Chapter 3: Surly Romance: Chapter 3

“It’s because you don’t have childbearing hips,” mom croaks into the phone. “I blame your father.”

I roll my eyes to the ceiling. My fingers are splayed in the middle of a home decorating magazine. This particular publication is mind-numbingly boring, but I find my biggest inspirations by critiquing mainstream trends. Something about seeing the way I’m ‘supposed’ to do things makes me want to go in the opposite direction.

“It’s my fault too.” Mom moans. “First, I fell in love with a man who isn’t Mayan. Even worse, he had to be tall.”

I don’t buy her whining for a second. She’s acting like she and dad don’t adore each other. There were many times I stumbled on my parents mid-PDA when I was growing up. Scarred me for life.

“Mom, you love dad’s height. Don’t even pretend.” I flip the page of the magazine.

“He passed those genes on to you. Now you’re taller than all the nice men I set you up with.”

“Not all of them.”

“Enough of them.”

“Mayan men are getting taller now, mom. It’s genetics. Besides, no one cares if the woman is taller than the man anymore.”

“Then explain why you scare off your blind dates every time?”

“Because I’m not interested in going back to Belize and being the quiet Mayan wife.” I flip the page and sketch out a design in my spiral-notebook. “I can’t embroider. I can’t even stick a thread into a needle. And I definitely can’t cook. Can you see me bending over hot stones patting out tortillas?”

“Ay, your father spoiled you,” mom wails. “He insisted on doing everything for you and now, you can’t even make your own tortillas.”

“I can make tortillas, mom. Just not the way the elders would want me to.”

“Come home for the weekend. I’ll teach you. It’s easy.”

“Sorry. I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Working.”

“A real job?”

I tip my chin to the ceiling. “I’m the boss of my own business. Most parents would be proud.”

“Designing? You call that a business?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and let out a sigh. Here we go again.

Her voice climbs in dismay. “You go to college. We spend thousands for you to study and then you throw away your degree to spread beds and put up curtains for a living? Ay-ya, I don’t know where I went wrong. I should have never let your father convince me to come to America.”

“Dad wouldn’t have survived in the village. He barely convinced the elders to marry you.” I open my laptop and maneuver to the design I’m working on.

I scored a huge gig, not that mom would acknowledge it. A few weeks back, I signed a contract with Stinton Investment. Someone on the board heard that I’d designed an office for Fine Industries and offered an impressive amount of cash to finish their space.

“With enough time—”

“No amount of time would have gotten the elders to approve of him. The moment you fell in love was the moment you were headed out of Belize.”

We have this exact conversation every six months or so. It’s more often if mom finds a ‘good enough’ Mayan man to set me up with. ‘Good enough’ meaning, of course, that he’s working in America (which is more common these days) and that he’s just as traditional as she is (which is basically impossible).

As much as she likes to lambast me, it’s not a one-sided disinterest. More and more Mayan men aren’t dating within the culture either.

“So mouthy. You always have a comeback.” The scolding in her tone makes me look up instinctually, wondering if a lone slipper will come flying at me like a missile.

Thankfully, I’m safe.

“You see what moving away from our people did to you?”

I roll my eyes. “What did moving away from the elders do to me?”

“You’re Americanized. Now you have all these crazy ideas.”

“Which idea is crazy? Working for myself or being happily single?”

“A woman your age should have a family.”

“Mom, I’m not even thirty.”

“Time passes quickly. Before you know it, your eggs will get old.”

“Oh my gosh.”

“With all the canned food and plastic meat in this country, you can’t be sure of anything. Aren’t you worried?”

“Not even a little.” If I cared about getting pregnant, I could find a man to get the job done. Mayan or not, most heterosexual guys would be eager to get the baby-making part out of the way for me.

For some crazy reason, Darrel’s stony mug comes to mind. I imagine him draping me over his bed and parting my legs so he can give me a baby…

“Children are a blessing.”

My head whips up and I shudder. Why the heck did my brain go to such a dangerous place?

“You should be more engaged.”

“I do want a family, but I want to find a man who’ll be a good and dedicated husband to me as well as someone who’ll be a good father to my kids.”

