth of my closet. The fight was getting her to take her own stuff back, not borrowing mine.

The bedroom door slammed, she locked it, and came at me with a kiss. I thought "shit." Her tongue came hot and urgent, and my body responded on autopilot because I'd missed her kisses, the way she nips my lower lip like a sweet tease. But the memory hit at the same time: Carla, the tongue, that taste. I felt an internal jolt of laughter and a stab of guilt, like "oh God, if Mariana finds out she accidentally tasted Carla... and I haven't even brushed my teeth yet."

I pulled back a fraction, forehead against hers, breathing our mixed air.

"Ey, ey... I'm all messed up, cousin. Let me take a shower first?"

The sassy one let go and fired back like always.

"Jully, you pick the most mood-killing words on the planet," she laughed, peppering me with little kisses.

"I meant sweaty. Gross. Whatever."

I'd put on panty liner because of the post-sex goo; it always leaks a bit. Probably left a yellowish stain. If she saw, she'd ask, so I cut it off.

"I'm gonna take a quick shower. Then you go, okay?"

"Let's go together?" she played innocent, all suggestive.

"Yeah, right. The house is awake, you nut. Me first, you after."

I went to the closet, grabbed a clean change of clothes, picked up the towel I'd left drying behind the door, and headed out. In the bathroom, first thing was to check my phone. Had to be a message from him. Nothing. Total ghost. Not that I wanted to talk, but, you know... at least a "hey."

I took my shower, washed my hair even though I hate doing it at night, put on clean clothes, rinsed the panties, hung them in the shower stall, and stepped out. Passed the kitchen: my stepdad sitting there, Mom with a dress in hand, needle and thread, stuff scattered all over the table. His presence threw me off a bit, and I blurted the first thing that came to mind.

"Mom, got anything to eat?"

"There's stuff, but don't mess up my kitchen. Order some snacks for you and Mariana, yeah?" she wet her lips. "You got money?"

"Yeah."

My stepdad cut in right away. He'd given me cash for a cleaning job I didn't even want to do. I only took it for the money because I wanted funds to hit the motel with that guy and ended up not going.

"Speaking of money... you owe me, huh, Jully?"

I shot Mom a pleading look. She got it.

"Stop hounding my daughter. If you want cleaning, do it yourself or hire a real maid. She goes when I say she goes. And you settle this with me, got it?"

He made a face, swallowed hard, and shut up.

"And you, to your room. Order the snacks. We'll talk later."

I bailed without even saying goodnight; I'd dodged a bullet. I'd just poured more gas on that fire, completely forgetting the chance of being alone with him in his house—what if he corners me and tries to force himself on me? I don't think he'd do it, but I know he'd try.

I climbed the stairs and went to the bedroom; now I'd have to deal with Mariana's pent-up energy.