Blue Scoops: Chapter 3
summary: sometimes others are the only ones who can see our purpose.
pairing: eventual f!reader x javier peña, chucho peña
contents: 18+/nsfw/minors dni, food mention, depression, grief, brief mentions of drugs/substance abuse
WC: 2.2k
AN: happy blue scoops day! (yes im early but i was just too excited). thank you thank you for the patient wait for this chapter. as the end of the semester approaches I'm hoping to be able to stick to posting a new chapter every 10th of the month as ended but i appreciate everyone's understanding. we are a bit farther away from blue and javi meeting than i anticipated, but as i was writing this chapter, the importance of blue and chucho's bond really stood out to me. her allowing chucho into her heart is what makes her relationship with javi possible and its important to take time to develop it.
chapter 2 | series masterlist | misc. masterlist
You’ve memorized every single word of the business card that Chucho’s given you. You’ve traced the letters of his name and ran your finger over the shiny golden cow silhouette that sits above his name.
Chucho Peña. Little Cattle Farm. 956-458-2384.
Your hand has hovered over the landline more times than you can remember. You aren’t sure of the reason for your hesitation– you crave that warm feeling you had when Chucho sat in your kitchen, smiling and talking as if he had no better place to be. And he’d made it clear that you’re welcome to call him at any time, that he was waiting for you. But, perhaps your nervous system outweighs your heart, remembering the emptiness that followed. Those alarms of self-preservation blare loudly, identifying even the potential similarity between your relationship with Chucho and your grandfather as a threat.
Has your heart not been fractured enough? Has the grief not settled itself deep enough? Has it not swallowed you whole and changed you so much that you left the only love left in this world for you?
The battle takes a week.
Back and forth, many internal talks with yourself. Bargaining, reasoning, crying. In the end, you somehow convince your brain to believe that you’re doing this for him. That he said you owed him dinner and who are you to argue with a man who’s been doing you and your family repeated favors for years now? Your hand shakes as it hovers over the phone, trembling so violently when you start to push the buttons that you have to start over a few times. It feels dramatic– it's a simple phone call. But, it holds so much promise, it opens another door that you were sure you never wanted to open again. The line rings and rings and rings and you’re just about to hang up when someone picks up the phone.
“Peña.”
“Hey, um, Chucho. It’s me. Blue, I mean, the woman from the house that you take care of. Are you free for dinner anytime soon?” You cringe at the shaky sound of your voice, waiting for his reply.
He chuckles at the way your words rush out, “Sure, mija, how’s Saturday?”
“Saturday’s good.”
He gives you directions from your house to the ranch and bids you goodbye. Saturday comes quickly and despite the nerves that invade your stomach, there’s an excitement in you. The road that you’re winding down slowly but surely crumbles beneath your tires, turning from a smooth road to bumpy gravel to dirt. As it does you see miles of green fields and buildings in different various states of condition. All of it is fenced in, and in the distance, you see the river.
Chucho’s waiting for you on the porch and to your surprise, he scoops you into a hug that is brief but tight enough to convey just how happy he is to see you. Though, if the hug wasn’t enough of an indicator then maybe his smile is. He guides you inside, giving you a quick walk down the hall to show you the bathroom before he leads you back to the front of the house. The living room and kitchen are separated by a small dining space that is a round table and four chairs. Fit for a family.
He gestures, “What’s mine is yours. I haven’t cooked much in a long time, hope there’s no cobwebs.”
You chuckle, shaking your head, “Nothing a little soap and water can’t fix. You go sit, I’ll take care of things here.”
With those words, Chucho leaves you to it, going to putter around the house.
You had decided on roast chicken when you’d gone to the store. You went as soon as you hung up the phone with Chucho, knowing that if you’d given yourself any more time to think about this dinner you’d cancel and avoid him. It would drive you to do what you’ve already done, leaving this place behind. Except this time there would be nowhere to go. Nowhere with even the traces of those that once loved.
Once you’ve got a soap mixture of water and an all-purpose cleaner on one side of the porcelain sink, you give everything a quick cleaning. It’s a practiced routine– cleanest to dirtiest– starting with an array of dishes you’ll need, the counters, the stove. There’s not much grim or grease on anything, just a light layer of dust.
This recipe is reminiscent, its muscle memory, and though it forcibly reminds you of your grandfather, you attempt to find comfort in it. It's one of the first things he’d ever taught you to make. As you cut fresh herbs, rosemary, thyme, and parsley, the woodsy smell takes you back to that memory. You see yourself, small, no older than 10, standing at the counter. Your grandfather’s hands guide your own as you slowly chop. It's easy for you to get lost in the past with the ease of your hand, mixing the herbs into butter, spatchcocking the chicken like its second nature.
For the first time in a long time, you feel secureenough to sit in that memory because you’re not alone. You’re with Chucho and the last time you’d been together was the easiest moment of your life since your grandfather passed.
But sit in it you do as you take your time. You notice the smile on your grandfather’s face as he watched you grate your first clove or garlic, the patience in his tone as you got distracted slathering the chicken with the butter mixture. The pride in the sit of his shoulders as you removed the perfectly cooked chicken from the oven, and plated everything yourself at much insistence. How it seemed both your hearts swelled when you sat down at the dinner table beside him. “Dinner’s ready,” You murmur as you do the same in the coziness of Chucho’s kitchen.
“Thank you for this, looks wonderful. Smells even better,” Chucho says with a smile as he joins you from the living.
“It’s no problem at all— but don’t give me credit just yet, you’ve gotta taste it,” You tease as you dole out servings of chicken and potatoes and veggies to the both of you.
