#blue scoops

Chucho Peña. Little Cattle Farm. 956-458-2384.

Your hand has hovered over the landline more times than you can remember. You aren’t sure of the reason for your hesitation– you crave that warm feeling you had when Chucho sat in your kitchen, smiling and talking as if he had no better place to be. And he’d made it clear that you’re welcome to call him at any time, that he was waiting for you. But, perhaps your nervous system outweighs your heart, remembering the emptiness that followed. Those alarms of self-preservation blare loudly, identifying even the potential similarity between your relationship with Chucho and your grandfather as a threat.

Has your heart not been fractured enough? Has the grief not settled itself deep enough? Has it not swallowed you whole and changed you so much that you left the only love left in this world for you?

The battle takes a week.

Back and forth, many internal talks with yourself. Bargaining, reasoning, crying. In the end, you somehow convince your brain to believe that you’re doing this for him. That he said you owed him dinner and who are you to argue with a man who’s been doing you and your family repeated favors for years now? Your hand shakes as it hovers over the phone, trembling so violently when you start to push the buttons that you have to start over a few times. It feels dramatic– it's a simple phone call. But, it holds so much promise, it opens another door that you were sure you never wanted to open again. The line rings and rings and rings and you’re just about to hang up when someone picks up the phone.

“Peña.”

“Hey, um, Chucho. It’s me. Blue, I mean, the woman from the house that you take care of. Are you free for dinner anytime soon?” You cringe at the shaky sound of your voice, waiting for his reply.

He chuckles at the way your words rush out, “Sure, mija, how’s Saturday?”

“Saturday’s good.”

He gives you directions from your house to the ranch and bids you goodbye. Saturday comes quickly and despite the nerves that invade your stomach, there’s an excitement in you. The road that you’re winding down slowly but surely crumbles beneath your tires, turning from a smooth road to bumpy gravel to dirt. As it does you see miles of green fields and buildings in different various states of condition. All of it is fenced in, and in the distance, you see the river.

Chucho’s waiting for you on the porch and to your surprise, he scoops you into a hug that is brief but tight enough to convey just how happy he is to see you. Though, if the hug wasn’t enough of an indicator then maybe his smile is. He guides you inside, giving you a quick walk down the hall to show you the bathroom before he leads you back to the front of the house. The living room and kitchen are separated by a small dining space that is a round table and four chairs. Fit for a family.

He gestures, “What’s mine is yours. I haven’t cooked much in a long time, hope there’s no cobwebs.”

You chuckle, shaking your head, “Nothing a little soap and water can’t fix. You go sit, I’ll take care of things here.”

With those words, Chucho leaves you to it, going to putter around the house.

You had decided on roast chicken when you’d gone to the store. You went as soon as you hung up the phone with Chucho, knowing that if you’d given yourself any more time to think about this dinner you’d cancel and avoid him. It would drive you to do what you’ve already done, leaving this place behind. Except this time there would be nowhere to go. Nowhere with even the traces of those that once loved.

Once you’ve got a soap mixture of water and an all-purpose cleaner on one side of the porcelain sink, you give everything a quick cleaning. It’s a practiced routine– cleanest to dirtiest– starting with an array of dishes you’ll need, the counters, the stove. There’s not much grim or grease on anything, just a light layer of dust.

This recipe is reminiscent, its muscle memory, and though it forcibly reminds you of your grandfather, you attempt to find comfort in it. It's one of the first things he’d ever taught you to make. As you cut fresh herbs, rosemary, thyme, and parsley, the woodsy smell takes you back to that memory. You see yourself, small, no older than 10, standing at the counter. Your grandfather’s hands guide your own as you slowly chop. It's easy for you to get lost in the past with the ease of your hand, mixing the herbs into butter, spatchcocking the chicken like its second nature.

For the first time in a long time, you feel secureenough to sit in that memory because you’re not alone. You’re with Chucho and the last time you’d been together was the easiest moment of your life since your grandfather passed.

But sit in it you do as you take your time. You notice the smile on your grandfather’s face as he watched you grate your first clove or garlic, the patience in his tone as you got distracted slathering the chicken with the butter mixture. The pride in the sit of his shoulders as you removed the perfectly cooked chicken from the oven, and plated everything yourself at much insistence. How it seemed both your hearts swelled when you sat down at the dinner table beside him. “Dinner’s ready,” You murmur as you do the same in the coziness of Chucho’s kitchen.

