Don't Date Rosa Santos

by Nina Moreno

  “There’s a hundred things I want to bake you now.”

  I laughed, the sound loud and loosening the knot in my chest I’d been carrying for the last two days. We finished the rest of the samples, and it was tough, but for Clara I picked the hummingbird cake with the fluffiest cream-cheese frosting I’d ever had in my life. At the door, Alex handed me a small bakery box.

  “You have to stop feeding me,” I said, even as I took it. “What’s inside?”

  He tapped the top of the box. “With the leftover cheesecake, I made a few dulce de leche bars.” I brought the box to my chest, protectively, and he leaned in the doorway with a smile that warmed his eyes. “It’s nice to remember how much I like doing this.”

  “Feeding me?”

  “Baking.” He laughed and returned to his kingdom of caramel and chocolate.

  I left with my box and had no intention of being patient. Maybe I didn’t have time for doomed crushes, but there was time for desserts, right? Back outside, a blazing morning sun burned off the last of the gray.

  A heat wave found us, and after eating Alex’s cakes, I felt responsible.

  I woke Saturday morning, flushed and still tired, my sheets kicked off the bed and the fan spinning slowly. I rolled over, reached for my phone, and had way too many notifications for this early in the morning.

  I scrambled up to sitting. It wasn’t early. It was ten thirty a.m. The day was practically half-over.

  Ana—who was notoriously late to things—had already sent several texts that grew in annoyance. Everyone was meeting in the square to work on festival prep, and I was so late. I jumped out of bed, dressed quickly, and raced to the square, kicking up my skateboard and running across the grass.

  I stopped beside Ana, who took in my outfit with a look of surprise. There hadn’t been enough time to wash my hair, so I pinned it back and covered it with a red kerchief. Nothing was ironed, and it was too hot for my cardigan, so I’d thrown on my gardening clothes. The jeans were worn, with stubborn grass stains, and the fitted shirt was a little too tight around my bust, but it was dark enough to hide my sweat.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You look ready to flex and tell us we can do it.” Ana fanned herself with a piece of paper. The cool spring breezes had turned too warm, and humidity was settling over everything. Somewhere up there the lid had been dropped over the boiling pot, us still inside, simmering like soup.

  Mrs. Peña was in commander mode, armed with pens in her hair and the clipboard in her hand. There was no poster board behind her this time but instead a stage with lots of people walking around with boxes and cords. Right beside her stood Mr. Peña, stoic and silent, his arms crossed. He shot dark looks to anyone not listening to his wife.

  Mrs. Peña smacked the clipboard in her hand. “Vendor applications are due today, people. Make sure they’re in my hands. We’ve got one week, okay? Una semana.” She shot a death glare at the viejitos and their phones. “Where are we on the wedding, Rosa?”

  I counted off my tasks on my fingers. “Oscar is finishing the arch, I will be roaming the neighborhood taking any and all flower donations from local gardens—”

  “Stay away from my yard,” Gladys interrupted.

  “—and a local orange grove heard about what we’re doing, and they’re giving us cases of their sparkling grapefruit wine for free.” I spotted Mimi across the square. She shot toward me like an angry missile. “I will not be drinking it, of course, but what a steal.”

  “¿Qué pasó?” She stopped in front of me, her eyes wide and hand over her heart.

  “Nothing happened. I got a good deal.”

  “Pero mira tu ropa.” She waved a hand in front of me and my clothes. “Did the iron break?” She reached out to pluck all the nonexistent lint from my shirt and tsked at the tighter fit.

  I pushed at her hands. She was carrying a basket of shells, a bushel of lavender and rosemary, and a takeout bag from Beta & Eggs. “Wait, what were you doing?” There had been a thoughtful, quieter energy to Mimi since Mom left. Last night when I’d gotten home from work, my abuela—who never went out past the six o’clock noticias—was also just returning from somewhere. When I asked where she’d been, she said, “I needed an answer.” And, story of my life, she didn’t tell me from who or if she got it.

