Light of Day (16 page)

“Wow. You've got me choked up. Thank you for sharing your story.”

“My pleasure, dear.”

At that moment, I noticed that Jackson and Kaden had come into the control room. Kaden was looking down at the switchboard, fascinated, as Caballero showed him this and that, but Jackson's eyes were focused on me. I could tell he was as moved as I was by the caller.

“That lady's story about love and patience speaks for itself, doesn't it? She trusted her instincts that Rex was worth waiting for, and she never regretted it. I want to share some advice that my new man gave me. He said that when you're happy, stay in the moment. Live it. Don't waste it worrying what'll come next.”

I dared a look at Jackson. He reached up and pressed his hand against the glass. A sign of solidarity. An unspoken
I love you
. And it hit me that the elderly caller was right. You didn't need to hear the words to know you were loved. You could feel it.

After taking more calls and playing some music, I wrapped up the show and handed off to Caballero. “Thanks for showing them around.”

“My pleasure, Gabby. That Jackson's a solid dude. You
have my blessing. And Kaden's got spunk. Reminds me of myself at that age.” He winked and put the headphones on, spinning once in his chair before going live.

In the car on the way home, Kaden went on and on about his mind-blowing WKTU experience. His worship of Caballero had reached a new level.

“Caballero said they sometimes take interns, especially over the summer,” Kaden said. “I could totally do that.”

“Absolutely,” I said, loving his enthusiasm. “It would be unpaid, but it's great experience if you want to work in radio or TV one day.”

“If? Are you fucking kidding me?” Kaden practically jumped from the backseat into my lap. “I'm all over that. Could you tell Caballero I wanna sign up right away?”

“Easy, Kaden,” Jackson said. “Why don't you focus on getting all your credits this year first?”

I nodded, turning back to Kaden. “He's got a point. If you pass your classes, Caballero will be more likely to take you on.”

Kaden groaned. “I don't see why that should matter. School's not my thing.”

“It doesn't have to be—you just have to get through it,” I said. “Caballero was impressed by you. But he'll want to know that you're responsible and that you live up to your commitments. Passing in school is your best way to prove that.”

“All right, I'll do it. Whatever it takes. Just watch me.”

When we dropped Kaden off, he slapped us both five and went back inside, a new bounce in his step.

“He's excited,” I said. “It's so good to see.”

Jackson pulled back onto the road. “Yeah, it is.” His voice held zero enthusiasm.

“Why am I sensing a
but
?”

He sighed. “It's nice that you want to help him out. But you don't know him like I do. I love the kid, but he's always messing up. You give him the right choice and the wrong choice, and nine times out of ten he'll choose the wrong one. If he interned at WKTU, I'd be worried he'd steal those autographed pictures off the walls and sell them on eBay.”

“But what if he didn't?”

He stopped at a light, glancing over at me. “I don't want him to screw things up for you.”

“Don't worry. I'd tell Caballero all about his past to cover myself. It might not happen anyway, right? He's got to get all his credits at school next semester before I'll even talk to Caballero about him. If he does that, it's worth giving him a shot.”

“I don't know what to think of this. But it's good to see him so pumped. Even if it doesn't last.”

“It might last. People can change, right?”

“You make me think anything's possible.”

He reached over and took my hand as he drove. I knew he
was taking me home, but I wasn't ready to be dropped off. I didn't think I'd ever be okay with leaving him.

A few minutes later, he pulled into my parents' driveway. “It was great to see you do your thing tonight. You're a pro, Gabby. I was like,
I can't believe that's my girl
.”

I smiled. It felt so good to hear him say that. “I wanted you to see me there. To see why I love it so much. It's the same when I see the art you create. I can't imagine how you do it. It's such a gift.”

“I've been drawing my whole life. I guess it was inevitable that I'd get good at it.”

I shook my head. “You have it or you don't. And you have it. That's how I see it.”

“I like how you see it. How you see the world. How you were with my brother. You see the best in people.”

“And you don't?”

“I expect the worst.”

“Kaden's got charisma. If he uses it for good, he'll be unstoppable.”