“Thank you for this, looks wonderful. Smells even better,” Chucho says with a smile as he joins you from the living.

“It’s no problem at all— but don’t give me credit just yet, you’ve gotta taste it,” You tease as you dole out servings of chicken and potatoes and veggies to the both of you.

By the way his eyes widen after the first bite, it’s safe to say he thinks it tastes as good as it smells.

After lulling into a relaxed silence, Chucho asks, “So, what’d you do before making your way down here?”

“I’m a baker. Was a baker. Want to be a baker, I don’t know,” You give him a sheepish smile before looking down at your plate.

“This isn’t a test, mija, just two people talking. You can relax. What do you plan to do here?”

You aren’t sure why you feel like you owe him an explanation. Maybe because you’re searching for one yourself. It's mortifying to tell someone that you’ve uprooted your comfortable life for the unknown without reasoning. There is reasoning beyond your simple words to Oliver– buried and unmoving–but the proper words escape you, sat just on the tip of your tongue.

You try again, saying, “I hope to get a job at a bakery but if not…I’m not really sure. There’s not much purpose in my life right now.”

“Everybody’s got purpose,” He insists.

You shrug, not completely convinced. What was your purpose right now? To be swallowed whole by grief and loneliness? To leave the only love you’ve ever known? To live the rest of your days living by yourself in your grandparents’ home, melting in the sweltering Texas heat?

There are worse things. You could be sick like your father, finding life bearable only with a sweet high coursing through your veins. You could’ve never known love. You could be dead. But none of that is truly purpose— the more you think about it the less you believe you’ve ever had one.

“I don’t know, I’m not so sure,” You muse softly, your throat growing slightly thick.

Chucho hears the change in your tone, looking over at you with concern, “Sometimes others are the only ones who can see our purpose.”

You narrow your eyes at him skeptically, “Let me guess, you think you can see mine.”

“Crystal clear,” He says simply, his expression completely deadpan before he takes another bite of his food.

You don’t ask him what it is. Your gut tells you he wouldn’t tell you even if you beg. You’re not sure you’re prepared to know anyways.

Sometimes others are the only ones who can see our purpose.

As the weeks pass, you and Chucho find a rhythm in your companionship. He makes sure to have the tea you like in his cabinet and to ask about your day. You ask him about the ranch, and catalog the old movies and shows he watches on his tiny little box tv. He tells you a little bit about the town and the activities here which are lots of block parties and bingo— not your scene. There’s a lot of silence and without the spin of a record, you can get in your head, though most of the time you can lose yourself in the cooking. Eventually, you build up the courage to ask him about bringing some music when you finish dinner one night.

“The next time I’m here…do you mind if I bring my record player? It’s just jazz, nothing distasteful,” You add quickly, hoping it’ll make your odds better.

He waves you off, before taking the plate you’re offering, “Bring whatever you’d like, mija.”

Things are starting to feel…well they’re starting to feel like home.

****

It’s just a couple of weeks later that with the help of Chucho’s badgering, you build up the courage to go into one of the bakeries you’d visited in town before. Sam’s Bakery felt oddly familiar when you stepped inside. It was small, cozy, and had the typical Southern love for white wood finishes all around. There were pops of color everywhere, giving it an almost retro look. The selection of treats was small, but that didn’t bother you, it just meant that they were focused on a craft, pouring their hearts into a curated menu. It’s what you prefer instead of the high-paced, stressed-out reality that was working for a well-known bakery that couldn’t pick a specialty– like the one at home.

Jo—the owner—is tall and lanky, her blonde hair pulled up into a bun just like it was the first time you’d walked in. When you walk up to the counter and practically beg for the job, you see something glimmer in her storm colored eyes.

“I can do you one better. What do you think of this place? Its runnable isn’t it?” She gestures dramatically to the space around her.

“Runnable?” You say lamely, brows furrowed in confusion.

Jo’s grin just widens, eyes brimming with mirth, “Why don’t you flip that open sign to close and we can talk about it.”

When you look to the door for the sign, you realize that you’re the only one here. Slowly, you do as she says, but not without voice your continued confusion, “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Well, Celia and I have been thinking for a long time about packing up and living out on the road. We’re not getting any younger. But I’ll only give you the spiel if you’re open to being the owner and running this place yourself.”

“The spiel?” You squeak out.

“Inticied?”