  “Mimi will be setting up her own area for the festival.” Mrs. Peña’s smile grew strained. “She told me only an hour ago.”

  “Really?” I looked at Mimi. “You’re just full of surprises lately.”

  “And to make it even more exciting, she won’t tell us what it is or if she needs anything. But I’m sure it will be great.” Mrs. Peña turned to Mimi for confirmation. “It’ll be great, right?”

  “Claro que sí,” Mimi declared with easy confidence. “Carne con papas for dinner,” she said to me, her voice soft, before walking away. I didn’t know what was going on with her, but who was I to say no to my favorite dinner?

  Ana waved at her mom. “I’m out. The guys are here.” Tyler and Lamont headed toward the stage. “See you later,” she told me, and took off toward them.

  Mrs. Peña glanced at her clipboard again. The group around her had dwindled as she handed out tasks. Electric drills whined, and I spotted Oscar and Mike together on the east side of the square working on tables and what looked to be a very elaborate platform. The Golden Turtle sat proudly atop it. I was surprised Benny wasn’t hovering around his treasure.

  “Shoot, where’s Benny?” Mrs. Peña asked, as if hearing my thoughts. She looked around her but didn’t spot her son.

  “He went to the soccer game,” Junior answered.

  The festival commander shifted instantly to worried mother. “Is that okay, you think?” She glanced at her husband, who nodded. She didn’t look reassured, though. Hoping to alleviate some of her concerns, I stepped forward.

  “I’ll take whatever task is left.”

  “We need these flyers and coupons to be taken to a few neighboring towns to stir up more advertisement, but you don’t have a car, Rosa.”

  From behind me, a now familiar voice said, “I do.”

  I shot around and Alex slid me a soft smile. His hands were loosely tucked into his pockets, and the sea on his arms was vividly blue on this sunny day.

  “Perfect,” Mrs. Peña said. “Thank you, Alex.”

  Mrs. Peña handed me a stack of papers and a list of the places where we needed to deliver them.

  This was fine. This wasn’t about having one-on-one time with Alex, who I had decided I didn’t have the time or emotional capacity to indulge in a crush on right now. This was about the festival, and after mostly working on wedding tasks, it was nice to do something for Spring Fest, too. “Time to get down to business,” I reminded myself as we walked together to the marina parking lot.

  “What?” He leaned closer.

  “Nothing. Just reading the map.”

  Alex opened the passenger door for me, and I slipped inside. As he walked around to the driver’s side, I mumbled a prayer for cool confidence. I’d take help from any saint listening. His rope sat in an intricate knot in the middle of his truck’s console.

  He got in, started the engine, and the radio kicked on, in the middle of “Candela” by Buena Vista Social Club. My eyes widened at the sound of the old Cuban band in Alex’s truck. It felt like a good omen, but Alex looked pained with embarrassment. Without a word, he shifted the gear stick and backed out of the parking spot.

  We rode in awkward silence for a moment. He shook his head with a self-deprecating laugh. “A guy starts talking to a Cuban girl, and suddenly he’s listening to Buena Vista Social Club.”

  I had no idea what to say. Sure, there had been desserts, lost treasures, my erratic heart rate, wedding planning, and the fact that now every song reminded me of him, but when had my secret crush blossomed into talking? Oh god. Did he like me back?

  He shifted gears as he merged onto the interstate.

  We hit the nearby popular touri
st stops along the interstate. The first one had an outlet mall and antique shops along with huge bold signs that advertised the interesting, very Florida combination of gator meat, boiled peanuts, and orchids. I talked up the beauty of Port Coral with the flyers and enticed with the coupons. I must have been a very convincing ambassador, because they placed our offerings in plain sight near their registers. When I walked out of the citrus grove’s gift shop, Alex was waiting for me by his truck. At my approach, he coyly offered me a tangerine lollipop.

  “Did you steal this?”

  He laughed, surprised. “Of course not.” He unwrapped the other one and popped it into his mouth. I did the same. Something about both of us eating the same candy, at the same time, felt like flirting. Probably because of all the eye contact.