“You want too many things.”

“I’m taking my time because it’s important. You’re so obsessed with continuing the family line that you can’t even take me seriously.”

“The reason marriages fall apart is because the young people are the ones making the decisions. If we went back to the way things used to be, it would get better.”

“Back in the day, women weren’t allowed to speak in male company. You want to go back to that?”

“See, you pick and choose which traditions you want to criticize, but they weren’t all bad. If we were in Belize, you would have been married at—”

“Fifteen?”

“Sixteen.”

I sigh. “Child brides aren’t legal anymore, mom.”

“But arranged marriages are.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, push me, Sunita and you will see.”

My fingers fall away from the magazine. “You’re fretting over nothing, mama. I love being Mayan. The fact that I’m living here isn’t going to stop me from honoring my culture.” My lips curve up. “You’re the one who taught me not to hide who I am.”

“Of course you shouldn’t hide. You’re incredibly privileged to be who you are, Sunita.”

See that? That right there is why I can’t be mad at this woman. My mother is the bravest person I know, and I saw it fully when we moved to America.

Our first order of business once we arrived was blending in. We thought it would allow people like us to live harassment-free, but we were wrong. We can speak perfect English, eat only McDonalds and dress in western clothes, but nothing can hide the slope of our forehead, the shape of our noses, the lilt in our words or the color of our skin. ‘Different’ will always be a label that follows us around.

After an incident that involved a man yelling racial slurs at mom and waving a gun around from the window of his pickup, mom decided ‘to hell with it’ and went wild.

I’m talking wearing traditional Mayan blouses out to the grocery store, starting a Mayan embroidery class at the community center, and sending maize tortillas to our neighbors on holidays. If I’m going to be harassed because I’m different, I might as well embrace those differences so they have a better reason to come after me, she said.

Mom chose the loud and proud Mayan route. Which, unfortunately, means her biggest dream in life is to see me married off to another Mayan man so we can make more Mayan children and complete her mission of ‘saving’ our Mayan culture.

“I really don’t understand why you’re pressuring me to marry into the culture when you didn’t.” My brows wrinkle when I notice an invoice from the moving company. I hired them to transport the office furniture last week and they’re asking about the second half of the payment.

Any day now, I should be receiving the remainder of my invoice from Stinton Investment. The gig from the investment firm will more than cover my remaining bills. It’s still annoying to see an arrears email though. I’m going to pay the movers on the date we agreed. Why are they harassing me just because I’m a small business?

“This is not about me, young lady. It’s about you and your future. A Mayan man will understand you in a way no one else can.”

“Okay… and?” I reply to their email, assuring them their money will come, and then log into social media.

“And he’ll be prepared for an apocalypse. If the world ever comes to an end, the people who know how to live off the land are the ones who will survive. These Americans are so obsessed with the billionaires and the tech moguls, but farmers are where the real wealth is.”

“Mom, you’re so…” My words fade when I notice today’s headline.

Stinton Investment Goes Belly Up

“I’m so what? What were you going to say, Sunita?”

“Mom, I’ll call you back,” I reply breathily.

“What? Don’t hang up on me!”

I toss the phone and pull the laptop closer to my chest. Clicking on the link like it’s the golden ticket from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, I skim the article. A sick feeling spreads from my stomach to my chest as one phrase jumps out at me.

Bankrupt.

It’s like a cosmic bat to the head.

No.

I close my eyes and open them as if it’ll magically change what’s in front of me.

Bankrupt.

My fingers tighten into fists. The company who still owes me money—money that I need to pay my bills and the moving company—is shutting down.

“You can’t be serious!” I shriek. Heart pounding, I grab my phone and call the manager from Stinton Investment. We’d been working together throughout the project.

The phone goes straight to voicemail.

“Okay, Sunny. Don’t panic.” I hop to my feet and pace my tiny living room. “Even if they’re bankrupt, they have to pay you. There are laws about this stuff.”

Sweat beads on my forehead and a noose of a reminder tightens around my neck. I did extra work for these guys.

