I crawl to the door and yank it open.
Chloe’s eyes widen, her body pushing me inside. “Geez, you always answer the door like that these days?”
“It keeps the nosy neighbors away.”
“You smell like a gas station.”
“Close,” I quip, wandering the apartment looking for a clean towel. “We cook our empanadas in motor oil.” I make my way to the shower.
“Don’t wallow in there.” She sets the bag she’s carrying onto the counter. “You’ve got five minutes and then you’re telling me all about your date!”
I need more than five. It takes almost half an hour to get the smell of churros out of my hair. When I reemerge, Chloe’s sitting on my bed.
“Figured this was an emergency.” She hands me a tub of cookie dough ice cream. She already carved out half of it and swapped me some of her cookies and cream.
I dig my spoon in, inhaling the first bite.
“Slow down. It’s not going anywhere.”
I swallow. “I had to dig a condom out of the toilet.”
She chokes, horrified. Then she laughs, taking another bite of her ice cream. “Remember, it’s only temporary while you look for something else.”
I nod only because I don’t want to think about it anymore and my ice cream is starting to melt.
She nudges me. “So, are you going to spill, or what?”
“What do you mean?”
She raises an eyebrow. “What’s up with you and Xander?”
I jab my spoon in and out of my ice cream, not sure if it’s a flutter or a pang in the pit of my stomach. Because thinking about Xander doesn’t just make me feel hopeful, it makes me feel angry. That he lost his parents. That he lives in fear. That I can’t do anything to change that.
“Pen…”
“He’s been through a lot.” I don’t know how to let Chloe in without divulging Xander’s secrets. But they aren’t mine to share.
“So have you,” Chloe reminds me.
I think back to my breakdown at work. But instead of being buried by that feeling, I clawed my way back out. Somehow. And yet, it doesn’t feel like a fluke. It feels like a fork in the road. One I might actually be able to navigate, one brave step at a time.
“Is that why you gave him my phone number?” I ask.
Chloe smiles, her spoon pressed to her lips. “Maybe I just had a feeling.”
“What kind of feeling?”
She waves a hand. “Okay, so maybe less of a feeling, and more of a vision. A vision of the two of you kissing on Angel’s porch when you thought I was sleeping.”
I stare into my ice cream. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re ridiculous.” She chucks a pillow at me. “You’re telling me Pen Prado is too cool to swoon?”
“Pen Prado is too cool to kiss and tell, that’s all.”
She smiles. “Well, luckily, everything I need to know is written all over your face. You like him. A lot.”
My cheeks burn, and this time I’m sure. It’s not a pang, but a flutter. “Okay, maybe I like him. A little.”
“And?” She shimmies her shoulders, gleeful. “You’re going to see him again, right?”
“I’m going to see him again.”
She perks up. “When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
Chloe smiles to herself—a little proud, a little relieved. Then she nudges me. “But… is he going to see you?”
I know what she means. Am I going to show him? The parts of me only she and Angel are allowed to see, the parts of me that even they’re not. I feel myself reaching for another disguise, another excuse.
But even if I wanted to hide from him, the problem is that… “I think he already has.”
16
Xander
“SO, ARE YOU GOING to tell me where we’re going?” Pen leans forward, examining the road signs.
“It’s a surprise.”
“Obviously it’s a surprise.” Pen shrugs. “Or a kidnapping, depending on whether you’re a glass-half-full kind of person.”
“Are you?” I ask.
“I’m more of a ‘who cares, let’s just drink it’ kind of person.” Pen leans closer, raises an eyebrow. “Are we almost there?”
I take the next exit, a speed bump jostling Pen back into her seat.
“Almost.”
“Okay, I’m going to close my eyes.”
I pull down a residential street, Pen smiling at the sound of the tires grazing the curb. I open my door, the smell of garlic and rosemary filling my lungs. As Pen steps out, she breathes deep, smiling even wider.
“Now?” Pen says.