Even though the idea is terrifying, you find yourself nodding. Is she— she couldn’t be implying that she wants to sell you this bakery? You? A woman off the street that she’s known for all of 5 minutes. A woman who moved to destroy any chances of her past life flourishing. Well— perhaps that is the kind of woman who might need to take a chance no matter how fearful.

She clasps her hands together, raising her brows, “I knew you would want to hear it. I can just see something in you, I could tell the first time you walked in.”

You sit in Jo’s office over coffee and sweets, hearing her out and you see some of yourself reflected in her words. She loves the bakery but there’s something else out there for her. She offers you a cigarette as the two of you go back and forth, and you decline, watching as she gracefully lights one for herself.

It all happens really slowly— or least it feels like it does. The words pour out of her thick like syrup, your brain going fuzzy as you listen. Could you really? Could you do this on your own? Have you ever done anything on your own? Leaving. Moving here.

“And you’re sure?”

“About getting out of here? Hell yeah. We’ve been here all our lives,” She gestures around the room, the trail of smoke from her cigarette wafting through the air.

“No, about me. You’re sure?”

Her eyes warm despite their cool color, and she places a hand over yours, squeezing it gently, “There’s something about you Blue that just fits here. I have a feeling you were made for it. I swear, I knew it as soon as you walked in the door, call it god or the universe or whatever. But, I knew.”

“What if I’m not?”

“You are.”

Sometimes others are the only ones who can see our purpose.

> chapter 4

Those words blink in your head like a gas station neon sign, blinding, annoying and completely unwanted.

He was old. It was time.

You knew it was coming but not like this. Just like that, the man who knew you best was gone and now it feels like your lungs are filled to the brim with water. You should’ve been there, should’ve sucked it up, and gone over to help him shovel his driveway. The reason you two were fighting has been dead since you were a teen, and now you’re left to add this to your pile of internal bullshit. Another impossible thing to wade through.

He’s old. He was old. And now he’s just gone.

He was old and it was time but did it have to be like this? Did it have to be out in the cold all by himself? He deserved better than that. He deserved the world, he deserved a granddaughter that would’ve helped him instead of holding a grudge after all he’d been through.

“Ma’am do you want to see him one last time?” Jerry, the man that’s in charge of the arrangements, gives you that warm smile he’s so good at. Sometimes it makes your skin crawl, and sometimes it's a comfort.

This time it's the former, because of course you don’t. Seeing the empty shell of your grandfather sounds like a sick and twisted dream, but you’re all he has left and he deserves respect paid. Somewhere inside of you, you find the strength to say yes but you don’t even recognize your voice.

“We can give you a few more days before you decide how you’d like to handle this.”

Shaking your head, your hand falls to your purse, ready to get this all over with, “No, that’s okay. I want him cremated.”

“Usually we have people give it a few days before-”

You cut him off, mouth setting into a thin line, “I know what I want, we planned for this. I want him cremated.”

Jerry whinces, before smoothing his face back into the warm smile, “Yes ma’am.”

You handle all the payment and paperwork with robotic, empty movements, you mind millions of miles away. When you make it out the car with a manila envelope full of documents, Oliver, your boyfriend is waiting for you.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Please take me home,” You whisper softly as you sit just on the edge of losing it again.

He doesn’t say anything else, just starts the journey to your shared apartment. He doesn’t reach out to comfort you when the tears start to fall, and it's no one’s fault but your own. You’ve been snarky in your grief, nitpicking every single gesture of care he tries to bestow on you. Grief makes you unkind because you’ve never held it quite like this before. It digs its sharp claws into you and makes you lash out.

The process of going through grandfather’s things will be lengthy and time consuming. With little thought and much haste you quit your job as a pastry chef to free up time. In hindsight, you should’ve been more gentle with yourself, eased into it, but you needed something that reminds you of him to latch on to. Through all of the sorting and compiling of his assets and bank accounts, you find out he has a healthy savings —all yours now— and owns a house in your grandmother’s home town, Laredo, Texas. The house is yours now too, and when your mind immediately thinks of escaping there you pack the papers back up and avoid them.

You’re disappointed with yourself because when you thought of escaping, it was alone, without Oliver. And with that thought came relief. Oliver’s been nothing but good to you, he’s not perfect, but he tries and there’s not much more you can ask for. There’s not much more that you would ask for, because its not fair when you’re treating him like this.

