Eric by Jody Kaye (uplifting novels .TXT) 📕

“The old plow is in service. Colton did a great job of keeping her running. I took her for a spin, but the grass back there is high enough we’ll need to get the mowing done early or there will be a heck of a mess once the soil is tilled.”

“You’ll have the tractor ready to go?”

“¿Mi papá va a comprar un gatito?” Mateo plays near the tree with Christmas toys he’s unwrapped.

His question gives me the opportunity to butt into the conversation. “What are you talking about that he thinks you are getting him a cat?”

“Business venture, Sugar. I’ll have all the details soon. You and your brother and sister will have plenty to keep busy with over spring break, that’s for sure. We might need a real cat, though. Good idea, Mateo.”

A grin spreads from ear to ear and dimples appear in the little boy’s angelic cheeks.

“Miss Cavanaugh, do you have plans for New Year’s?” Cris ruffles his son’s hair. “I was hoping you could come over?”

“I’d love to.” I jump up from the carpet, straightening my gray slacks and red shirt with its flounce collar and brushing back a stray lock of hair that’s fallen from the clip holding onto my wild curls.

“Great! I’m not leaving till he’s in bed and swear I’ll get in as early as possible.”

“You’re going out?” I try to hide my disappointment. Meanwhile, a tiny voice belittles me for thinking he’d want me around for any other reason. I don’t attract male attention from boys my age. Why expect a grown man to pay me any mind?

Cris needing a babysitter makes perfect sense.

Mateo’s asleep in bed before I get to the stable apartment to watch him and Cris promises for a second time to be home early. He looks handsome in a button-down shirt and the cut of his dress pants is perfect. Some girl will have a magical beginning of the year with him by her side.

My boring evening is pathetic even by my standards. The last thing I remember is the ball drop on television before falling asleep curled up on Cris’s couch.

Is there a point any of this will change? Of course not. Even at college, I’m the last one included. What few friends I’ve made are more likely to say behind my back, “Oh, don’t forget Daveigh, so her feelings aren’t hurt” rather than, “We can’t do this without Daveigh. She’s so much fun”. Since my birth, life’s been a continual battle for attention; trying to push forward for recognition and failing. Perhaps it’s better to resign myself to come in behind the social pack.

I’ve tucked my legs to my chest and someone’s draped the afghan from the back of the sofa over me. Instead of opening my eyes to face the first day of the year, I pull the soft pillow over my head without wondering where it came from.

I’m an early bird. The kind who toils with little rest. Violette will be up soon and I planned ahead, tucking a bag of riding clothes in the stable. That’s me as well, ever prepared. Even the horses find me dependable. No wonder I spent the night in while my siblings were out whooping it up.

My body tenses and I smash the pillow down, smothering my face to block out the sun streaming through the lace curtains on the front windows. It smells like musk and man, unique to the owner, so it must be from Cris’s bed. I want to suffocate in the scent. There are worse ways to die. I grit my teeth, considering screaming into the soft cotton, but opt to breathe the carbon monoxide in with big gulps. The mix of hot guy aroma and morning breath are sure to asphyxiate me.

My ears perk at a strumming sound. I turn my head to the side to look out of the open corner of the pillowcase. A small body plucks the strings on a guitar sitting propped against the coffee table. The chiming is sure to wake Cris. He’s been out late. Well, at least later than midnight. I should continue to be the responsible one and let the guy sleep in. That’s why he asked me over. I move the pillow, brushing static wisps of my curly brown hair from where they cling to my face and neck.

“Esmeralda!” Mateo jumps at me as if we haven’t seen one another every day this week. He lands with his belly on mine, encircling my neck with his arms. I smile. No one but Mateo makes me feel like the only person in a room. It’s sad I need reassurance from someone about to turn three, considering I’m quite literally the only other person in the room.

“Did you sleep well?” I hold on to him and sit up. The crocheted blanket falls to my lap, revealing the lavender t-shirt I wore yesterday because it offsets my green eyes.

“Sí. Mira, mi padre dejó su guitarra fuera!” He points with excitement to the guitar like it is Christmas Day all over again.

“This is Daddy’s guitar?”

He nods, leaping back to the floor and picking the strings again. I wanted to tell him to stop, but he’s so cute and I can tell he’s thrilled seeing something he considers special. Mateo strums a few cords, dances, and strums again.

As long as he’s careful, I think.

“Hey amenaza, you know better.” Cris leans against the doorway to his room with one arm folded as the other brushes his hand across his short-clipped beard. A yawn turns into a broad grin. He’s as happy to see the little menace trying to play as I am.

