How Much I Feel

by Force, Marie

“There’s no other way to look at it, really.”

  The GPS directs us to the address Deb gave me, and I finally release my hold on Carmen’s hand as I find a visitor parking space. “We don’t have to do this now if you’re not up to it.”

  She smiles warmly at me, making the breath catch in my lungs. Affection of any kind from her feels like a rare, special gift. “You’re just hearing about this. For me, it’s old news.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “Not that it has ever reached the point where it doesn’t still hurt. It just doesn’t hurt like it did at first, when it was an open wound making me wonder if my life was over, too.”

  Is it weird that I hurt for her? Probably. The ache stays with me as we go inside and take the elevator to the seventh floor where Deb is waiting for us. My emotions are all over the place after hearing Carmen’s story. She’s certainly helped to give me perspective on my current predicament.

  So what if my career is a mess at the moment? No one is dead. It’s sobering to realize the full magnitude of what she went through at the tender age of twenty-four. I try to picture her surrounded by people and police officers and compassion and endless sympathy. After having known her for only two days, I have little doubt she was strong and resolute through it all, determined to make her young husband proud of her.

  As we step into the condo, I can tell this place is special. It’s modern and fresh but still warm and inviting. The view of the bay is dazzling. We’re high enough that we can see the boats and activity, but not so high that it seems like we’re looking down on a tiny village. In New York, I lived on the twenty-eighth floor of my building, far removed from the goings-on below. That was a good thing there. Here, being a little closer to the action below seems good.

  “I love it,” I tell Deb.

  “I do, too,” Carmen says. “This kitchen is to die for. You have two ovens and the best fridge money can buy. We have three of these at the restaurant.”

  “I’m not sure how I feel about glass doors on the fridge.”

  “Abuela says it’s incentive to keep it clean.”

  “Abuela is a wise woman.”

  “Take a look at the bedroom,” Deb says. “I think you’ll like it.”

  The condo has just one bedroom, which is fine with me. I don’t expect to have a lot of visitors, so I don’t need a guest room. My mom prefers a hotel to my guest room when she visits. She jokes that I don’t have room service at my place.

  The master lives up to the hype, with high ceilings, full-length windows that maximize the view and space for a small office area.

  Carmen goes to check out the bathroom. “Come see this shower!”

  I wander into the bathroom to check out the glass shower with the intricate tile work and multiple showerheads. “Wow.”

  “I think you need a PhD to work that thing.”

  “Crap. I only have an MD.”

  She snorts with laughter. “Only an MD. Bet you’ve never said that before.”

  I pretend to give that considerable thought. “I don’t think I have.”

  “Hopefully, the shower comes with instructions.”

  “You approve of this place?”

  “I do. Although it makes mine look rather sad in comparison.”

  “Yours is great.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Mine is okay. This is great.”

  “You can come visit anytime you want.” I peruse the handout Deb gave me. “The building has a gym, indoor and outdoor pools, a hot tub and a spa.”

  “I have a pathetic gym in my complex and laundry in my apartment.”

  I laugh at the way she says that. “I’m willing to share my amenities with friends.”

  “You may live to regret that offer. I love a good spa.”

  I’ll file that info away for later. If she succeeds in helping me land this job, the least I’ll owe her is a day at a high-end spa.

  We return to the open-concept living area, where Deb is waiting for us. “What do you think?”

  “I love it,” I tell her.

  “Me too,” Carmen says.

  “If you’d like to make an offer, I’d be happy to write it up for you.”

  “I’m sort of in a weird spot since I first reached out to you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m not yet sure I’m going to be working at Miami-Dade.”

  “There was an administrative snafu.” Carmen steps up when I find myself at a loss for words. “We’re trying to work it out, but it’s apt to be a week or two before Dr. Northrup receives word that his employment is approved. Are you able to make an offer, contingent upon his job working out?”

  “I could talk to the seller’s agent and see what they say. The unit has been on the market for sixty-three days, so they may welcome the interest enough to consider that caveat. I’ll reach out and let you know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem. I’ll be in touch.”

  I guide Carmen out of the condo ahead of me. When we’re in the elevator, I glance at her. “Thanks for jumping in there. I didn’t know what to say to her. I made this appointment when I thought I had a job lined up.”

  “I’m sure she deals with special circumstances all the time. Like she said, the place has been on the market for a while, so they’re probably willing to deal. I wouldn’t worry. If this doesn’t work out, there’re a million others just like it.”

  “True, but I like this one.”

  “I do, too.”

  How is it possible that in two days her opinion has become so important to me? I have no idea how that happened, but it has, and I need to rein that in before it gets out of hand.

  If it hasn’t already.

  CHAPTER 9

  CARMEN

  I like being with him. I like talking to him and hearing his thoughts. I like the way he didn’t fall all over himself comforting me when I told him about the day Tony was killed. Some of the guys I’ve dated haven’t known what to say when they heard how I lost my husband, so they either said too much or not enough.

  Jason got it just right.

  It’s not easy to talk about that day, but it felt right to tell him.

