Golden Girl | Oscar Diaz

Part I: Pero Ya No

"So like," Neni says, hovering while Oscar cooks meat on the grill, blinking at him innocently when he takes a step back and nearly topples over her, "are you. Working right now, or what?"

It's late August, a dry heat for once. Neni's nursing a ginger ale, in a cropped top and  high waisted shorts. When Oscar asked her what her tía said when she told her she was pregnant, her whole face puckered up. It's past  lunchtime, though, and Neni said she hadn't had anything besides toast to eat—"This morning sickness shit is wack, bro,"—and Oscar's been wanting to grill for a minute. Inside, Cesar's moping; Oscar's pretty sure it's because Monse's left for school.

He says, a little dry, "I'll give you one guess."

"Retail sucks anyway," she says, shrugging, "trust me, I was a cashier for a  summer, I've never been homicidal like that before." She puts her hand  up, finger in his face before he can even open his mouth: "Don't say  it."

"Get outta my face," he says, but moves around her to grab his beer from the table where they've got all their stuff.

Neni puts one hand over her eyes, shielding them from the sun, and asks, "How long will it take for them to cook?"

"Like ten minutes."

"It's all gotta be well done, doesn't it," she says, dropping into one of his chairs, sprawled like she owns the place. She's pouting a little bit.  It's been a little over a week since he ran into her at the grocery store and then stood arguing with her over the Google search results of  unsafe pregnancy foods. He knows better than to think everything on the internet is true; he just wasn't interested in arguing over whether or not home-made hummus was allowed, and did he know how to make that, by  the way?

He does. Today she's content to snack on the roasted garlic hummus he whipped up for her five minutes beforehand, chip crumbs already all over her mustard-yellow shirt. He thinks this might be like having a sister, not that he's thinking too hard about it.

She's come by twice to drag him out to lunch, claiming the morning sickness is starting to kick in and the smell of coffee makes it worse. She didn't appreciate his asking her if she was still drinking it, but she also didn't put up a fuss when he tried ordering their food for them both.

Old habits die hard—doesn't see the point in any girl he's out with having to talk to a waiter. He's pretty sure that makes him a machista, not that he'll stop. Maybe he thinks it's a little romantic. That's his business.

The second time, a few days ago, he asked her why she was coming around to see him. She hadn't even let him pay for their first lunch, and maybe he was confused. She shrugged, across the table at them at Dwayne's, Cesar making a face when he saw them walk in  together during his shift. She went in on two sandwiches that day.

She shrugged, pausing in her chewing only to take a sip from her drink. He remembers the stare-off they had when she tried to order a Coke. She looked away from him for a split second, eyes sweeping over the restaurant like second nature, before looking at him again. Her voice didn't quite waver, but he could tell she was putting on a front when she told him, "I don't really know anyone 'round here. Angelica's working full-time and I'm not really interested in becoming her man's new best friend."

"Settling for mine then?" Oscar was pleased when it made her grin.

"Yeah, something like that," she said, and then, "lunch is on you today, homie," and that was that.

Oscar can't remember the last time he was cool with someone who wasn't affiliated. Mario, maybe, but even then that was a stretch. They know each other through their kid brothers, get along decently. Angelica he doesn't know half as well; she has the slightest bit of a reputation  when it came to Santos, not that it stopped her from getting to Mario, clearly.