As the weeks pass, you glance at the box the papers are in every once and a while, longingly, guiltily. It only takes a month for you to pull them out again, and when you do, you accept your fate.

It’s time to go.

You’re not in the right headspace to be in a relationship, and you know that it's time when the idea of leaving doesn’t even scare you. It makes you feel terrible— sick to your stomach, but not afraid.

Oliver’s trying and so are you, but it's not working. Since your grandfather died it feels like your relationship is a failed handshake that both parties know but can’t execute.

“Oliver?” You ask as the two of you sit down for dinner.

It's another crockpot meal of chicken and rice and broth. The thought of even getting out the can opener or chopping up a vegetable sounds exhausting. Everything, even feeling angry or sinking into the sadness, feels exhausting.

He gazes at you, looking tired with a voice to match, “Yeah, sweetheart?”

Its now or never. If you don’t tell him now the two of you will drown in unhappiness and resent each other. You don’t want, for yourself, sure, but most importantly for Oliver. He deserves happiness even if you don’t think you do.

You set down your fork and take a deep breath, unable to look at him, “I have to leave.”

“What?”

“This isn’t working, we both know that this isn’t working.”

There’s a lull, a deep cove of silence that makes you feel like time has stopped before he speaks again, “Is there any way that I can change your mind?”

It feels cold, but you can’t help the humorless chuckle that leaves your throat, “Do you actually want to?”

“I love you, even in all of this.”

Your throat goes thick from his words, god you don’t deserve him. Sometimes you wonder if you ever have, or if the green jadedness growing inside has earned you a life full of sorrow. A naive life, thinking you’ll have the picket fence and nuclear family while in reality it’s all just an illusion. You’re not even sure you want it anymore, not that it matters, you’re convinced you’ll never have it. And while you love him too and always will, not like this. It can’t be like this.

“Oliver…I don’t think that you should.”

“It's not a choice,” He murmurs and there's defeat written all over him. When he looks at you, eyes sad, the tears in your eyes finally fall.

You take his head into your hands, trying to desperately make him understand, “Neither is me leaving.”

There’s no more explicit talk about the breakup after that besides you giving him a move out date and the address to the house. He helps you pack and it makes you feel even more like shit. He’s sweet, accommodating. You wish that he would yell at you, that he would tell you how much of a bitch you’re being but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t because he’s Oliver. When you pack up your truck, he gives you a tight hug, tells you he loves you. You hug him just as tightly, promise to call, tell him that you love him so much, that you’re sorry.

When you drive away you feel like you’re rotting from the inside, emotion festering beyond its expiration date inside of you. You’ll take your time making your way to Laredo, hoping that somewhere along the way you’ll find some sense of happiness again.

> chapter 1

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You set off into town, wanting to get some decor and supplies for the house, food to stock the fridge and pantry. It’ll also give you an opportunity to scope out the local bakeries and cafes, and decide which ones you think you want to apply to if they're hiring. There has to be at least one that’ll be a good fit, but you aren’t in any rush with the sum of money in your bank account and minimal bills to pay. There’s a desperate necessity to get this right– if things go poorly here you aren’t sure what you’ll do with the rest of your life. If you’re being completely honest with yourself, you aren’t too sure now, but you’re doing the best you can to find a path.

This little town–as your grandfather had described it– has more to it than you anticipated. You spend the entire day in one thrift store, combing through things sold and forgotten in hopes to find things that call out to you. And when the shop closes, you head to the grocery store picking up the necessities with a plan to go back into town tomorrow.

Same as the day before, in each place you visit, a name continues to show up: Javier Peña. Signs, flyers, banisters all praising him, saying how much of a hero he is for his work with the DEA. It’s vaguely familiar, you’d seen all the Pablo Escobar stuff on the news but it hadn’t piqued your interest, your exposure to the effects of drugs ended with the death of your grandmother and you didn’t plan to go back. When you ask a cashier about it while at another thrift store, she gushes about Javier, eyes glazing over as she clutches the money in her hands close to her heart.

She looks ridiculous and you can assume that he must be incredibly handsome with the doe eyed look on her face.

She says after spewing incredibly too long, “I heard he may be coming home soon since they’ve taken down that other cartel. The Cali or whatever. I hope they throw a parade so we can all meet him.”

While you’re curious to know about the town hero you figure there isn’t much to learn while he’s not here. “Hopefully,” You agree with her, before gathering your new knick knacks and heading home.