  I like how he looks in casual attire—flip-flops, khaki shorts, a navy-blue T-shirt from a surf shop in Maui and those sexy Ray-Ban Wayfarers.

  “What’s next on our agenda, boss lady?” he asks as we drive away from the condo complex.

  “We’re basically on hold until I hear back from Maria about the clinic, so how about I give you the two-dollar tour? We can take some photos for Instagram that show you getting to know your new home.”

  “Sure, we can do that.”

  It’s a perfect South Florida day, if you like it hazy, hot and humid, which I do. “Can we run by my place so I can change?”

  “Of course.”

  I can’t believe I’m actually getting paid for this. The thought makes me giggle.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking that it’s weird I’m getting paid to play tourist in my hometown.”

  “That’s not all you’re doing. You’re helping me, which is what Mr. Augustino told you to do.”

  “True, but this hardly feels like work.” After a stop at my place, where I change into a casual dress and sandals, we get back on the highway. A short time later, I point to an exit. “Take this one. I want to show you where I come from.” I point to the planes descending into Miami International. “We’re very close to MIA.”

  He takes the exit, and I direct him. “I want you to see 8th Street, otherwise known as Calle Ocho, the main drag through Little Havana.” On the way in, we pass signs for the Miami Marlins’ ballpark. “Of the nearly three million people in Miami, roughly half of them are Cuban or of Cuban descent. You can live here your whole life and speak only Spanish and be totally fine.”

  “I’m going to have to work on that. My Spanish is rusty.”

  “I can help with that, too.”

  As we creep along busy streets, I
try to see the neighborhood from an outsider’s viewpoint and immediately feel proud of every part of it, including the coin-operated laundromats, massive new-car dealerships adjacent to used-car lots, graffiti, car washes and restaurants offering Cuban and every other kind of cuisine, including Taco Bell, where the drive-through line blocks the street.

  Jason navigates around the cars. “Why would anyone go to Taco Bell when there’s all this authentic Cuban food to be had?”

  “Great question. Some people were appalled when Taco Bell came to the neighborhood, but as you can see, they do good business.”

  “Baffling. I’d want the real deal if it was as close by as it is here.”

  “We’ve got the real deal at Giordino’s. It’s the best Cuban in town, in my humble opinion.”

  The streets are full of stores and restaurants. There’s everything from a brand new CVS pharmacy to a Goodwill thrift store to a Cuban coffee shop to nightclubs. Cubans love their nightlife.

  We pass a park where a group of men are gathered around a table, intensely engaged.

  “What’re they doing?” Jason asks when we’re stopped at a light.

  “Playing dominoes. It’s very popular in Cuba—and here.”

  Little Havana is a juxtaposition of the past and present, sleek and decrepit, coexisting in a mishmash of culture and vibrancy. I love every inch of this place that made me. “When my cousins and I were young, our only goal was to leave this neighborhood, but most of my cousins and friends came back here.”

  “There’s no place like home.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  We drive by high-rise apartment buildings with balconies and down streets full of pastel-colored houses with stucco exteriors and metal security gates. He takes a left turn onto Calle Ocho. “There’s a massive block party here in March every year called Carnaval Miami. It’s so much fun. It stretches from 12th to 27th Avenue.”

  “That sounds fun. I love all the music.”

  “It’s always loud on this street. You’ll hear everything from traditional Cuban music to Pitbull. Did you know he grew up around here?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “He got his start playing on stages in this neighborhood. See that place over there?” I point to a yellow building with a counter open to the sidewalk. “That’s Los Pinareños Fruteria, one of the oldest fruit stands in the country. The lady who works there has been pressing the sugarcane for more than fifty years. They’re known for a drink called guarapo. It’s pure sugar, so some people call it diabetes in a cup.”

  Jason laughs. “I’ll pass on that.”

  “It’s so good. They roll cigars over there. Best cigars you’ll ever find.”

  “I’ll pass on them, too. I know too much about what smoking does to the body.”

  “Keep that to yourself around here if you value your life. We’re very serious about our cigars.”

  “Will do,” he says, chuckling.

  I direct him to take a few turns that lead to a two-story pink stucco house. Out front are colorful flowers in the window boxes and an ornate white security gate with gold accents.

  “Home sweet home.” I note that my father’s Ford pickup truck and my mother’s Mercedes coupe are in the driveway. Any minute, however, they’ll be heading to the restaurant for the rest of the day and night. A trickle of sensation works its way down my spine as I imagine them catching me here with Jason and his Porsche.

  “This is where you grew up?”

  “Uh-huh.” I’m relieved when he slows the car but keeps inching forward past the house. “We moved here when I was two. Tony’s family lives three blocks that way.”

  “What are the trees in the yard?”

  “Coconut palms and mangoes. You see them everywhere in South Florida.”

  He starts to speed up.

  “Wait. Stop.” I point to the chickens and rooster starting across the street, oblivious to the possibility of certain death. “You have to watch out for them around here. They’re all over the place.”

  “Good to know.”

  “You’ll see chicken art and statues everywhere in Little Havana.”