  “What are you thinking about?” I asked, squinting a little against the sun.

  “Making a honey tangerine marmalade.”

  “And do what with it?”

  The sweetly tart candy gently clicked against his teeth as he gave my question some thought. “Bake rolls with lots of butter.”

  I was enthralled.

  “Serve the marmalade while they’re still warm.”

  I closed my eyes on a groan. Alex laughed and went to open my door.

  Our last stop was farthest away, but the exit was the first major one headed toward Port Coral with a visitor’s center, so it was important that we brought them word, too. There was less development out this way, thankfully, leaving it green and alive. The bottoms of ancient cypress trees spread out like knobby knees that dug into swampland. Watching the land turn wild, even for a brief moment, made me realize I hadn’t left Port Coral in years.

  “Where are we today?” Alex asked as he shifted gears. He remembered my story about road trips and my mother’s eternal question.

  Amused, I told him, “An underwater forest.”

  “What?”

  I laughed at his alarm. “We’re near one. Not far from Gulf Shores, Alabama, there’s an underwater forest with cypress trees from an ice age, like, sixty thousand years ago.” I gazed out the window. I had fallen into the information by way of a project for an ecology class but had continued researching to feed my own curiosity. “They discovered it after a category-five hurricane stirred up the waters. The Gulf is pretty much all sand, but there right at the edge is a preserved, ancient forest that shows the paths of long-ago rivers and valleys.” Outside my window, bald cypress gave way again to more manicured groves. The farms here had struggled from citrus greening, a terrible, incurable disease that ate through the trees.

  “Did you come by this affinity for plants from your abuela?”

  “It’s hard to imagine it wasn’t an inherited thing, but I’m more interested in what we can do for them, and people like Mimi who know the old ways to heal with them. When I think about Cuba, yeah, it’s about me and my family, but it’s also bigger than us. It’s about the island’s incredible biodiversity and its future. I want it to survive and thrive.” I pointed to the grove just beyond us. “And I want those oranges to come back next season.” I turned to face Alex. He had a relaxed hand on the wheel, and the bright sunlight nearly made him glow. Something significant was coming together in my mind, unfolding and getting bigger, like when I saw the photo of President Obama laughing in Old Havana with his daughter Malia. “I want the harbor to survive for another hundred years.”

  His eyes ahead, Alex nodded. “Me too. I really hope this works out.” He started to ask something but turned back to the road instead. His hand tapped against the gear shift. He reached for his rope and then dropped it. I watched him hesitate until finally: “Any update on the big college decision?”

  I went from calculating hundreds of years to being faced with only days. “I don’t—” I began, but stopped because smoke was rolling out from beneath the hood of the truck. Alex cursed under his breath. He pulled over.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “It overheated. It got way too hot too fast today, and my temperature gauge is broken.” He shifted to park and turned it off. He muttered another curse. “I’ve got coolant, but I have to wait a couple minutes for it to cool off enough for me to open the hood. I can run the heater to divert some of the heat.” He dragged his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry about this.”

  “It’s fine. We’ll take a break to enjoy the scenery.” I was starving, starting to sweat, and my blood sugar was taking a dive. I wished I had another tangerine lollipop.

  “Let’s get out before we cook in here.” He climbed out and I followed. With no buildings for miles, we must have been in the back of someone’s orange grove where the trees ended just a few feet past the interstate.

  “You want an orange?” I asked.

  “You worried I stole the candy, but now you’re offering pilfered citrus.”

  “Pilfered, huh? I like that. Come on, it’s one orange. Maybe two, from an entire grove. There’s already a bunch on the ground.”

  “I’ll stay here, but thanks anyway, Eve.”

  I barked a laugh and considered the distance. “I’m going for it,” I decided. The tall weeds along the highway skimmed my ankles and knees. Who was lucky to be wearing her gardening jeans and sneakers now? I took a bigger step to avoid what looked to be the remnants of a blown tire. But when my foot landed, the ground gave way with a burp, and I fell forward onto my knees. The whole perimeter around the grove was a swampy mess, hidden by the weedy grass, and now my legs and hands were covered in muck. I leaned up and looked over my shoulder, but Alex had missed my fall as he leaned inside the driver’s side of the truck.