In the dark, the small house is all candlelit, lace-covered windows. I lead Pen to the front door before telling her she can look.
She opens her eyes, taking a few steps back to get a better view. “Is this someone’s house?”
I give a slight nod. “The chef… does sleep here.”
“Chef?”
“Signora Caterina. She makes the best pizzas in town.” I pause before knocking. “Well, we make them. But she facilitates using a lot of hand gestures and Italian curse words.”
Signora Caterina’s son greets us at the door with a nod before silently taking my cash and counting the bills twice. We wind past ceramic figurines of Christ and the Virgin Mary as he leads us to the kitchen.
He hands us each an apron before wedging us between two other couples already seated at the kitchen table. The couple to our left is copiously taking notes—they must write for some local food magazine or maybe a blog—and the couple to our right is nervously sipping on some wine. Signora Caterina’s son doesn’t bother offering us any.
Pen nudges me. “So the hidden cameras are where, exactly?”
I glance at another Jesus statue by the back door.
“Ah, that’s why there’s so many.”
I lower my voice. “Their family’s a little eccentric, but food’s about the experience, right?”
Signora Caterina waddles in hugging a giant bag of flour. She heaves it onto an empty chair without a word before sifting it onto the table. Once the surface is lightly covered, her son places a large mixing bowl in front of each of us. There are smaller bowls in the center of the table: yeast, more flour, sugar, salt, olive oil, and warm water.
Signora Caterina motions to the bowl in front of her. Then she releases a string of indecipherable instructions as she mixes the yeast and warm water. It’s a pretty basic dough, and Pen seems to work off instinct, catching a few of the Italian words as Signora Caterina transitions from one step to the next.
“Impastate con le mani.” Signora Caterina mixes the ingredients by hand.
“Sale.”
Pen adds a pinch of salt to our mix.
“Versate l’acqua sempre un po’ alla volta.”
I add the water while Pen slowly works it in. The couple next to us, who are already on their second glass of wine, pours too much, the woman giggling until Signora Caterina swipes their bowl and chucks the contents in the trash. The woman’s face turns as red as her glass as they start from scratch.
Next is the oil. Signora Caterina slides past Pen and me, nodding in approval.
Pen whispers, “Signora Caterina doesn’t mess around, does she?”
“She takes her family’s recipe pretty seriously.”
I help Pen turn the bowl, the dough plopping down onto the table.
“She’s terrifying. But I like her style.”
“I thought you might.”
Signora Caterina slaps her dough against the tabletop, tossing it down and ripping it up. I take Pen’s place, doing the same. Flour flies, dusting our faces.
One of the food bloggers drops his dough a bit too delicately and Signora Caterina pushes against his shoulder.
“I think she’s telling him to put his back into it.”
Pen smirks. “Let me show him how it’s done.”
She takes the dough from me. For the next three
minutes, Pen uses it like a hammer, smashing the heads of nails only she can see. When Signora Caterina signals for us to put the dough back in the bowl, Pen’s out of breath.
“You okay?” I ask.
She exhales. “I needed that.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I actually see Signora Caterina crack a smile.
Proofing bowls go in an empty cupboard while Signora Caterina’s son brings out some finished dough.
“Pirlatura.”
We press the dough into a sphere. One of the food bloggers tries to get fancy and tosses the dough in the air. Signora Caterina tosses flour at him in response. She motions to the table, her hands pumping the dough back and forth along the flat surface.
My stomach growls as the dry ingredients are replaced by various pizza toppings. There’s roasted potato, dried salami, mortadella, mozzarella, mushrooms, eggplant. The food blogger who’s been the source of Signora Caterina’s ire all evening goes in for a piece of sausage and she slaps his hand away. She holds up a finger, and her son brings out a steaming pot of sauce.
Pen breathes against my ear. “I knew there’d be a secret ingredient.”
“Excuse me,” the female food blogger starts nervously, “I thought we’d be learning to make the sauce.”