You’re just about to start on some lunch when there’s a gentle knock at your door. You set down the loaf of bread, wiping your hands on your apron as you make your way to the door. Upon looking through the peephole you see a short man with tan skin and a grey beard. There’s a rather large hat on his head and a pair of aviators perched on his worn face.

“Hi, how can I help you?” You ask through the screen door, a polite smile on your face.

He doesn’t smile back but his expression isn’t unkind, “I’m Chucho. Chucho Peña. Been coming by here and making sure things stay tame.”

You recognize that name, your mind immediately flashing to the cashier in the grocery store, ranting and raving about that DEA agent, Javier Peña. It doesn’t feel right to ask him anything personal yet, you’ve just met the man, and you squash your curiosity and give into your surprise.

“You’ve been doing this by yourself?” You ask incredulously.

He shrugs, “It’s not too much, just some basic maintenance.”

His nonchalance pulls a laugh from your throat, and you open the screen door, stepping out onto the porch with him.

“I really appreciate that Chucho, I don’t think my grandparents thought about what would happen to this place once they left. I’m (Y/N), some people call me Blue. It’s great to meet you,” You offer your hand and he shakes it with a firm grip.

“Blue,” He repeats softly, a smile spreading across his face for just a moment. “I can keep coming by here if you’d like?”

“I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“You didn’t, I offered,” He counters and you’re grinning again.

He’s stubborn, reminds you of your grandfather and for the first time since he passed, it doesn’t hurt to think about him. You don’t shy away from it, or having this man that reminds you of him around. In fact it feels nice— lighter.

“At least let me pay you.”

Chucho shakes his head, hands up in protest, “Oh, no, mija, for free only.”

You narrow your eyes at him as you formulate a rebuttal, “What if I paid you with food?”

“That I think I’d be okay with.”

“Yeah? I thought so. I’ll make some lunch and leave the door open in case you need to come in. If you need anything just holler.”

Chucho has the entire lawn to mow, so you decide to make more than just sandwiches for lunch. You’ve bought ingredients for a caprese pasta salad as well, and you put on a pot of water to boil the noodles, taking your time to finely chop up basil and garlic. Every once and a while as you work, you take a glance out the window, watch as the man diligently pushes the lawn mower with seemingly no problem. By the time he’s entering the house, you’ve plated his sandwich and some of the pasta salad, a tall glass of frosty lemonade to accompany.

The smile that lights up his face and his soft murmur of thanks hits you in the gut, and you reflect on how much you love taking care of others.

In your grief you'd forgotten the warmth that accompanies fulfilling the needs of another. Your grandfather had died and somehow your nurturing spirit had gone with him, a primary recipient of your love and care gone. And in his absence, that role had been shifted to Oliver, all you were able to do it's take and take and take.

There’s another thing to apologize to Ollie for.

Chucho makes himself at home at your kitchen island, propping up on one of the stools you’d snagged at a tiny thrift store yesterday as he takes his first bite. There’s something comfortable about him, and there’s no hesitation when you pull up a stool across from him, joining him in the silence.

But even in the livable silence, your mind has a plethora of questions to ask this man who showed up at your door ready to show you a kindness you don’t deserve.

You keep your eyes trained on a cherry tomato in front of you, rolling it around on your plate, “I know this is a little personal to ask when we’re just meeting but did you know my grandparents?”

He hums thoughtfully, choosing his words carefully before answering, “I knew of your grandmother. Her family, your family, was well known around the community— goes back generations. Your grandmother…well you knew her better than I did.”

There’s something unspoken in his reply and you realize that your grandmother's battles with substance abuse must've started here. You’re not sure how you feel about that, undecided if it makes you angrier that none of you ever had a chance or if the small glimmers of compassion you hold for her grow deeper. She’d been so young, so naive, so vulnerable. Your grandfather loved her anyway. Even with your resentment, you find something beautiful in his willingness to give himself to her despite it all.

It’s strange to not have known anyone but your father and grandparents. You wonder where it’d went wrong, how she’d ended up the way she did.

“She made some not so great decisions. I’m guessing she didn’t live up to my family's reputation?” You dare a glance at him, catching the way he shrugs.

“From what I know everyone just wanted better for her.”

“She was a stubborn thing, I’m sure that just made her rebel more.”

“Despite her actions or struggle, your family name still means a lot in this town,” He reassures but it does anything but.