  “All for an orange,” I muttered. I tried to stand, but the mud didn’t make it easy. I finally made it to my feet, only to look over and see a gator.

  The tiny, angry dinosaur watched me from a few feet away, its stillness an implied threat. There was something unnervingly ancient about alligators, which was why you didn’t step into any grassy area in Florida, oranges or not.

  “Alex,” I called carefully. My legs twitched, and I swore I could see the gator noting it. I was going to throw up my candy.

  “What’s the matter?” Alex’s voice was coming closer.

  “Gator,” I choked out. I heard him stop.

  “Where?”

  I couldn’t move. I jerked my chin a little in the direction of it, but otherwise stayed frozen. I was a melting block of ice on the hottest day of the year.

  “Listen, it’s very small, and probably more scared of you than you are of it,” he said.

  I wanted to roll my eyes. People always said that. Those people were really underestimating how scared I could get.

  “Just walk back to me.”

  Above us a group of sand cranes swept by, screaming their little hearts out. It was like a fire alarm. I turned around and started to book it back to the truck.

  Unfortunately, Alex was right behind me, and I might have been small, but my momentum and desire to live were mighty. I took him down like a chopped tree. He fell back into the mud with a grunt, and I landed sprawled on top of him.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  He let his head fall back into the dirt and huffed a laugh. “We keep meeting like this.”

  I jerked up to check behind us for a hungry gator, but it was gone. The relief was instantaneous, and my bones melted. I smiled down at Alex. “It’s gone.”

  “It was a very tiny gator, Rosa. It might have actually been a lizard.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m also pretty tiny. Who knows who might’ve won.”

  “My money’s on the tiny linebacker.” His voice grew quiet. “I’m not complaining, but we’re still on the side of the highway.” I’d been watching his mouth, so it took a second for the words to make sense. I jumped up and let him get to his feet. Thanks to the fall—and me landing on top of him—he was now covered in mud.

  I tried brushing the dirt from his shirt, but it was only making a bigger mess. I met Alex’s patient gaze, and memories of warm s
ugar and burnt caramel swept through me. He carefully took my face in his hands. His thumbs gently swiped dirt from my cheeks.

  “I didn’t get the orange,” I whispered.

  He smiled and ducked his head. He captured my lips in a kiss that already tasted bittersweet. He’s a boy with a boat, and you’re leaving. And he knows it.

  My hands tightened around his wrists; to hold him in place or keep myself from falling, I didn’t know. Maybe both, as Alex offered me soft, biting kisses that felt like questions. This language was new, but I followed his slow, careful steps. When he stopped for a breath, I stretched up on my toes and caught his lips in a deeper kiss, too feverish for useless things like air. His hands slid down my sides and he wrapped his arms around me. Held by the welcoming blue waves of his ocean, I pressed my wildly beating heart against his. I was going to succumb to heatstroke, but I didn’t care. He tasted of tangerine, and I couldn’t remember the taste of my once-favorite strawberry candies. Spring had hurried into summer because of a kiss.

  A blaring horn finally tore us apart. A semitruck flew past. Alex appeared as dazed as I felt. I smiled. I’d done that.

  “Keep looking at me like that and we’ll never get out of here.” He chuckled and offered his hand as he helped me back to the truck. He opened the hood, the engine finally having cooled off. Once we were back in the truck, neither of us said a word, but I couldn’t stop myself from checking the secret smile that danced around his lips.

  Outside our last stop, we kicked the mud from our shoes as best we could. Everyone watched us walk to the visitor’s center counter. The older woman’s brows shot up to her hairline. I hurriedly told her all about Port Coral. She stood silent, her curious, worried gaze taking in Alex and me. When I asked her to please keep us in mind when speaking to tourists this week, she looked from us to the papers in her hand, then back to us again. Alex politely kept his hands behind his back. I’d lost my kerchief. We looked like swamp people.