She wasn't "hot" in a flashy way. She was warm . She gardened in ripped jeans and a faded tank top, her dark hair in a messy ponytail, dirt smudged on her forearm. She laughed loudly at her own jokes, which were terrible. And she made the best iced coffee I’d ever tasted—strong, sweet, with a whisper of cinnamon.
One afternoon, a freak thunderstorm rolled in. The power flickered, the AC died, and the basement turned into a sauna. Leo groaned. "Game over, man. I'm going to take a cold shower."
As she walked back upstairs, Leo rolled his eyes at me. "See? Total dictator." My frnd hot mom
"Sorry about the AC," she said, handing me a glass. "Leo says you're the only one who doesn't cheat at Mario Kart. High praise."
"Now."
The summer I turned sixteen, my best friend, Leo, got air conditioning. That was the official reason I biked to his house every scorching afternoon. The unofficial reason was his mom, Mrs. Delgado.
She smiled, and it wasn't a flirty smile or a staged one. It was a tired, genuine, mom smile. "No, he's not. He's stubborn and he leaves his socks everywhere. But you see the good stuff. That's a gift." She wasn't "hot" in a flashy way
"Your mom says I'm a gift," I said, deadpan.