"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."
I laughed, nervous. "He's lying. I blue-shell him constantly."
"You're a good friend to him, you know," she said, looking at me directly. Not at my acne, not at my too-big t-shirt, but at me . "He's been happier this year. Quieter at home, but happier. That's because of you." My frnd hot mom
As she walked back upstairs, Leo rolled his eyes at me. "See? Total dictator."
But I just smiled and picked up my controller. The storm was passing. The AC would kick back on soon. And I had learned something that summer: seeing someone clearly—as a friend, a mother, a whole human—was a lot more interesting than any fantasy. "Sorry about the AC," she said, handing me a glass
"Mom!"
A minute later, Mrs. Delgado came down. She was holding two tall glasses of iced coffee, condensation dripping down the sides. She’d changed into a loose, light linen shirt and simple shorts. Her hair was down, still slightly damp from her own attempt to cool off. "He's lying
Mrs. Delgado was hot. That was still a fact, like gravity or the price of gas. But the story wasn't about that. The story was about a sixteen-year-old kid who stopped seeing a "hot mom" and started seeing Elena—the woman who could beat you at Scrabble, who cried at dog commercials, and who, when Leo finally went to college, would be the one left behind, drinking her iced coffee alone in a quiet kitchen.