Signora Caterina may not understand much English, but she definitely understands when someone is trying to steal her sacred family recipe. “Vattènne!” She shakes a dirty rag at them. “Vattènne!” When that doesn’t work she twists it into a whip, snapping it behind them as they race for the exit.
Pen looks at me. “Does that mean we get to eat their pizza?”
Behind Signora Caterina’s house is a small creek, four round tables backed up to her chain-link fence. It’s strung with Christmas lights, a statue of the Virgin Mary wrapped in them too. A small stereo sits on the sill of an open window, “Por Ti Volaré” humming from the speakers.
For a long time Pen just stares at me, a kind of wonder on the edge of her lips. She finally shakes her head. “This is without a doubt the weirdest restaurant I’ve ever been to.”
“You’re welcome?”
Her finger catches the condensation on her water glass. “Tell me, am I the first girl to meet Signora Caterina?”
I take a drink, my throat dry. “Yes.”
“Why this place?” she asks, earnest.
“I don’t know. You struck me as someone who likes to eat.”
“I do.”
“And this is one of the best places I know.”
She sits back in her chair. “I’ve got to say, you were a natural in there. You’re wasted playing second fiddle to Lucas.”
“Oh yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. “You want to put in a good word for me with the boss?”
She laughs. “You know, I would, except I’ve sort of been banned from the premises. I’m probably the last person you want talking you up.”
She’s quiet and I immediately regret bringing up her father. But I’m not just reminded of Pen’s tears the other night, I’m reminded of the phone call I overheard, of the danger the employees at Nacho’s might be in. And of the fact that El Martillo knows my secret; that he can use it against me, against Mr. Prado whenever he wants. The only thing that gives me some relief is the fact that I don’t have to keep it a secret from Pen. Maybe someday she’ll trust me with her secrets too. That’s what I really want to show her. That she’s safe with me. That she can be herself with me.
Signora Caterina’s son brings out our pizza, the pie hanging off the edge of the table.
“This smells amazing.”
Three slices are gone before either one of us speaks again—Pen savoring every bite while I’m trying to figure out how to not screw this up.
As if sensing my worst fears, she says, “Do you remember how you said I could ask you anything and you’d tell me the truth?”
I swallow, mouth dry again. “What do you want to know?”
She faces the creek, thinking. Then she meets my eyes and says, “Everything.”
I’m silent, a million thoughts racing through my head. Revealing my status was one thing. But that’s not who I am. What if I start talking, really talking, and she doesn’t like what she hears? What if I tell her the truth about my dad and this childhood hope I have that he still loves me, and she thinks I’m pathetic? What if I tell her how badly I want Nacho’s to be my home too, how much I wish her family was my own, and she thinks I’m crazy? If I say the wrong thing, this could all be over—the way she’s looking at me, whatever romanticized version of me is still living inside her head.
“I’m not afraid,” she says.
“I didn’t say you were.” I crumple my napkin in my fist. “Seems like there isn’t much you are afraid of.”
She frowns. “Of course there is. That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m sorry.” I watch the wind toss her hair. “I’m just…”
“Just what?”
“Terrified.” I look down. “Of saying the wrong thing or saying too much.”
“Of what I’ll think of you?”
I nod, and my confession seems to disarm her.
She leans forward, trying to coax me out of my doubt. “Do you want to know why I asked you on a date?”
I want to say yes but I can’t even open my mouth.
Her eyes soften. “Because it was scary.”
I stare down at my hands. “I… scare you?”
She shakes her head. “Not you.” She exhales, the tiniest tremor in her voice as she says, “I keep a running tally of the things that make me uncomfortable, constantly measuring how much something makes me feel anxious or afraid or… out of control.” She twists a strand of hair between her fingers. “And the only way to make that feeling stop is to do something that scares me. I have to knock on a stranger’s door and demand that they turn down their god-awful music.” She lowers her voice. “Or I have to ask a cute guy out on a date.”
