“I won’t,” I say again, even though it isn’t really an answer to anything. I still don’t know what I should do next, especially now that I’m not doing it alone.
Or maybe that’s just an excuse too. Maybe I won’t let myself start looking again until I’ve exhausted every single one. Or until I stop making them.
“I’m sorry,” Pen finally says. “I shouldn’t have said anything. After you did all this…” She presses her forehead to my chin. “It’s amazing. It’s the most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me.”
I’m still not sure if she believes that last part, but I don’t want to spoil this moment, especially if it means being transparent in the process. I want this to be about Pen.
I reach into my pocket, pulling out the keys. She perks up at the sound.
“There are some conditions.”
Her mouth quirks up. “Conditions…”
“Even though I’d like to take credit for this entire thing, there are actually a lot of people who helped make this happen, and therefore a lot of people expecting free food for the rest of their lives.”
She rolls her eyes. “Haven’t even opened up shop and you’re already cutting into my profits.”
“I’d argue, but we both know Lucas can eat.”
Her eyes widen. “Lucas helped?”
“Everyone at the restaurant pitched in. Officer Solis too. When the people in the neighborhood heard it was for you, they wanted to give whatever they could.”
Her eyes well up again. “I can’t believe so many of you kept this a secret.”
“It wasn’t easy.”
Her face darkens. “None of this has been.”
I know she’d rather be at her father’s restaurant, the truck not a substitute for standing in that kitchen and not a solution for all of the broken things about their relationship. Maybe it’s nothing more than a distraction for both of us.
“Things are going to get better,” I say, trying to turn this grand gesture into an escape for her too.
“I know I should believe you.” She stares out the order window again. “But I can’t shake this feeling.”
“Are you worried about El Martillo?”
She sighs, rubbing her temples. “I know you trust Officer Solis, but if the system worked, they would have locked him up a long time ago.”
“And if we back down now, nothing will change. But if we stand up to him, if we keep living our lives, if your father keeps opening those doors, and if you keep making your food, maybe something will. Or maybe everything will.”
Her eyes glisten. “I want to believe you,” she says again.
“You don’t have to believe me. You just have to believe in yourself.” The moment’s slipping away from us and I rush to bring it back. “Now, what do you say we break in this new kitchen and you bake me your famous coconut cake?”
Pen smiles, eyes flitting from me to the oven. “I think I’m feeling more of a sopapilla cheesecake vibe. Or maybe some fried ice cream, or margarita cupcakes.”
I press my lips to her forehead. “Make it all and then sell everything and become a millionaire.”
She laughs. “Ah, so that’s what this is really about.”
“It’s about you.”
Pen pulls me in close. “No. It’s about us.”
27
Pen
I STARE INTO THE side mirror, my reflection spliced with the logo on the side of the truck. The paint still smells fresh, lemon cleaner wafting from the dashboard as the air conditioner blows my hair back against the seat.
I feel like the captain of a small ship—instinct driving me against the current. But I’ve been swimming upstream my entire life and I know how to navigate treacherous waters. One breath, one stroke at a time out into that dark and scary thing.
But even if I get lost, I still have those stars. The ones I spotted over Xander’s shoulder as he kissed me behind Signora Caterina’s house. The ones I see in his eyes every time he tells me my food is magic. He wants me to summon it here, to feed the neighborhood bits of bravery and hope. To grow it inside them like tiny seeds.
I don’t know if the truck is just a glorified mascot, if my food will give people enough strength to turn their backs on El Martillo for good. But if my father’s restaurant is people’s safe haven, how wide of a safety net can I cast on wheels?
“So, I guess this means you can start making deliveries outside of a three-foot radius?” Chloe approaches the truck, rests her arms against the passenger side window.
“You kept this a secret. For weeks.”
“Hey, at least it was a good one this time.” She comes around to the driver’s side. “Get out.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
She wrenches the door open, shooing me to the back. “You’ve got food to prep. Just tell me where you want to park. Remember, time is money.”
I head to my workstation, thinking about all of the time and money Xander spent over the past few weeks. On me. Not just because he believes in my food, but because he’s still struggling to believe in himself. To believe that he deserves to be loved. That’s what he’s so afraid of finding. Not his father. But proof that he was worth leaving in the first place.
As long as he avoids confronting his father face-to-face, he’ll always wonder. Until that wondering hardens into something real, the doubts and fears turned to truths. That’s what he was willing to risk every day that he spent money on this truck instead of paying Detective Freeman. Peace. He deserves it more than anything, and as I scratch items and prices onto the chalkboard in front of me, I decide that, with my food, with what little magic I may possess, I’m going to give it to him.
“Head toward La Puerta Abierta,” I call to Chloe in the front seat.
“Scratch that.” She looks back. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Why not?”
She opens the driver’s side door again, leaning out. “Because everyone’s coming here.”
I look out the window to see people moving up the street, barefoot or on bikes.
I quickly crack open cans and jars, Chloe pulling things from the bags I got at the supermarket. As soon as Xander left for work, I went on a supply run, keeping it simple like when Mrs. Damas first asked me to cook her something from my dream menu. But this isn’t a practice run. That dream menu is posted on the outside of this truck and in less than five minutes, people will be ordering from it and expecting to feel what they do at Nacho’s.
