Loving Is Good
Celia Mendoza is not living La Vida Loca. She put her graduate studies on hold after her father died. Now she dishes out advice in her e-zine column, Luna Love, Loving is Good. The problem is, she hasn’t had a second date or a kiss in over a year. Then Gabe Mercer, a modern-day Adonis, shows up, daring her to take a chance. The string of broken hearts in his wake turns Celia off, but his relentless encouragement to pursue her dream of becoming a serious journalist contradicts his reputation, making it hard to fight the pull of his topaz, come-hither eyes. He’s everything Luna Love tells her readers to take a chance on, but Celia can’t decide if a chance encounter is worth the gamble. But life has a will of its own, and hers is pushing Celia to accept the uncertainty and run towards her destiny.
“Let me change my clothes.” I closed my computer and stood up.
“Wear something that shows a little skin. Jo tells me our sales spike when you wear your Wonder Bra,” Mom said matter-of-factly.
“I am not on the menu.” I huffed, pushed out my chest, and rolled my eyes for dramatic effect.
“Wear those jeans you bought—you know, the ones that cost a couple hundred dollars—a black bra, and one of those white tank T-shirts you wear around the house.”
“The I’m easy, come and get me, baby, Latina-from-the-hood look? Seriously? That’s not a positive image for the next generation of Latinas, Mom.”
“What’s wrong with showing off your curves to sell a few extra bowls of chili? Besides, you want to look your best in case that sexy friend of yours shows up again.” She winked and ran her hand over my unruly locks.
Gabe Mercer, the black cloud in my sunny day. He was six foot five, a solid mass of goodness, with topaz eyes that melted the skin off my bones every time he fluttered his come-hither lashes in my direction. He was the kind of guy that had you at Hello, but when he left your bed—and he’d left many—you started a blog and wrote sappy love poems the rest of your days and ended up marrying your dentist’s son, Wilber Puck, the one who wore coke-bottle spectacles, ill-fitting tan trousers, and a checkered shirt.
“He’s a professional colleague and nothing more. Stop rolling your eyes at me.”
The screen door opened and banged twice against the doorjamb before stopping. Tia Jo had arrived. She was the other half of the dynamic duo. With her arrival, my chances of winning withered. She winked and blew me a kiss as she had been doing for as long as I could remember. I listened to her Asics as they thumped in double-time across the tile floor. She took her position as second lieutenant alongside Mom at the kitchen sink.
“Youth is wasted on the young. Would it kill you to wear your Wonder Bra, sashay around the park tables, and show off those pearly whites of yours that cost your parents fifteen thousand dollars to straighten?” Tia Jo said.
Brenda Moguez lives in San Francisco. She writes fiction with quirky, strong women, with non-formulaic endings because life isn’t always perfect. She writes by the light of the moon and between conference calls. She has aspirations for a fully staffed villa in Barcelona and funding aplenty for a room of her own. When she’s not working on a story, she writes love letters to the universe, dead poets, and Mae West. You can find her at http://www.brendamoguez.com and https://www.facebook.com/BrendaMoguez, where she explores passionate pursuits in all its forms.