“So it’s like a game.…”
“No.” She looks down. “It’s not a game. It’s how I survive.”
My voice softens, worried I’ve insulted her somehow. “You don’t seem like you’re just surviving.”
She squirms in her seat, sitting on her hands. “I know how to play a role, especially at work. I know how to be a sister and a daughter and a boss. But now…” Her face grows still. “I don’t know how to exist without Angel needing my help at the restaurant or without my little brother and sister needing me to make them breakfast. Lola used to fight me every day for some goddamned Froot Loops, and it used to feel like such a chore but now… I miss it.” She chews on her lip. “I think I like taking care of people. I think I like the feeling of someone depending on me. Because when they do, it gives me a reason to be strong, to not give up.”
It hits me that the source of Pen and her father’s tension might be that they’re the exact same person. Stubborn but loyal, guarded but always putting family first. If Pen’s right about her father only keeping the restaurant open so he can take care of the neighborhood, she’s the perfect successor.
“Why did you do it?” It’s out before I can shove the words back down. I have no right to ask Pen why she lied to her parents, but her heartbreak is such a tangible thing that I have to know why it was self-inflicted.
“Because I was scared.” She looks into my eyes. “I was afraid of living my mother’s life. Being trapped. I know I want to be at the restaurant, that someday I want to open my own bakery—probably, pathetically, right next door. Or maybe even across the street. Somewhere within breathing distance of my father’s food. My food.” She shakes her head. “I should have known my father would never let me.”
“Why not?”
She scratches the chill from her arms, eyes red. “I have no fucking idea, and that’s the worst part of all of this. He won’t talk to me, he won’t explain. So I’m just left to wonder what the hell I did wrong. But I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
She’s on her
feet, heading toward the creek. Lights twinkle across the water, churning with the moon’s reflection. I follow her to the creek’s edge, watching the waves stretch and knead it like dough.
I reach for her hand and she doesn’t pull away. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Pen.”
She pinches her eyes shut.
I think back to that first day, Pen stomping around the kitchen, ordering people around, when just moments before I’d found her in the bathroom, teary-eyed, and wearing the same face she’s wearing now. And I knew it was all an act, that the only reason she was so hard was because of her softness.
“Jesus.” She lets out a tight laugh. “Why do I always have to cry when you’re around?” She looks down at her feet. “Despite what you might think… or what you’ve seen with your own eyes, I actually don’t like to cry. In fact, I hate it. Even if they’re happy tears, even if they’re just an ache in the back of my throat that no one can see. I don’t like the way it feels.”
“The way what feels?” I ask.
She stares into the dark, struggling for words. “The way it feels to feel.” She hangs her head again. “I know that makes no sense. My parents, they used to call me their little statue because I never cried. Not even when I’d fall off my bike and scrape my knee. For as long as I can remember, the moment I felt something I didn’t like, I would shut it off. It helped when I was working at the restaurant, because no one ever tried to pull any shit while I was around but…” She pauses, her cheek between her teeth. “The truth is, my parents were wrong about me being made of stone. Everyone is. I’m not cold because I don’t feel anything. I’m this way… because I feel everything.”
She inches away from me and toward the waterline. “In all the years I’ve been struggling with this, it’s happened twice—the first time when my abuelita passed away, and the second time when I spent the first day alone in my apartment.”
I suddenly realize that Pen isn’t just talking about the pain of losing the restaurant. She’s talking about something deeper, something that’s been following her around since she was a child.
“When I first came to the States, my abuelo enrolled me in this stuffy private school. It was terrifying. I couldn’t understand anything anyone was saying, but for some reason I always felt like they were talking about me. About the kid with the funny accent and hand-me-down clothes and strange lunches that made the classroom smell.” I let out a slow breath. “I refused to speak for almost an entire year, but I had to relieve the tension somehow.”
Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet Page 15