“Be careful, you're giving me hope for him.”

“But hope feels good, doesn't it?”

His eyes glittered. “Hope is dangerous.”

THE FOLLOWING WEEKEND, THE TIME
had come for Jackson to meet my parents.

It was seven o'clock Saturday night. I sat in the living room, tapping my foot.

David raised a brow, amused. “Antsy?”

“Maybe a little.”

I was glad Mom had invited David to join us, because that would take some of the heat off Jackson. Unlike my parents, David knew the real story. He knew that Jackson was the “Mystery Guy” who'd helped Maria and me at the club that night, and the guy I'd gushed about on my radio show.

But I couldn't risk my parents guessing that Jackson was the X I'd talked about at the police station, so I'd made up a story about how we met. I told them we met at a coffee shop
while I was waiting for Maria. There were no free tables, so he'd asked to share mine. I'd noticed him sketching, and he'd told me he was an artist. The conversation had flowed from there.

Despite the guilt I felt for lying to my parents, I'd actually enjoyed inventing a mythology of our relationship. It was a much lovelier story than a tale of a club, a pimp, and a tainted drink.

“Why didn't you bring Melody?” I asked David. My parents loved her. And if they were gushing over Melody, that would mean even less pressure on Jackson.

“She had to take a shift at work. She's off at nine, then we're going to a candlelight keg party on campus.”

“A
candlelight keg party
?” I repeated. “Now that's a fire hazard if I ever heard one.”

“It's being put on by the Environmental Action Club. We'll keep the lights off to save power. And a keg is more environmentally sustainable than lots of beer bottles.”

“Sounds lovely. A bunch of drunk coeds in a room full of candles. Good luck. I'd stay by an open window, just in case.”

He laughed. “Will do.”

I continued to tap my foot.

“It'll go fine,” David said. “An hour and a half, then we'll be outta here.”

“An hour and a half? I say one hour. It's only dessert.”

“Depends on whether Mom serves it right away or makes him work for it,” he said.

I'd managed to talk Mom out of having Jackson for a whole dinner, which would be course after course, hour after hour, question after question. JC had usually handled it well, nodding and smiling as Dad rambled about politics and Mom told us about all the “problem kids” at Rivera. But I didn't want to put Jackson—or myself—through that.

At five minutes past seven, the doorbell rang. I jumped off the couch and swung open the door. Jackson looked incredible in a crisp striped shirt and jeans.

“Hey, you.” I hugged him, catching the scent of his yummy cologne. “One hour, tops, then we're off to the art show,” I whispered in his ear.

“No worries. Your parents are teachers. I know how to deal with teachers.”

He didn't seem nervous at all. But I guess when you're a Destino, when your job is life and death, meeting your girlfriend's parents is no big deal.

I wished I shared his confidence. Last night I'd tried to give him some coaching over the phone, but he'd refused to listen.
I'm not gonna pretend
, he'd said.
That isn't me.

Generally, I admired that about him.
Generally.

My family came up, and I made the introductions.
Jackson shook everyone's hand.

“So nice to meet you,” Mom said. She was froufroued up in a floral dress, and her hair was freshly cut and colored. “Come on in.”

We all went into the dining room. I noticed Jackson taking stock of the place, and I looked around self-consciously. Hopefully my mom's love of religious icons and designer wallpaper wouldn't throw him off.

“I'll get the pies; they're keeping warm in the oven,” Mom said. “I made pecan and apple-blueberry. Gabby assured me you like pie.”

“I do.”

Mom went to the kitchen, and the rest of us sat down at the dining room table, under the glitziest chandelier Home Depot had to offer.

“I hear you're an artist,” Dad said.

Wow, the pie wasn't even served yet, and the grilling had begun.

Jackson shrugged. “I don't call myself that, but yeah. I draw, I paint. I take the cash.”

My teeth snagged my lip. I knew he was trying to be unpretentious—he
was
unpretentious—but I wished he'd stop. I'd told my parents that art was his career.

