The American

Chapter Three

Gram's eyes widen. I wonder what she is thinking. I wonder if she is wishing away the days that have passed since Mario's departure all those years ago, if she is astonished to see that time is finally catching up to her. 

Mario clears his throat. "Eh, abuelita, maybe we should go inside first—"

"Don't be crazy!" she exclaims in Spanish. Mario and I exchange uncertain glances as Gram's eyes apprehend Sahara's recoiling figure. "This is she?" she whispers in English. "Mi hija?"

Sahara smiles weakly at Gram before peering at Mario. "Can I hug her, honey?"

He nods through the ambiguity. It is vexing to see Sahara take Gram into her arms. Her nervous laughter intermittently disrupting the terseness of their exchange, I wonder if this was how she had expected it to pan out. When they pull away, she smiles widely at her new grandmother, the warmth in the gesture vanishing as Gram turns the other way.

Mario chuckles nervously, reaching for her hand, but she brushes it away. "You didn't tell her?" I hear her whisper.

"I was waiting for the right time. I—Sahara, baby, don't be upset."

"She's quite the character, isn't she?" Teo says, sliding beside me.

"The absolute best," I say, observing her disconcerted movements. She is supposed to be angry at Mario but her eyes tell a different story.

"I don't doubt it," he says.

I tear my gaze away from the two, focusing on him. "Are you coming inside?"

He chuckles, like destiny is teasing him somehow. "I live here, Margarita."

I motion to Gram's quaint cement house, the one we are about to enter. "Here?"

"Here."

"How is that even possible, Teo?"

"Are you two going to stay out there forever?" Mario interjects from not too far away. He is leaning against the doorframe, waiting for us. I blush at the realization that he has been overhearing our entire conversation.

"A story for another time?" I say to Teo.

He nods. "Another time."

We make our way for the door, silence overcoming us Mario wedges himself between the two of us. I try to forgive Mario's invasion as Gram introduces us to our rooms, but I find a hollowness in my heart, like he is trying to fill in a father's role, a role he was never meant to fill—not with me, at least.

I am unpacking my belongings later that night when Mario slips in through the halfway open door. His eyes dance around the room before cautiously landing on my vanity. "About earlier," he begins. He is tiptoeing around the topic, the way he often does when he is filled with remorse. "I'm sorry for being so curt, but Mar, he was being so touchy."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "Are you serious?"

"I'm just saying."

"Leave me alone, Mario."

"It doesn't hurt to be a little on the more careful side."

I drop the last of my palettes into the vanity drawer and walk toward Mario. "Do you trust me?"

"No," he says without a second thought.

"Ah, fuck you, Mario."

He sighs, his eyes wandering to my window. "At least they are getting along well."

I follow his gaze to the two women chatting on the living room balcony. Confined within the square frame of my window, their silhouettes resemble a painting. Sahara is heaving her phone toward Gram, showcasing her photographs of her various adventures with Mario: their first time in Nepal when his economical slippers had been stolen by the local monkeys, their impulsive two-day expedition to Glacier National last May and their trips across the city, back home, in Tribeca.