You’re not here to carry on your family’s legacy, whatever it may be. You’re here to rediscover yourself, to find out if there’s anything in this world that you feel is truly for you. Optics and family duties aren’t what you signed up for, not that you’d know the first thing about what that looks like.

“That’s a lot of pressure,” You murmur mostly to yourself but loud enough for him to hear.

“It can be our little secret,” He smiles again, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Its infectious and you can’t help but smile back at him, “I really appreciate that Chucho.”

He sets down his fork on his now clear plate, finishing the rest of his lemonade as he stands with a stretch, “Well I’ll get going but here’s my card. I run the ranch out on the other edge of town.”

“All by yourself?” You ask again as you pluck the card of his hand, and this time it warrants a chuckle from him.

“It’s not much work but my son should be home soon to help out.”

“Javier, right? I’ve seen his name around on flyers and signs. The town really loves him.”

You notice the way he stiffens when you mention the flyers and praise, and curiosity blooms in you once again. But you’ve heckled this man enough, and have plenty of time to get to know him and potentially his son better. In fact, you find yourself looking forward to it.

“That’s my Javi,” The obvious affection for his son rings clear in his tone, and your heart squeezes in your chest.

“I’ll let you know if I need anything else, but maybe I could make you dinner out of appreciation for all those times you took care of the house?” You offer as you walk him to the door.

“You’ve got my card. Give me a call.”

“I will. Take care, Chucho.”

“You too.”

You busy yourself immediately with the kitchen, feeling an unwanted swell of emotion once Chucho’s gone.

Loneliness. It hits harder than it has in days.

Being alone is what you need right now you’ve come to terms with that. Missing Oliver and the phone calls you have with him don’t elicit this level of emptiness but you let that realization go, not ready to open up that can of worms any further. You’ve been so painfully lonely, and spending time ever with a stranger felt like a breath of fresh air. Some of that has to do with how isolated you are.

It’s only 4 in the afternoon once you finish prepping more food and cleaning up the kitchen but as you slide some tupperware into the fridge you pull out a bottle of wine, not even bothering with a glass. Lingering near the hallway, you shut off the lights, keeping your eyes trained on the box of your grandparents before letting out a sigh and heading towards your bedroom. Taking the first sips you ignore that scratching feeling inside you.

Another time. You’ll handle it all another time.

> chapter 3

When you open the door Javier can’t help but think about how beautiful you look. It’s almost all he thinks about when he’s with you— that and this is all he will have. Longing looks, favors, and dinner’s with you and his father. This is all it’ll ever be because he won’t do this to you.

“Javier? You ready?” You say a little breathlessly, his intense gaze warming your cheeks.

He clears his throat, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, “Yeah, you?”

“Mhmm. Coffee,” You press the warm to-go cup into his hand similarly to the last time he picked you up.

And just like last time, when he takes a sip it’s made perfectly.

The drive to the record store is 20 minutes, it sits on the other edge of town and the ride starts out awkward as he fiddles with the radio dial, trying to find something to fill the silence. He quickly learns that even with a melody in the background that his heart is beating so loudly he’s afraid you can hear it.

God he hates this.

Not being in control, confidence so low it's scraping the gates of hell— neither are something he’s not used to. In Colombia he had to be born of those things to get shit done, to simply stay alive. But his usual smoke and mirrors of a badge and sex appeal don’t work here with you. He doesn’t know how to keep you at bay, and he’s sure as hell doesn’t want to. But he will. He will do this right even if it kills him.

“So why Blue?” He asks suddenly, the burn to fill the silence becoming too much. He feels your eyes on him immediately, and tries to picture what expression’s on your face. Probably surprised, with your eyebrows arched and eyes wide, your plush mouth hanging open.

He tacks on quickly, “I know that you’re always wearing something blue. A shirt, a dress, a bandana. But why the nickname?

You continue to gape at him for a moment, a little in shock. He noticed that? He’s been…looking at you? The thought makes that familiar ache at the apex of your thighs blossom, the heat he always brings to your skin rises a few degrees.

“Oh,” You say finally, clearing your throat as you look down and run your hands over the blue blouse that you’re wearing today. “It’s my favorite color…it was my grandfather’s too.”

His face falls, and he can't help but look over at you, “I shouldn’t have asked, I didn't mean to bring that up for you.”

When did this become so hard for him? He’s always cared for the women he interacted with, no matter their status or occupation, a soft spot created by his mother and the way she raised him. But this? He’s drowning in you, struggling to stay afloat in a simple conversation. Stumbling every time he tries a gesture he thinks will pan out as caring or charming.

