Chapter 19: Sinful Mornings and Video Calls

Morning sunlight crept in through the living room window, brushing gently against the furniture like the universe whispering, "Come on, get up. Your drama isn’t over yet."

I groaned softly, only half awake from a sleep way too comfortable to be called a couch nap. My phone buzzed loudly from under a pillow, the vibration cutting through my foggy, slightly-hungover brain like a chainsaw. I fumbled across the cushions and dragged the phone out.

The screen lit up.

Mamá.

Absolutely

Video call.

You bet.

I blinked against the blinding sun, muttered a curse, and tried to shift into something resembling a decent position. My back was pressed up against a chest far too firm to belong to a normal human, and Reagan's strong arm was still draped lazily over my waist like some off-duty personal bodyguard.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered, trying to roll away.

But the man just grumbled, half-snore, half-sin, and pulled me closer, resting his chin on the top of my head like we were starring in some indie film about doomed lovers.

With slow, strategic movements, I managed to flip over and face the camera before answering Mamá’s call.

And, as always, she skipped any kind of greeting and came in like a full-blown hurricane.

“Grettitaaaa, hija, I’ve been calling you since last night! Dominic hasn’t responded to a single message! Not even an emoji! Does he think I don’t have feelings? And Ruan! Don’t even get me started on Ruan. He won’t tell me where he is and instead sends me a video of dancing kittens and says, ‘Mama, this is better than family therapy.’ That boy needs an exorcism!”

I blinked, trying to focus on her face taking up the entire screen. Her curls were tied up in a high bun, her red lipstick suspiciously perfect for this early in the morning. She was pissed. Which meant I was trapped for at least the next twenty-five minutes.

“I know I haven’t been the perfect mother. But I’m still y’all mother! I breastfed all three of you! I didn’t sleep for three months because Dominic was allergic to every formula except the one from Switzerland! And now he doesn’t even text me back. Not one message! But you know who still sleeps in bed when his son is sick? Your father. Papá! He said he’s exhausted because... do you know why? Because he stayed up all night with the new cat!”

I squinted. “New? Again?”

“Ugly orange cat from the shelter! He named it Pablo. Pablo! And now Pablo sleeps on my pillow, and my husband sleeps on the couch! Is this the kind of life a good Mexican wife deserves?!”

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh.

“And you kids? Not a single one of you lifts a finger to help. Grettita, I don’t even know how you're doing! And Ruan...oh, Ruan! He’s like a piece of bad news wearing expensive cologne! I love him, of course I do, but God knows I also love tequila and I can’t have that every day.”

I nodded respectfully. “Mamá, I—”

“No! Don’t interrupt me! I’m not finished. I canceled my rhinoplasty consultation for you three! Do you know how long I thought about that? Ten years! I wanted Jennifer Lopez’s nose and now I’m still stuck looking like a jalapeño pepper!”

I slapped a hand over my mouth, tears threatening to spill from holding in laughter. Behind me, Reagan shifted slightly and, without even opening his eyes, pressed a kiss to my shoulder.

Terrible timing.

“What was that?” Mamá’s voice sharpened. Her eyes narrowed. “Did I just see someone behind you? Was that a man’s hand?!”

“I’m... not alone,” I answered.

She leaned into the camera like she could smell the sin through the screen. “Grettita! Are you sleeping with a man? Out of wedlock? In the morning? Santa Madre de Dios! Jesus is weeping!”

“Mamá... we didn’t do anything. We just... slept. On the couch.”

“Slept? With that chest pressed up against your back? Gretta, I birthed you. I know when you're lying. That chest could make a nun rethink her vows!”

I went silent. Reagan chuckled softly behind me, and I could feel the laughter vibrating through his chest. He wasn’t even pretending to be asleep anymore.

“Is that... Reagan?” Mamá practically shrieked.

I closed my eyes. “Yes.”

“Oh no. No, no, no! Does he have the Holy Spirit? Because if not, you should not be sleeping with him, Grettita! I know he’s handsome, and may God bless that face, but he has a mother like Madeline. And a grandmother colder than my freezer!”

“I don’t need a sermon,” I muttered, hanging my head.

“You need holy water! You need a Rosary and tea made from guava leaves!”

Reagan finally sat up, resting his back against the couch, one arm still wrapped casually around my waist.

“Good morning, Señora Domingo,” he said with a sinful little smile, straight into the camera.

I wanted to die.

Mamá let out a dramatic sigh. “He even says good morning with that sinful voice. Lord, take me now.”

“This call has gone on long enough,” I said, trying to hit the end button.

“Wait! Don’t hang up! I haven’t cursed him yet!”

Click.

Call ended.

I exhaled, flopped back down onto the pillow.

Reagan kissed the top of my head, laughing softly. “I like your mom.”

“She hates you.”

He nodded. “Incredible woman.”

I grabbed a pillow and smacked him lightly in the face. He just laughed harder.