At the last minute, the company asked me to design more offices. Rather than charge for the extra furniture, painting and labor, I used their initial deposit—and my own funds—to cover the costs.

A jolt of foreboding runs through my body. My composure unravelling by the second, I head out the door at a mad dash.

The mid-morning rush is brutal. Under the circumstances, I have no choice but to drive like an idiot. Someone flips me the bird when I cut into the next lane. I return the gesture. You have no idea what I’m going through, buddy. Don’t test me today.

As I near Stinton Investment, I see chaos. Police cars are flashing red and blue against reams of steel and glass. Men in suits carry boxes of files, hard drives, and computers. They stack them in large black vans. A crowd gathers, cellphones up to watch an empire fall.

“No, no, no!” I hurl the car into the basement parking lot, not bothering to park properly. Head spinning, I take the elevator to the third floor. My fingers tap the side of my pants in staccato beats. Each second stretches out to an hour.

I arrive at the office and stop short. The scene before me is like a clip from a natural disaster movie, except there’s no CGI tornado in the background. Employees run back and forth. Shredded paper spills over the floor. The tiles are stomped with boot marks. Desks have been ransacked and phones are ringing off their hooks.

I turn in a slow circle, taking in the scene with ever-mounting dread. None of the faces look familiar, so I grab the nearest flailing office worker.

“Excuse me, can you tell me where—”

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” He shakes his head back and forth like I’m torturing him. “I had no idea about any of this.”

“Wait, I just want to—”

“Gah!” He breaks my hold and runs, crying, into the hallway.

The pressure in the back of my head is mounting, galvanized by the stench of fear that permeates this battered office. Understandable. These people just got sucker-punched and their livelihood got ransacked in the blink of an eye.

I get the feeling.

In the distance, I spot a familiar face. It’s the manager who was my liaison with Stinton Investment.

“Hey! Hey you!” I wave frantically.

The man with the bald spot at the very top of his head looks up. He sees me and freezes as if going completely still can scrub him from my sight.

I plant my hands on my hips and march to him. “You know I can see you, right?”

His eyes connect with mine. They widen slightly. In a burst of movement, the manager sprints in the opposite direction.

You’ve got to be kidding me! I take off behind him, dodging overturned desks, crushed binders, and open cabinet doors. Pumping my arms, I increase speed and grab his tie that’s flapping in the wind like happy dog ears. My fingers close around the material and I yank for all I’m worth. The manager makes a choking sound, his feet scurrying forward while his shoulders and back bend toward me.

We both stumble, but I manage to plant my feet on the ground and balance us both. The manager whirls around and holds his hand up like I’m about to take his watch and wallet.

I stare into his panicked face. “Why did you run?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say but sorry.”

Relax relax relax. “You’re not the enemy here. I know that. I just need to know how I can get my money.”

“You can’t.” He swallows and his Adam’s apple nearly slaps me in the eyeballs.

I laugh crazily. “Yeah, that’s not going to work for me.”

“Look, you’re not the first person to rush in here today asking for payment. I’ll tell you what I’ve told everybody. There isn’t any money.”

“No, you don’t understand.” I yank the tie and he bounces closer. His body odor fills my nostrils, but it’s nothing compared to the stink I’m about to raise in this place. “You asked me to prepare more offices. You assured me that I’d be reimbursed. I turned down other jobs for this. I trusted this company because I trusted you.”

“And I’m so sorry. Really.”

My head starts to pulse. “Sorry isn’t going to pay my bills.”

“Look around, we’re all in a bind right now.”

“And I’m not blaming you. I’m really not, but you’re the only one who can verify that the company owes me.”

“I have to worry about myself.” He pries my hand off his tie. “But I wish you the best.”

“No.” I grab for him again.

He jumps back with the finesse of someone half his size. “Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Please, at least tell me where I can go to get what’s owed to me.”

“We’re all trying to figure that out right now. We’re in the same boat, Ms. Quetzal.”

Not exactly. Some of them have money to pay for lawyers. Some of them might be in unions. A few lucky ones have a savings account to fall back on. I have none of those things. I need this payment. If not, I’m going to have to beg my bestie for room and board. And she’s going to insist I move into her new home with Alistair.

