Free Mundahlia (The Mundahlian Era, #1) by RJ Gonzales Page B

after taking a sip.
    “Well had you stayed, it would have been you—my beloved cousin.”
    “Really?” she said, as though it sounded odd. “So, how’s the permanent sub? Is he or she a hard-ass?”
    “No,” I said. “ He’s actually pretty cool.”
    Celeste nodded, “Oh, well that’s good news. I wouldn’t want my students ending up with someone that was one of those jerk teachers for the rest of the year.”
    George took a bite from his fork and silence made its return.
    “So. Any ideas on your son’s name yet?” I asked. I was so used to eating dinner in my room while watching TV back home. I didn’t even think families actually eating at a table was still around.
    Celeste tried to speak, but finished chewing before she said, “Actually we’re still thinking. But, what names do you have in mind?”
    Me? “Why me?”
    “Just wondering. I just want to hear some of your thoughts.”
    I thought of all the names I could possibly think of before selecting one that I favored. “ Jackson ,” I finally said. Figuring the nicknames Jack would be adorable for a baby, and maybe Jay for when he was in high school. And even so, it was a unisex name incase something happens and this boy they were expecting ends up being a girl. I’ve heard about it. The doctor tells a couple they’re expecting a boy, then in a bout of joy they go out and buy everything blue and other things deemed “boy-ish.” Then, a few months later they go from naming the baby Joseph to Josephine because at the last minute they found out all this time it was a girl.
    “Hmm,” Celeste pondered for a while. “I guess I’ll throw it into the ones we’re thinking of already.”
    “Which are?” I crumpled up the paper napkin I used to wipe my hands and set it on the plate.
    “Ryder, Jonathan, Nathan, Cruise, Colton, and George Jr.” Celeste counted off her fingers as she said each one. I added George’s last name Bell to the ends of each of the names. Jackson Bell would sound perfect. Like a name ripped straight out of a history book.
    I smiled at both of them, “I can’t wait to see my second cousin.” They exchanged a look, then turned back to me.
    “Rini, you know you’re like a little sister to me,” Celeste said earnestly, lowering her fork to the plate.
    “Uh huh.”
    “Well, we were sorta thinking that maybe instead of a second cousin, you could think of this little baby of ours as your nephew.”
    “You mean-”
    “That’s right,” George cut in, “You’d be Aunt Rini.”
    “Oh, um. I don’t know what to say, you guys.” If I could, I probably would of said, say what? but instead, “I’m honored,” slipped from my mouth.
    The idea of being an aunt had to settle with me. For the most part, I absolutely loved the idea of having a nephew. Something I knew as a single child I was never going to get. I had a sister. She would have been about five by now. Unfortunately, she died shortly after birth. My mom never really got over it. And my dad, well, he was different after it. It was around the time I went through a whole dark, poetic phase.
    I used to keep a diary. Not daily, like others. But every so often, I’d crack it open and write something so that I could see the words and feel them in person, just to know that they were real and not just in my head anymore. The day my sister died was the last day I’d written in it. Somewhere in my drawer, back in my small purple-walled room in Del Rio, the last page of my old diary reads:
     
    A flower bloomed, already wilting.
    Beginning its life, with an early ending.
    ...
    I lied awake on my bed. Too tired to read more pages into the book or continue drawing my sketches—just thinking of the brief encounter with the wolf. Had it wanted to do so, I could have been dead within a few seconds and it would have been getting its fill. Tearing off strips of flesh from my lifeless body to satisfy its hunger as it chewed each bite—ripe with fresh blood.
    What had stopped it?