  I show him the Shenandoah Elementary School I attended as well as the dance studio that was like a second home to me through high school, and the Presidente Supermarket. “I briefly stocked shelves there when I was so fed up with my parents that I didn’t want to work at the restaurant anymore.”

  “That must’ve gone over well.”

  “Yeah, not so much. They were more hurt about me quitting the restaurant than they were about me not speaking to them.”

  “What’d they do to deserve the silent treatment?”

  “They refused to let me officially date Tony until I was sixteen.”

  “Oh right, the waiting period.”

  “It was torture! We were in love!” I laugh at my own foolishness. “The drama was exceptionally high during those years.”

  “I can only imagine,” he says with a low chuckle.

  “My parents have old-fashioned values that didn’t sync with my teenage mentality. We butted heads a lot, but I always did what they told me to do. As much as I wanted to rebel, I couldn’t bring myself to actually do it.”

  “Such a good girl,” he says, smiling. “Was it just you? No siblings?”

  “Just me. My mother had nine miscarriages before I arrived.”

  “Oh my goodness!”

  “I know. From what I’ve been told by others, it was dreadful for them. They don’t talk about it at all, though. That’s probably why I didn’t go totally wild and defy them when I really, really wanted to. So there I was, their miracle baby who became a less-than-miraculous teenager. I look back at it now and cringe at how awful I was to them.”

  “We’re all awful teenagers.”

  “You were, too?”

  “Oh God, yes. I was horrible. If my parents had any inkling of the crap I used to do . . .”

  I’m immediately intrigued. “Like what?”

  “I smoked all the pot, drank all the beer, slept with all the girls. And I was a total jerk to my parents.”

  Hearing he slept with all the girls, I want to claw their eyes out. That’s a totally normal reaction, right? Yeah, I know. Ridiculous. “You were a typical bad boy.”

  “In every way except for one—I got straight As without really trying.”

  “Ugh, you were that guy? I hated that guy! He ruined it for the rest of us.”

  “That was me,” he says, laughing. “A total fuckup in the rest of my life, but because my grades were perfect, my parents couldn’t do much about the rest.”

  “That’s a good position to be in.”

  “I quite enjoyed it.”

  “Where’d you go to college?”

  “Full ride to Cornell undergrad and Duke medical school.”

  “Wow, that’s impressive, but I suppose you don’t get to be a brain surgeon without having a pretty good brain of your own.”

  His lips quiver with amusement. “It does tend to help. School was always easy for me, until I got to med school and discovered my lack of study skills was going to be a major problem. It was like hitting a brick wall going ninety miles an hour.”

  “It makes me feel better to know you got your comeuppance.”

  He laughs. “I totally did. In a big way. I nearly flunked out after my first semester. I was a disaster until one of my classmates took me under her wing and made a real student out of me.”

  “Is that all she did with you?”

  “Oh no, we fucked like rabbits between marathon study sessions.”

  I laugh so hard I end up with tears in my eyes. “The way you say things . . .” I wonder what it would be like to fuck like rabbits with him. The thought makes my face flush with heat and embarrassment as a tight knot of desire settles between my legs. I cross them, hoping to quell the sensation, but that only makes it worse.

  He flashes a sexy grin that has my skin prickling with awareness of him. “I’m told I have a way wit
h words. But seriously, she saved my ass. We were together through med school, until we got residencies at programs on opposite sides of the country and went our separate ways. Long-distance relationships are hard enough, but throw in two residencies, and it became impossible. We’re still friends, though. She reached out to me after the disaster in New York. A mutual friend told her what was going on.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  Nodding, he changes the radio and lands on a Cuban station. “News travels fast in medical circles.”

  I sing along to the song in Spanish, adding some hand gestures from my dance training.

  “Are you fluent in Spanish?”

  “Sí. You can’t grow up here and not speak the language.”

  “I took years of Spanish, but I suck at comprehension.”

  “Glad to know you suck at something.”

  “I suck at a lot of things.” He waggles his brows suggestively. “And other things, I’m really, really good at.”

  Dear God, I want to know about those things. I want to experience those things. I want to—

  Stop it. Be professional and stop lusting after your colleague. Do your job.

  I have a sudden moment of inspiration. “Turn the car around and go back.”

  “Go back where?”

  “I’ll show you when we get there.”

  “You’re the boss.” He finds a place to turn around, and we retrace our path to the park where the men are playing dominoes.

  “Park there.” I point to a rare open spot on the street. “Come with me.” Jason follows me to the gathering of men. “Excuse me.” I recognize some of them from Giordino’s, especially Mr. Perez, who brings his wife, Eva, in on Saturday nights. They range in age from sixty to ninety, and all of them know who I am and who I lost. Such is my life after working at the restaurant since I was old enough to roll silverware into napkins.

  In Spanish, I tell them, “My friend Jason is new in town and doesn’t know how to play dominoes. Would you mind if he watches?”

  “Not at all,” one of the men replies, moving over to make room for Jason on the picnic bench. “Have a seat.”

  Jason sends me a questioning look.

  I give him a nudge forward. “Roll with me.”

  He walks around the table to take the open seat.