Not happening.

Living with honeymooners is going to be a nightmare. The thought of hearing their happy giggles all night long, walking in on them after coming home or eating dinner next to their obnoxiously cute flirting makes me sick to the stomach.

Poor Belle.

She’s going to have to survive it somehow, but I won’t.

“I’m sorry,” the manager says again, as if those two words are all that’s left of his vocabulary. Spinning around, he takes off like I’m Godzilla about to stomp on his car.

The noise in my head gets louder. The office is too crazy, the people are too frantic, and I’m on edge.

I need to get out of here.

On the elevator ride back to the lobby, I force myself to breathe and think about how I’ll get out of this. No answers come to mind.

Stepping out into the sunshine, I fish for my sunglasses and peer at the police officers. They’re all wearing stern expressions. I have a feeling they don’t know where to find the crook behind this mess either.

Gulping in huge dregs of air, I stumble to my car and ignore the way each step makes me feel like I’m sinking further and further into the ground. Somehow, I make it to the car, but I can’t move to start the engine.

At that moment, my cell phone rings and the name of my former boss flashes across the screen.

Hello, sucker punch number two.

I left my old job for the thrill of running my own company, but did I leave quietly? No, not me. I lectured the boss about the importance of creative freedom and swore I’d be the next Nate Berkus. Drunk on the spirit of entrepreneurship and taking risks, I told her to watch out for me. That she’d see my name in print one day. That I’d be sitting in a comfy chair next to Oprah.

Turns out, there’s no Oprah, no magazine features, not even a cheesy home makeover TV show. Instead she might see my name in an ad on Craig’s List begging for work.

I jam my head against the steering wheel, moaning under my breath.

The phone goes silent.

Then it starts ringing again.

I could ignore it, but my former boss, Shanya, won’t quit until I pick up. That much I know. She’s a cutthroat interior designer with a nose for style and a flair for business. Although she rarely designs anymore, her brand is such a stalwart in the industry that whatever she puts her name on gets popular.

I clear my throat and pick up the call. “Hello, Shanya. This is Sunny Quetzal speaking.”

“Are you free? I have something for you.” Shanya’s voice is as dry as bitter vodka in a Siberian snowstorm.

“Actually, I’m busy flipping a darling Victorian. My schedule’s so packed, I don’t even have time to eat.” I force out a laugh. “You know how it is when you’re just starting out.”

“I know the project you were working on is going through some turmoil, Sunny. You don’t have to lie.”

“What?”

“You were with Stinton Investment, right? The company that’s currently being investigated for fraud?”

“How did you know?”

“Your social media,” she responds dryly.

My eyes widen. “You still follow my accounts?”

“I watch out for all my competition.”

The swell of pride that Shanya considers me competition is quickly drowned out by the reminder that I’m nowhere close to beating her right now.

“Were you paid?” Shanya asks.

I consider lying to her, but there’s no sense in doing that. She can make one call and find out the truth. “No.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“This way you’re more likely to agree to what I’ll propose.”

“I’m listening.” I can’t keep the hope out of my voice. Nothing like potential homelessness to rekindle an old alliance.

“I need your assistance with a client. They’re refusing any other designer but you. No matter what plans we try to show them, they’re insistent.” Her voice holds a hint of annoyance. “I don’t want to lose their business, but I also don’t want to hand them over to you.”

“So this would be on contract?”

“If you’re interested.” She pauses. “I’d pay half of your fee upfront. I’m willing to extend that to you based on our history.”

My pride tries to rear its ugly head. You don’t need her. You can do it on your own. I beat that thing down with a two-by-four. One glance at my bank account and pride can take a very long hike.

“I’m interested.”

“Come to the office, and let’s discuss how we can help each other.”

It’s late afternoon when I drive to the outskirts of town to meet the client. My GPS stops me in front of a quiet townhouse. The weathered brick, glass windows and charming arched rooftop look like something from a storybook, but nothing else stands out to me.

