My Home Is With You [LGBT+]

Ten

I LOOK AT MY TAUNTING cellphone, fingers tapping against the counter as the annoying blinking light flickers every second.

I've blocked almost every person who has sent me a DM without even bothering to read them. In thirteen days, I will be able to delete my account and frankly, I can't wait. I can't wait to stop the feeling of dread I get whenever Aless asks to borrow my phone to use the calculator for some math problem. Or when Gabby simply chooses to take it to play on the preinstalled games.

It would be one less thing to worry about.

I pick up my phone and open the damn thing to block and delete the new conversation with determination.

I start up the app and hover over the conversation started five minutes ago.

I take a gamble and open it first, otherwise I won't be able to get rid of it. Stupid app.

From: M.D. (Sugar Daddy)

To: Joseph (Sugar Baby)

Tuesday, April 20, 20xx

Hey [12:34]

I look at my phone wondering if I should reply. The message is relatively simple with no inappropriate attachments added to it, which is a first.

From: Joseph (Sugar Baby)

To: M.D. (Sugar Daddy)

Tuesday, April 20, 20xx

Hi [12:39]

I wait for a bit, my heart racing inexplicably when I get a reply a few minutes later.

From: M.D. (Sugar Daddy)

To: Joseph (Sugar Baby)

Tuesday, April 20, 20xx

How are you? [12:42]

I debate on what to respond before typing.

From: Joseph (Sugar Baby)

To: M.D. (Sugar Daddy)

Tuesday, April 20, 20xx

Surviving, you? [12:44]

This time it takes longer for his reply, so I put my phone away with a sigh. I choose to head back to work before I get yelled at.

By the time I clock out, I forget about the messages. I'm so exhausted all I'm focused on is getting home as fast as I can.

"Oseias!"

I smile tiredly at the tykes who greet me at the door with hugs.

I scoop up Miguel in my arms and we shuffle to the kitchen where I whip up something really quick for dinner.

I heat up some sopa de frijoles and start on some arroz amarillo, remembering my mom's recipe by heart.

"'Seias, can we get some tortillas?"

"All right, but you get to do la masa while I wipe and heat up the comal."

She nods and hurries to get a bowl where she proceeds to pour the Maseca flour and some water.

While she tries to get a decent consistency, I heat up the comal on the stove.

I've never been good at making tortillas. Being the youngest, my mom had always tried to teach me how to cook, since she never had the girl she always wanted. Not to mention that my older brothers couldn't be bothered to learn. Their job was to sit there and wait to be served. After all, they were expected to marry women who already knew how to cook for them.