Cris’s attention falls to me and I blush, self-conscious of my untamed hair and the wrinkles the pillow has left on my face.

He averts his gaze, croaking to his hairy feet, “I should go put on some clothes,” when he realizes he’s been standing in front of me in a tee and boxers.

Not that I minded his appearance one bit. Mine is the issue.

I whip an elastic from my jeans pocket and pull my errant locks into a ponytail, counting the seconds before making a break for the horse’s stables. Violette always makes me feel better. Heck, I’ve spent half of this vacation out in the fields talking to the one person, er animal, who I can pour my heart out to.

“Want breakfast, Miss Cavanaugh?” Dressed, Cris watches me fold the blanket and place it on the back of the couch.

“Avena. No, huevos.” Mateo hefts the guitar, handing it to his father.

“I can’t make oatmeal or eggs if you want me to play. Besides, you never said ‘thank you’ to Miss Cavanaugh for staying with you last night.”

“Gracias.” Mateo hugs my knees. I touch his head, loving the sweetness of his voice. It changes to a holler. “Now play!” Mateo demands in English.

My eyes widen and I bite down on my lip, trying not to find humor in the situation. The boy has only ever spoken Spanish in my presence.

“When did that start?” 

“School. You were right. He loves it. Still speaks Spanish to me, unless he wants his way about something. I don’t mind it since Liz wanted for him to know both.” Cris sits down on the edge of a chair, retuning pegs Mateo has twisted. “What am I playing?”

“Anything,” I answer, antsy. Twenty minutes ago, I wasn’t aware Cris played an instrument. Now he’s performing for me. Um, for us.

In the first few chords, I recognized a Keith Urban song from the radio. But with Cris singing it, the melody is all his. Mateo moves closer to his dad, lost in the sound of his voice. I’m an intruder in their moment, curious what it’s like for them when no one else is around.

“This is what you did last night, isn’t it?” I clap when the song is over.

“Yeah, some buddies persuaded me to sit in with them. It’s been a long time since I’ve played in public. The bar was packed and it brought back so many memories of days gone by when the exhilaration of the crowd outpaces the exhaustion. I tried to get home earlier, but we were still onstage long after one o’clock. I’m sorry you were asleep when I got in. I was looking forward to having someone to talk to afterward,” he remarks. “You looked peaceful and I didn’t want to wake you.”

He put the afghan over me. He gave me his pillow.

I want to ignore his comment but instead read into his anticipation over seeing me on the drive home. My stupid brain lists all the ways I could have found to wait up for him. Then it admonishes me for coming up with an imaginary dialogue of what he’d wanted to say, entering the apartment with a triumphant smile, expecting me to turn towards him, and welcome him home.

There is nothing romantic about our friendship. I doubt he considers us friends. I’m the boss’s daughter and Cris wasn’t spinning fairy tales last night, thinking he’d sweep me off my feet, carry me to his room, and in the morning bring me coffee in bed. His place isn’t my place and my place isn’t next to him.

“You used to play? For real?” I envision him as part of a band in a big dance hall.

“When Mateo was a baby, before Liz died.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I needed to care for my son.”

“When I’m back over spring break you could—I mean, if you have something scheduled, arranged, Booked, that’s the correct word, right? I’ll watch Mateo again if you need me to.”

“The offer is very nice of you, Miss Cavanaugh, but I think your daddy has other plans for everyone over your next vacation.”

My lips flattened into a hard line. I despise the ‘Miss Cavanaugh’ routine. Can’t Cris call me by my name, even in the condescending way Brier does when she’s trying to prove how little I comprehend about the big wide world? Because apparently being like Brier and losing your virginity to a boy you’ve known since the dawn of time and then running off to college leaving him broken-hearted makes you worldly.

The quip about my father’s business plan—that only Eric’s allowed to be a part of right now—piques my jealousy. Everyone likes my siblings better. They trust them more.

“Are you okay?” Cris asks.

“Plan on telling me what’s so special about this spring?”

“No. But I’ll be glad to show you when you come home.”

Sure, after everyone else is in on the secret. “I’ve got to go. Violette is waiting.”

I bump his guitar moving past Cris and stride towards Mateo who has found a stool. He’s gotten into an oat canister and scooped out double what anyone could eat into small glass bowls. 

“Muy caliente,” Mateo repeats twice over the uncooked oatmeal, blowing away pretend steam.

Cris searches the cluttered countertop and takes three folded twenties from his wallet. “Here.” His smile is beautiful enough to stop my heart. “I owe you for last night.”

“I don’t want your money, Mr. Sanchez.” All I want from anyone is a little respect.