Through the glass panes on the front door, I notice a small lobby filled with bookshelves, a sofa and a coffee table. I wonder who this client is?

I know he’s wealthy. Shanya’s price tag alone means that she only works with a certain type of clientele—the ones where money is an afterthought because they couldn’t run out of it in this lifetime or the next. But I also know that there’s no price on Shanya’s pride and yet she was willing to crawl back to me for help. Which means this client has more than just money to throw around.

I pull the door open and a bell jangles above my head. The melody is a lot sweeter than I expected and I look up, realizing the ‘bell’ is actually wind chimes in disguise.

Tilting my head back all the way, I inspect the wind chimes intently. The glass stems are purple and the sunlight pierces them just so, sending magical reflections dancing on the wall.

“We replaced the bell a long time ago. Wind chimes are less jarring,” a voice says.

I glance up and notice a tall woman with a sharp face, sagging cheeks, and a welcoming smile. She’s wearing a light blue nurse’s outfit and comfortable sneakers.

“Hi.” I return her smile with my own.

“You must be Sunny Quetzal.”

“That’s me.” I offer my hand to her.

She takes it. Her grip is firm and assured. “Might I say, it was quite a battle getting you here.”

“A battle?” My eyebrows hike.

“The company tried to give me the runaround and kept pushing other designers at me. I was stunned when I found out they’d let you go. Someone as talented as you? Are they insane?”

A smile presses against my cheeks. After the day I’ve had, it feels great to hear compliments. “I wasn’t let go. I quit to start my own firm.”

“Oh? They didn’t tell me that.”

“And I’m technically not supposed to either.” I wink. “So let’s keep this between us.”

Her smile widens. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“It seemed rather urgent.” I arch an eyebrow. Shanya didn’t disclose much. Not that she ever does. Her philosophy is that the client doesn’t know what they want, only we do. I’m more of the belief that a house is a reflection of its owner. It’s one of the many reasons I left the company. I couldn’t follow my heart there.

“I loved what you did to the farmhouse.” The nurse bounces on the tips of her toes like she wants me to sign her pocket protector. “The boss is a little… creatively challenged, so he wouldn’t have thought of making his home that cozy.”

“I’m glad he’s satisfied.”

“More than satisfied. Not that he’ll ever express it.”

Darrel’s face comes to mind. I guess being cold and grumpy is a common rich guy symptom.

She sticks her head close to mine. “This request is going to be a little different. We know you usually take pictures and record these projects for your portfolio, but we’re going to have to ask you to keep this one under wraps. The circumstances are a little… intense. We hope you understand.”

I arch an eyebrow. “What kind of room do you want me to design that I have to keep it a secret?” My mind starts conjuring creepy dungeon-themed basements. “It’s not illegal, is it?”

I wouldn’t condone illegal behavior under usual circumstances but, after finding out about Stinton Investment this morning, I’d rather put clashing patterns in my living room than bend the law just to accommodate a selfish jerk with too much money.

“I’ll let the boss explain the details.” The nurse gestures towards a closed door and bends her head slightly. “Coffee?”

“Water’s fine,” I say, gripping my purse.

“Sure thing.”

I approach the door, prepare my ‘I’ve got this covered’ smile and knock.

“Come in,” a man grunts.

My fingers freeze around the doorknob. I recognize the voice behind the door. It’s sharp. Gruff. Impatient. And it belongs to the man who regularly treats me like the town pariah.

My first instinct is to back away, but the nurse is right there, staring at me like I’ve come to rescue her war-ravaged hometown and lead them to prosperity. Cringing inside, I push the door open and walk in.

The room is surprisingly spacious and bright with large windows overlooking a cluster of tall trees. One lone chair faces a teal sofa in the middle of the room. The walls are bare except for an abstract-art painting. The colors are green, cream and pops of red. It’s exquisite. Something I would have picked out myself.

“Sunny?”

My eyes swerve away from the furniture and collide with a pair of stormy emeralds set in a face made for TV, movies, and maybe even a throne.

“Darrel.” The name tumbles from my lips with a hint of unease.

