Jesse padded down the wood stairs in bare feet dressed in a T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, night-lights in key locations leading the way. Who had just rung the doorbell at ten o’clock on this early October evening? And it was Sunday to boot. In the Pérez-Simonsen household, bedtime was strictly scheduled, and Jesse was annoyed to be pulled from his bed just as he was settling into his routine of listening to the lulling voice on his sleep app. He flicked on lights as he reached the bottom landing, his toes touching a cool tiled floor until they brushed against the warmth of a thick wool runner leading from the hallway to the front door. Another ding-dong sounded throughout the house.
“Yeah, yeah, hold on,” he mumbled as he ran his hand through his thick dark hair to smooth it out.
At the age of forty-two, he lived alone with his son in the rambling thirty-two-hundred-square-foot house since the death of his husband six months before. Lately he’d contemplated moving into a smaller one-story, but he’d barely found the emotional strength to put David’s clothes into boxes and donate them to charity. Some of his husband’s jackets and shirts still hung in the closet. While finding a house more suitable to his widowed lifestyle seemed logical, heart and logic didn’t always coincide. And this was where they’d raised their ten-year-old son, Matthew. He was settled in school, and with his autism—as mild as it was—Jesse would not uproot him. With David gone, he would move only if he found something in the same area so that his son would have a sense of continuity.
“Who is it?” Matthew called from the landing above. He leaned over the railing, his mop of blond hair framing his face—with eyes the color of a clear summer sky that reminded Jesse daily of David.
“Go back to bed, m’hijo. I’m going to see.”
Matthew rubbed his eyes, turned, and then trudged back to the room marked with a sign bearing his name in bold red letters, like a “No Trespassing” sign. Jesse reached the front door, pressed the button that turned on the porch lights, and then peered through the peephole.
“What the—” he muttered when he recognized the figure on the other side. He swung the door open. “Gloria, what are you doing here?”
“Hi, Uncle Jesse.”
His fifteen-year-old niece stood there, a backpack slung over her shoulder and a small carry-on at her side. Her long dark hair framed an oval face punctuated by two espresso-colored eyes that almost seemed too big for her countenance. Owl eyes, Jesse had once remarked when she was only nine. She was dressed in jeans, and a denim jacket framed a black T-shirt emblazoned with the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
“Come in, come in,” he said.
She stepped into the foyer, and he hugged her. Then he closed the door.
“I’m sorry it’s so late,” she said. “My plane didn’t land in Fresno until eight, and then I had to get an Uber. That wasn’t easy—like, honestly, they should be circling the airport for passengers.”
He ushered her into the family room. “Where are your parents? Why didn’t anyone call? And how did you get past security?”
Jesse’s home was in the gated community of Mañana called The Palms, considered the upscale part of the town. All visitors had to check in at one of the two guard shacks before entering the walled-in community of over seven hundred homes wrapped around a golf course.
Gloria dropped her backpack onto the floor next to the leather sofa along with her overnight bag. “The Uber driver slipped in behind another car. Your security system isn’t all that secure.” She half smiled. “And my parents don’t know I’m here.”
Jesse furrowed his brow. “Explain, please.”
They both sat and she released a sigh, more like a deep breath that caused the swag of hair on her forehead to flutter. The sound of the ice machine in the refrigerator signaled the dump of another batch of cubes. She turned to face the kitchen, then redirected her attention to Jesse.
“Could I have some water?”
“Of course.”
Jesse stood and headed for the fridge. Once again, he was about to ask his niece to explain what was happening when Matthew’s voice interrupted them from the entrance to the family room.
“Who’s that?”
Jesse turned. His son stood there, clad in Captain America pajamas and slippered feet, staring at the person on the sofa.
“I told you to go back to bed, Matecito.” Jesse often referred to his son by the Spanish diminutive for Mateo, equivalent to Matty or Little Matthew.
“I did,” he said. His gaze hadn’t left Jesse’s niece. “But I heard you talking. Who’s that?”
Jesse walked to the sofa and handed his niece a glass of water. “This is your cousin Gloria. You met her when you were little.”
Jesse couldn’t blame Matthew for not remembering. They’d met when he was four and Jesse had taken him on the boy’s only trip to Texas to meet the Pérez side of the family. Six years had passed, and Gloria had blossomed into a teenage girl. Jesse had recognized her through the peephole only because of her posts on Instagram—an app he used in his business in digital advertising—and because of the occasional selfie with a girlfriend she’d sent via text.
“Hi, Matthew.” Gloria stood. “It’s nice to see you.”
Matthew looked at him, then back at his cousin. “We go to bed at nine.”
Jesse walked over to his son and put reassuring hands on his shoulders. “She knows, and she’s sorry. And you’re right. It’s late. How about you head back upstairs and climb into bed?”
Matthew looked past him. “Are you spending the night?”
“I hope so,” Gloria said with a smile.
“We have two guest rooms,” the boy said.
“Come on.” Jesse gently turned Matthew around for him to face the stairs. “You go back to bed, and I’ll check on you in a bit.”
Without another word, Matthew strode to the steps and then bounded up, the thump of his small feet fading as he hit the landing above. Jesse waited until the boy’s door closed. He turned to face his niece.
“He’s gotten big,” she said. “He seems to be doing well.”
Jesse didn’t know whether she meant he was doing well given his autism or whether he was doing well given his other father had died just before Easter. He shrugged off the comment, then folded his arms.
“I haven’t heard from you in over a month,” he said. “Why didn’t you email me or text that you were coming? And what do you mean your parents don’t know you’re here?”
She sat on the sofa again. “It was a last-minute decision.” She paused, brushed at her nose with the back of her index finger. “I ran away.”
Jesse scrunched his face. “Ran away?”
She nodded.
“Why?” he asked.
“It’s a long story.”
“Can you give me the CliffsNotes version?”
He studied her as a glimpse of sorrow settled on her face, and for a moment, she wasn’t a fifteen-year-old but was nine once more. A girl in the fourth grade. The one with owl eyes. He remembered that trip, how she wanted to play jump rope with him and Matthew. How she was proud of her water-colored rendering of her house. How she ran through the sprinklers with her four-year-old cousin under the hot June sun of West Texas, giggling and shrieking as the cold water splashed her body.
She drew in a deep breath. “I’m in trouble.” Her unblinking gaze remained fixed on Jesse.
He returned the look, furrowing his brow just a bit, still waiting, the impatience lurking behind his eyes. “How so?”
A tear formed in her left eye. She sniffled as she wiped it away. “I’m pregnant.”