“It’s fine,” You reassure him, and you have the urge to reach out to touch him— instead, you grip your coffee cup tighter.

“I’m sorry.”

“It's alright, Javier, really.”

More silence. This was not going well, and you can’t help but be disappointed. The back and forth between you and Javier makes no sense to you. He takes a leap and then several steps back, leaving you to chase after him. Doesn’t he know that you’ll take him as he is? You guess not, you haven’t said it in so many words but he has to feel doesn’t he?

“Thank you for bringing me here. It means a lot,” You murmur as he parks the car outside the store.

It’s simple and small, a hand painted sign that reads ‘Frankie’s’ hung up above the floor to ceiling windows. Even from the car you can see rows upon rows of records.

“Don’t mention it. Good to go?”

“Sure.”

The way you light up when you see the jazz section in Frankie’s is better than all the wonders in the world to Javier. You let out a little squeal, looking up at him with such a genuine excitement that he can’t help but grin back at you. It's even better to hear you ramble, plying him with information about artists and yourself without him having to say it word. This feels the most you, like you've finally forgotten about whatever makes you nervous around him and let go.

“My grandfather got me into records, you know. It was his thing, he hated tapes. He was a good cook, a terrible baker which is where I come in, but he's taught me everything I know about proper cooking. And every time he would cook for us, which was every night, he’d have a record going. We’d dance in the kitchen sometimes together. It felt like he had hundreds of them, he had at least one for every week of the year. But it was incredible, he was incredible.”

“He sounds like he was a lot of fun. I’m sure you miss him very much.”

You're thumbing through a section, pulling out a record that has Chet Baker sprawled across it in white letters, “He taught me to live, regardless of the circumstances. We were dealt a pretty shitty hand with my grandmother but all things considered, he found happiness.”

“You had a lot to do with that happiness I bet.”

You glance up at him, breath catching at his proximity. When had he gotten so close?

“You think so?” You ask softly, your gaze distracted when his tongue sweeps over his bottom lip.

He nudges your elbow with his and quirks his eyebrows at you, “I know so.”

The way he's looking at you almost makes your knees weak. Eyes glittering, his mouth slack, his staring into your eyes with an intensity that steals the rest of your breath. Your brain is panicking at you, pleading with you to tell him how you feel.

“Javier, I-”

You're interrupted by a saleswoman with big hair and red lips, “You two need any help? Oh, Chet Baker. Perfect for you lovebirds.”

“We’re not lovebirds. She just, uh, works for my dad. I’m doing her a favor-” Javier tries to explain, much to your disappointment, but the woman interrupts him too.

He’s right, you aren’t lovebirds but there’s something inside you that hurts at his denial. You’re grateful this woman stepped in before you’d made a fool of yourself.

“Javier Peña as I live and breathe,” The woman claps her hand over her chest dramatically.

“Hola, Elena,” He sighs, obviously exasperated but it goes right over her head.

He wants to know what you were going to say. It looked important— intimate even.

You squeeze his arm with an apologetic smile before leaving the two of them to catch up. You need to look at the models of record players they have anyway, it's what you came for. Javier doesn’t find you until you’re checking out, whistling at the pretty penny you’re spending.

“It’s worth it,” You grin up at him, eyes bright and it takes all his willpower not to take you in his arms and kiss you.

The ride back is more silent than the ride going, the two of you unknowingly thinking about the same thing.

What were you going to say to him? And what even is it? It’s always easy to feel what you do for Javier, he taps into the rawest part of you desire, the softest part of your heart. But putting it into words? It seems an impossible task.

By the time he drives you home you still aren’t sure about what you want to say. As always, he walks you to the door, insisting on carrying your bags up to the door.

When you get the door unlocked you turn towards him, hands reaching for the bags, “You can ask me about him. It doesn’t…it’s alright if you’re curious about him, about me.”

His eyes drop to the ground before he focuses them on you again, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Well, I’ll, uh, I’ll see you at dinner tomorrow, Blue,” He murmurs as the bags slip from his hands unto yours.

You can't help but smile at him. Javier doesn't know if you smiled this much since he met you, and his returning smile spans his entire face at the thought of being the reason for that.

“See ya, Javi.”

Back in his truck, he lights a cigarette immediately. He's a goner for you. Hook, line and sinker.