“What are you doing here?” His brows crash together. Slashing cheekbones and a chiseled jawline taunt me with their beauty. “I don’t have time for this.” He checks his watch, lips tightening even more when I remain in place. This is the most he’s ever said to me in all the time that I’ve known him. Honestly, I should smack him over the head with my purse and sashay out of here.

Instead, I fold my arms together. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my practice.” His eyes cut through me. How can something so beautiful be so cold?

“And I’m here because you begged me to show up.”

“Me?” He snorts.

“Yes, you.”

“I don’t beg.”

The exchange between us is creeping over the ten-word limit. Which means that Darrel Hastings is either drunk or under an inordinate amount of stress.

I point to him. “You made a big fuss. Rejected every other designer. Almost gave Shanya a headache.” I stride to the painting. It really is beautiful. “I’m the only one allowed to work on your house. That’s what you told Shanya.” Turning, I flaunt a proud smile. “So I’m here.”

The surprise that charges through his expression is more satisfying than the cheesecake platter at my favorite cafe. Take that you grumpy Neanderthal.

“You… decorated my farmhouse?”

“I didn’t know it was yours.” I fold my arms over my chest. If I did, I might have left a stabbed-up teddy bear in the garden so he could taste my wrath. “But yeah, I did. Lots of natural light in there. I was unusually inspired.”

His eyes narrow slightly, as if he’s trying to figure out if he should believe me.

“What I don’t understand is why you’re trying to keep this project a secret. I don’t usually get requests to keep a design under wraps. Most people love being featured on my blog.” Something about the world acknowledging how wealthy and privileged they are tends to make rich people all warm and fuzzy inside. It’s not like I have a problem with it. The more names I can attach to my work, the more valid my portfolio will become.

“I think there’s been a mistake.” Darrel slaps his laptop closed and rises like he’s about to make a proclamation. Here ye! Hear ye! Sunny Quetzal shall be forthwith banished from the land! “I wasn’t aware that you were the designer and I’d prefer—”

“Stop.” I lift a hand.

He glowers at me like I drank all the milk and put the empty carton back in the fridge.

Is he seriously going to kick me out just because I’m the one who walked through the door?

Screw you, Darrel Hastings. “Before you say anything, I have something I’d like to say first.” With a dramatic wave of my arms, I announce, “I wasn’t aware you were the client. If I knew, I wouldn’t have taken this job.”

His eyes narrow.

“My creative energy can’t survive around so much,” I wiggle my finger at his giant body, “negativity.” I’m being a dramatic princess, but it’s the only way I can save my face. There’s no way I’m letting Darrel Hastings of all people fire me before I’ve even been on the job for a full hour. “Even now, I feel my creativity sputtering out.”

He scoffs as if I need more help than any of his patients.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” I add.

“Agreed.” He juts his chin down as if it’s the first sensible thing I’ve said since I walked in.

Are you crazy? The part of my brain that cares about things like budgets and paying rent and being able to afford fried jacks at my favorite brunch place shakes to life. Did you forget what happened this morning? You’re broke. And Shanya already agreed to pay you the first half. You need this job.

Yeah, but I can’t survive working for Darrel Hastings of all people. He’s standing behind his desk in a tight button-down that shows off his pecs and slacks that loosely flow over his strong thighs, looking like a gorgeous bull ready to impale me.

Our little staredown is creeping past the three-second mark because both of us are refusing to blink. This is what we do. I show up and he gets pissed off from my mere nearness. We can’t have one decent conversation. He’ll be an impossible client.

“I’ll tell Shanya to send someone else.”

He nods. “Perfect.”

Ugh. I’d give my left lung to smack him.

Stiffly, I turn and march to the door. My head is so high I must look like a giraffe wearing a neck brace. My steps are sure and swift.

I reach out to twist the knob when the door blasts open, almost hitting me in the face. Quick reflexes and three years of on-again off-again Zumba allow me to jump backwards.

The hallway is empty and yet I feel the wind rush past me on both sides. Glancing down, I notice two little boys fling themselves into the room.

Both of them make a beeline for the brute behind the desk.

And both of them are crying.