By the way his eyes widen after the first bite, it’s safe to say he thinks it tastes as good as it smells.
After lulling into a relaxed silence, Chucho asks, “So, what’d you do before making your way down here?”
“I’m a baker. Was a baker. Want to be a baker, I don’t know,” You give him a sheepish smile before looking down at your plate.
“This isn’t a test, mija, just two people talking. You can relax. What do you plan to do here?”
You aren’t sure why you feel like you owe him an explanation. Maybe because you’re searching for one yourself. It's mortifying to tell someone that you’ve uprooted your comfortable life for the unknown without reasoning. There is reasoning beyond your simple words to Oliver– buried and unmoving–but the proper words escape you, sat just on the tip of your tongue.
You try again, saying, “I hope to get a job at a bakery but if not…I’m not really sure. There’s not much purpose in my life right now.”
“Everybody’s got purpose,” He insists.
You shrug, not completely convinced. What was your purpose right now? To be swallowed whole by grief and loneliness? To leave the only love you’ve ever known? To live the rest of your days living by yourself in your grandparents’ home, melting in the sweltering Texas heat?
There are worse things. You could be sick like your father, finding life bearable only with a sweet high coursing through your veins. You could’ve never known love. You could be dead. But none of that is truly purpose— the more you think about it the less you believe you’ve ever had one.
“I don’t know, I’m not so sure,” You muse softly, your throat growing slightly thick.
Chucho hears the change in your tone, looking over at you with concern, “Sometimes others are the only ones who can see our purpose.”
You narrow your eyes at him skeptically, “Let me guess, you think you can see mine.”
“Crystal clear,” He says simply, his expression completely deadpan before he takes another bite of his food.
You don’t ask him what it is. Your gut tells you he wouldn’t tell you even if you beg. You’re not sure you’re prepared to know anyways.
Sometimes others are the only ones who can see our purpose.
As the weeks pass, you and Chucho find a rhythm in your companionship. He makes sure to have the tea you like in his cabinet and to ask about your day. You ask him about the ranch, and catalog the old movies and shows he watches on his tiny little box tv. He tells you a little bit about the town and the activities here which are lots of block parties and bingo— not your scene. There’s a lot of silence and without the spin of a record, you can get in your head, though most of the time you can lose yourself in the cooking. Eventually, you build up the courage to ask him about bringing some music when you finish dinner one night.
“The next time I’m here…do you mind if I bring my record player? It’s just jazz, nothing distasteful,” You add quickly, hoping it’ll make your odds better.
He waves you off, before taking the plate you’re offering, “Bring whatever you’d like, mija.”
Things are starting to feel…well they’re starting to feel like home.
****
It’s just a couple of weeks later that with the help of Chucho’s badgering, you build up the courage to go into one of the bakeries you’d visited in town before. Sam’s Bakery felt oddly familiar when you stepped inside. It was small, cozy, and had the typical Southern love for white wood finishes all around. There were pops of color everywhere, giving it an almost retro look. The selection of treats was small, but that didn’t bother you, it just meant that they were focused on a craft, pouring their hearts into a curated menu. It’s what you prefer instead of the high-paced, stressed-out reality that was working for a well-known bakery that couldn’t pick a specialty– like the one at home.
Jo—the owner—is tall and lanky, her blonde hair pulled up into a bun just like it was the first time you’d walked in. When you walk up to the counter and practically beg for the job, you see something glimmer in her storm colored eyes.
“I can do you one better. What do you think of this place? Its runnable isn’t it?” She gestures dramatically to the space around her.
“Runnable?” You say lamely, brows furrowed in confusion.
Jo’s grin just widens, eyes brimming with mirth, “Why don’t you flip that open sign to close and we can talk about it.”
When you look to the door for the sign, you realize that you’re the only one here. Slowly, you do as she says, but not without voice your continued confusion, “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Well, Celia and I have been thinking for a long time about packing up and living out on the road. We’re not getting any younger. But I’ll only give you the spiel if you’re open to being the owner and running this place yourself.”
“The spiel?” You squeak out.
“Inticied?”
Even though the idea is terrifying, you find yourself nodding. Is she— she couldn’t be implying that she wants to sell you this bakery? You? A woman off the street that she’s known for all of 5 minutes. A woman who moved to destroy any chances of her past life flourishing. Well— perhaps that is the kind of woman who might need to take a chance no matter how fearful.
She clasps her hands together, raising her brows, “I knew you would want to hear it. I can just see something in you, I could tell the first time you walked in.”
You sit in Jo’s office over coffee and sweets, hearing her out and you see some of yourself reflected in her words. She loves the bakery but there’s something else out there for her. She offers you a cigarette as the two of you go back and forth, and you decline, watching as she gracefully lights one for herself.
It all happens really slowly— or least it feels like it does. The words pour out of her thick like syrup, your brain going fuzzy as you listen. Could you really? Could you do this on your own? Have you ever done anything on your own? Leaving. Moving here.
“And you’re sure?”
“About getting out of here? Hell yeah. We’ve been here all our lives,” She gestures around the room, the trail of smoke from her cigarette wafting through the air.
“No, about me. You’re sure?”
Her eyes warm despite their cool color, and she places a hand over yours, squeezing it gently, “There’s something about you Blue that just fits here. I have a feeling you were made for it. I swear, I knew it as soon as you walked in the door, call it god or the universe or whatever. But, I knew.”
“What if I’m not?”
“You are.”
Sometimes others are the only ones who can see our purpose.
> chapter 4
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