“Jackson's work is unbelievable. I showed one of his pieces
to Sarita last week, and she thought it was stunning.”

Mom swept into the room and served the pies. Jackson agreed to have a slice of each.

“Can't be easy to make a living as an artist,” my mom said, pouring several glasses of iced tea. “My sister struggled for many years to make a name for herself. It's nice to see how well she's doing now.”

“She's a big deal in the art community, from what I hear,” Jackson said.

Mom sat down and placed her napkin in her lap. “Gabby told us she brought you and your brother to the radio station. Did you enjoy yourselves?”

Wiping his mouth after a bite of pie, Jackson replied, “It was great. Gabby's gonna try to score an internship for my brother next summer at WKTU if he stays out of trouble. Kaden's taken a few wrong turns, but hopefully we can get him on the right track. The chance for a summer internship should motivate him.”

My parents nodded, to my relief. That must be the teacher-speak he'd been referring to.

Jackson looked at David. “You're in pre-med, huh? I hear they're close to passing the stem-cell bill. Think it'll get through this time?”

Clearly Jackson had prepared for tonight. I squeezed his
hand—my way of saying
Thank you for trying to make a good impression
.

“Yeah, hopefully it'll pass.” But I could tell David had no clue what he was talking about.

“Are you from Miami, Jackson?” Mom asked.

“Yeah, born and raised in Opa-Locka.”

To her credit, Mom didn't flinch. Opa-Locka was ghetto Miami, with sky-high crime rates. Mom had probably never set foot in that part of the city.

“And do your parents still live there?”

“My mother does. My father passed away a long time ago.”

Although Jackson had told me he didn't know who his father was, I figured it was a good explanation to give to my parents. No need to open that can of worms.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Mom said, and had the decency not to ask anything more about his family.

Thankfully, David managed to steer the conversation toward his pre-med program for a while. I owed him one.

“So then last week,” David said between bites of pie, “I had to write a paper about when someone should be declared clinically dead—after two minutes, five minutes, or even twenty minutes, like in Italy. It's a big deal, because every second counts when you want to harvest someone's organs.”

“David.”
Mom was horrified.

I slid Jackson a look, and we both tried not to laugh. Do-no-wrong David had chosen an inappropriate topic for dining room conversation.

“I'm sure Sarita will be pleased that you'll be at her show tonight,” Mom said, swiftly changing the topic. “Where do you showcase your paintings, Jackson?”

“I mostly sell them on the street to tourists. And there's this coffee shop in South Beach that'll sell some for me. But they take twenty percent, so it's not really worth it.”

With that, I figured it was time to get going. I placed my hands on the table. “Well, we'd better head off. I told Sarita we wouldn't be late.”

“This was excellent pie, Mrs. Perez,” Jackson said, folding his napkin and putting it beside his plate. For someone who'd grown up the way he had, Jackson had excellent table manners. “Thanks a lot.”

“You're very welcome,” Mom said, pleased.

It took another ten minutes to get out the door and into his car.

We both gave a huge sigh as we sat down.

“How'd I do?” he asked, turning the ignition.

After checking that my parents weren't at the window, I answered him with a kiss. “Fabulous.”

“I did the best I could.” His hands stilled on the wheel.
“But I wasn't gonna bullshit them or it would just come back to bite me.”

“You were perfection. Gorgeous, hot perfection.” And we kissed again, slow and deep this time.

“Damn,” he said against my mouth. “If we don't stop this, I won't be driving us to the art show.”

“Gotcha.” I peeled my hands off him reluctantly. “We'll pick up where we left off later.”

The gallery was called Orange. A small, boutique-like space downtown, it was crowded with rich Miami art people and hipsters. The moment we walked in, I caught the scent of Sarita's favorite jasmine candles. She firmly believed in the importance of stimulating all five senses when encouraging people to buy art.

Sarita looked glorious in a sleeveless mauve blouse and a black flared skirt, her garnet hair spilling down her back. Since she was surrounded by people, I figured we'd chat with her later, when she had a minute.

“Nice turnout, huh?” I said as we approached the first painting.

