“The one with all the tattoos?” she asked in Spanish.

All the tattoos? They only went to his elbow. “Si.”

She said it again, “Oh.”

If I didn’t know my mom the way I knew her, I’d assume she was indifferent about Dallas. But I did know her. And for some reason, her “oh” while referring to him didn’t sit well with me.

In front of us, Josh got into position on the base and hit the ball straight between third and second, jetting way into the outfield so far I jumped up to my feet to cheer him on. Vaguely, I noticed my mom raise her hands in the air and start clapping. But it wasn’t until I sat down as Josh’s feet hit the third base that she finally said what I should have known she would say.

“I don’t think all those tattoos are good to have around kids, no?”

I groaned. “Tattoos don’t jump out and attack people, Mamá.”

“Sí pero… ve lo.” She huffed, the tip of her chin pointing at Dallas who had his hands on his knees as he talked to Josh. “He looks like a gangbanger.”

I hated when my mom did that stereotypical crap, especially while she talked about a man who had been pretty damn kind to me and the boys. It was unfair of him to get judged by his buzz-cut hair and a face he’d been born with. I had to grit down on my teeth to keep from saying something I’d regret. “Ma, he’s not in a gang. He’s great with the kids. He’s great with everyone.”

“Ay. Maybe, but why does he have to have all those tattoos?”

“Because he wants them,” I said in a snappier tone than normal.

Her upper body turned to face me, those black, black eyes narrowing. “Why are you getting mad?”

“I’m not getting mad. I think you’re being mean judging him. You don’t know him.”

She huffed. “¿Y tú si?”

“Yeah, I do. He was in the navy for twenty years and he owns his own business. He coaches little boys because he likes to be there for them. He’s—” I just about said almost but managed to keep it inside “—always been nice to Josh and Louie and me.” Before I could stop myself. Before I could think about the people sitting around and consider that they might be listening in, I said, “I think he’s great. I like him a lot.”

The long and drawn-out inhale that she sucked in seemed to suck up all the air within ten feet of us. “¿Qué qué?” What?

“I like him.” Was I egging her on? Maybe a little, but I hated, hated when she got like this on me.

“Why?”

“Why not?” We seemed to have this argument every time I liked someone who wasn’t Mexican.

“Diana, no me digas eso.”

“Te estoy diciendo eso. Me gusta. He’s a good person. He’s handsome—” She scoffed. “And he treats everyone well, Mamá. You know the day after the party? He came over and helped me and the boys clean for hours.” I really hadn’t believed him when he’d left my house that night, assuring me that I should leave the mess alone because we could all tackle it the next day.

But he had. Time and time again, he’d done things he didn’t have to. We were nothing to him, but he’d done what other people hadn’t.

If that wasn’t friendship, I didn’t know what was.

“Not him, Diana. Not again.”

God help me, sometimes I wanted to strangle my mom. “Oh my God, Ma. Calm down. I’m not telling you to love him. I’m just telling you I like him. We’re not getting married. He doesn’t even like me like that. He’s just… nice.”

The woman who had given birth to me faced forward again. I could see her hands clenching the material of the long skirt she had on. “For now!” she basically whisper-hissed.

Oh hell no.

“You don’t know how to pick them,” she said, her gaze still forward.

I couldn’t look at her either, so I shifted to watch the next batter get a strike. “Mom, I love you, but don’t go there right now,” I whispered.

“I love you too,” she said softly, “but someone has to tell you when you make stupid decisions. Last time I kept my mouth shut and you know what happened.”

Of course I knew what happened. I had been there. I had lived through what I lived through. I didn’t need a reminder of how dumb I’d been. I would never let myself forget it.

Yet here we were again with her telling me what to do with my life and what to do differently. Sometimes I thought, if she hadn’t been so strict with me as a kid, I would take her “suggestions” more seriously, but she had been strict. Too strict. And I wasn’t in the mood for it anymore, no matter how much I loved her. “Mom, Rodrigo had tattoos. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

She acted like I shot her. Her hands went to her chest and her back when ramrod straight. My mom gulped, and I’m pretty sure her hands started shaking.

Jesus. I hated it when she acted like that.

“Don’t talk about your brother.” I barely heard her.

I sighed and rubbed my eyebrow with the back of my hand. Every single time with her. God. We could never talk about Rodrigo. Ever.

With a sigh, I tried to keep my attention on the game, only paying about half my attention to it while the other half bounced back and forth between thinking about Rodrigo and Dallas. I thought my brother would have liked him. I really did.