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Don’t like to think about the last time I stepped foot in one.

My phone goes off at the kitchen counter where I left it. Only one person on earth ever calls me anymore. Don’t even have to check it to know who it is.

I take the call to the back door. “Hey, Tía.”

“Why do you sound disappointed to hear from me so soon?” asks Tía Lottie, sounding like she’s swallowing up a smile. “Have you eaten?”

I don’t peer back at the table full of crumbs. “Yep.”

“How’s the house?”

Didn’t take very long for her to lose all faith in my capability of looking after it. “Burned to the ground. Good thing you called. Wanted to ask if your insurance is decent.”

“Diego.”

She says my name so sweetly. It’s worse than when my tío says it harshly. “House is still standing,” I revise my answer.

I hear her smile when she says, “Good to hear. Did Wyatt stop by yet? I told him you’d be staying there awhile.”

In other words, she gave him a loaded warning. “Maybe.”

“Diego.”

Again, with the sweet tone. “Muffins and papaya.” I lean back against the doorframe.

“Wyatt’s so thoughtful. I hope you were nice to him.”

“He left without a black eye.”

“Please be kind.”

“I was. Didn’t you catch the no black eye part?”

She moves on. “Your tío says the yard needs mowing, what with all the rain we got last week. Sweetheart, can you manage that? Sooner than later?”

I flick a finger at the flimsy little hook they use for a lock on the back screen door, wondering how low the bar was set on their faith in me, if cutting grass is the test. I already figured I’m the last resort on a long list of people to look after this old house.

“Of course, Tía.”

“Make sure you get all the weeds. They love popping up in the front all over the place, stubborn things.”

“Got it.”

There’s always this breathy hesitation right before she says goodbye. I feel it every time. The held-back words. The questions. The are-you-okays.

She knows better than to let any of them out.

So instead she says: “You should try the papaya. Wyatt always finds the best ones.”

I’m sure he does. We hang up.

In the afternoon, I’m at the auto shop, a ten-minute walk into town from the house. Through a connection of my tío’s, I was hired here to keep my hands busy. My immediate supervisor is a skinny dude a few years younger than me named Joel, whose dad runs the place or something. I learn quickly that I was hired for engines, not conversation. That’s just how I like it. Engines are logical. They work or they don’t. They don’t judge you. They speak in clicks, squeaks, and screeches. You find the problem. Fix it. And they stay fixed if you do the job right.

They don’t bring you a basket of passive aggression.

And insanely fuckin’ tasty muffins.

“Your aunt and uncle are good people,” Joel says when we’re taking a five in the break room. It’s the first time since I’ve been hired that he’s started up conversation. I hope this doesn’t become a habit. “Marcos and my own pops go way back.”