“I can see why.” Jackson stopped in front of it. The painting showed a white woman in a translucent blue dress lounging on a yellow hammock, a fiery red sunset behind her. A black
man's hand appeared from the corner, caressing her naked calf.

“The show's called
Untold
.” I glanced down at the brochure I'd picked up at the door. “‘An exploration of the hidden passions that stir within us.'”

“Hidden passion is awesome.” His blue eyes burned into me. “Out-in-the-open passion is even better.”

I pressed myself into him, feeling his hard body against me. “I agree.”

Someone cleared his throat, and a silver-haired couple moved past us with disapproving looks.

We checked out more paintings, then had some hors d'oeuvres from the white-linened buffet table at the side of the room. Although there were flutes of champagne for the taking, we didn't touch them—the last thing we needed was to be caught drinking underage and embarrass Sarita.

We came to a painting of a young girl with curly black hair, muddy clothes, and a gleam in her eye. I put a hand over my mouth, knowing that it was me. The painting was called
Little Sweetheart
.

“Cute kid, wonder who it is,” Jackson said, squeezing me to his side. “When did she paint this?”

“I don't know. There's a photo of me in her dining room just like it. She must've used it for inspiration.”

Jackson gave a low whistle. “It's selling for thirty-eight hundred. Hope she gives you a royalty.”

“Gabby!” Sarita descended on us, sweeping me into her arms. “I've already had several offers on this painting. We're going to have to auction it. Turns out your immense cuteness inspires people to open their checkbooks. Too bad you lost those delicious chubby cheeks.”

I laughed, putting a hand to my cheek. “I hope so.” I turned to Jackson. “Here's the guy I've been talking about, Jackson.”

Sarita kissed his cheeks. “Gabby showed me one of your paintings. One word: stunning. I would love to see more.”

Jackson looked startled. “That means a lot, coming from you. Thanks.”

I said, “I've been telling him that he can get way more for his artwork than he's charging.”

“Of course he can,” Sarita said. “We'll talk.” Then she turned to a short man in a bow tie who'd been waiting to speak to her, and let him lead her away.

It was ten by the time we got back to the car.

“Was that the coolest thing ever, or am I biased?” I said, buckling my seat belt.

“Both.” He turned the ignition and pulled onto the road. “Where we heading? My place?”

“Sounds good to me.” I hadn't had my fill of him yet. I
never would. “That could be you one day.”

He released a slow breath. “I don't know about that, Gabby.”

“I'm sure Sarita would mentor you. We were talking yesterday, and she said she could look into funding options for art college. You obviously know the techniques already, but they can teach you how to market your work.”

He grunted.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“I don't need my future planned out for me. And I don't have to make five thousand dollars on a single painting. That's not why I do it.”

I blinked. “Of course it's not
why
you do it. But you could be a well-known artist one day, if you want.”

“I'm paying my rent and I've got food on the table. That's all that matters to me now.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

He braked at a stop light, glancing at me. “But what?”

“Nothing.” My excitement was quickly dissolving. “I thought you might want to make your art into a career. It's what you love, isn't it? There's no harm in making a plan.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that you talking, or your parents?”

“Me,”
I said, trying to keep my cool. “My parents don't approve of me going into radio, but I'm still going to do it. I think it's important to . . .”

“Have goals?”

“Exactly. So you see what I'm saying.”

“Yeah, I do. I hate to disappoint you, Gabby, but I'm focused on the Destinos. My art is a distant second. And now that we're seeing each other, I hardly even have time for it.”

That got my back up. “I hope you're not blaming me for that.”

“Of course not.”

“Good. I'm not trying to plan your life for you. I just thought the possibilities were exciting.” Jeez. Couldn't I give him some feedback without being accused of trying to make him into someone he wasn't?

“They
are
exciting. I'm just not sure if . . .” He broke off. “You're ambitious, Gabby. Driven. I'm like that too. But my ambition isn't to be some fancy artist who gets worshipped by all those snooty art people. I'm helping people the best way I know how. And if that's not enough for you . . .”