Make that less than one minute.
“Tell them the cocada’s up first. It won’t take long to harden.”
“Okay, form a line, please.” Chloe tries to wrangle the crowd like she does on a busy night at Nacho’s. “Kitchen’s just getting warmed up.”
“I want cupcakes.”
I hear hands against the side of the truck, the crunch of tiny shoes on gravel as kids jump to see over the order window.
“I want cookies!”
“Good morning, girls.” Mr. Cantu is first in line. He tips his hat. “Nice day for a grand opening.”
I come over to the window, smiling and shaking my head. “You painted this thing, top to bottom, didn’t you?”
“Anything for the Prados.” He blushes. “How do you like the logo?”
“I love it.” I beam, reaching for his hand. “Thank you. So much.”
Chloe raises an eyebrow. “And in exchange, you’re hoping for the friends and family discount, am I right?”
He pulls out his wallet, handing Chloe some cash. “No discount necessary as long as you promise to put Pen’s alfajores on the menu.”
Chloe hands him a coffee filter full of cocada.
He rests an arm against the order counter. “And one other thing.”
I crack an egg into a bowl. “What’s that?”
Mr. Cantu lowers his voice. “I’ve heard some talk. About El Martillo.”
I lower my voice too. “What about him?”
“That he’s still around. That h
e’s not happy.”
“Well,” I say, trying to sound tough, “we’re not very happy with him either.”
“He wants the restaurant, Pen.”
My heart drops.
“He’s always wanted the restaurant. And not just so he can knock it down and replace it with some expensive apartments or a Chick-fil-A. He wants it because it shelters. Because it saves. Because as long as your father’s around, El Martillo’s no longer a last resort.” He leans closer, eyes earnest and full of faith. “But he’s not getting it. We won’t let him.” He stands a little straighter. “When that SOB finally shows his face again, you don’t dare let him run you out of this neighborhood. ¿Entiendes?”
My hands sweat; a confrontation with the neighborhood bogeyman seems like not just a possibility but an inevitability.
“You won’t be standing alone.” Mr. Cantu gestures to the growing line. “Remember that.”
As I look out, I see the faces of so many people who only know me because I’m Nacho Prado’s daughter; people who know my mother because she’s taken care of someone they love. But even though my name isn’t on the sign outside my father’s restaurant, the smell of my food wafting from the open order window of the truck is still a siren song. A call to arms.
I turn to Chloe. “Let’s rally these troops.”
She takes a few more orders while I finish the topping for my dulce de leche panqueques. I whip the cream, watching the tiny ripples shift like sand as I try to summon the things I want folded into every bite. Hope. Courage.
While cakes sizzle on the flattop, I switch to biscochito, working defiance into the dough. I pound optimism into the pan dulce and coax compassion into the cajetas. Then, as we fill orders, people congregating with my food in hand, I watch those things rest on their lips before catching on their tongues and sliding down, down to their bellies, hitting their hearts along the way.
The sight hits mine too, as I realize that the magic isn’t in the food itself. It isn’t in the flavors or the technique or even the way it makes people feel. It’s in the way it brings people together.
They continue to come in waves, working me into a rhythm. By late afternoon, I’m finally starting to get my timing down.
“I want two of everything.”
I turn at the sound of his voice, my father standing in the shade of the truck. I don’t know how long he’s been watching me work, and I worry about what he sees. His worst nightmare. Another mistake.
But then I remember how Xander said Angel was letting him steal employees for a few hours during their shift to help him work on the truck. There’s no way they were able to pull that off without my father knowing about it. How long did he know about it? What does it mean that he didn’t try to stop it?
Chloe nods. “You got it.”
We both start plating and wrapping things up.
Chloe rings up the total, and I shake my head.
“How many handouts have you given away today?” My father places a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. “Lesson number one: ‘Free’ is no way to run a business.”
I want to remind him that free meals are a staple at Nacho’s Tacos and that he’s been running his “business” like that for years. But then again, Nacho’s isn’t really a business at all. What if that’s not what I’m trying to build either?
“What’s lesson number two?” Chloe asks.
My father tears open the foil on his pancakes before folding one into his mouth. He closes his eyes. “Lesson number two…” He opens them again. “Take care of people.”
I come down the steps. “Doesn’t that contradict lesson number one?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes.”
He turns to go and I grip the doorway, fighting the urge to follow him, fighting the fear that’s holding me back. I jump down onto the sidewalk and reach him just before he gets in his truck.
“You knew about this.”
It isn’t a question, and he doesn’t respond.
“You paid employees to help Xander work on the truck. Why?”
He loads the food into the passenger seat. I expect him to ignore me again, but then he rests his arm against the open window, pausing to look back at the food truck one more time. “Because it’s yours.”
Up ahead I can barely see the street sign for Monte Vista Boulevard, Nacho’s just on the other side. My eyes burn and I pretend to shield them from the sun.
“And the restaurant’s not.…”
He shakes his head, sighing, sick of having this same conversation. Except it’s never a conversation. It’s always me begging for a piece of him and him telling me no. No. It’s always no.
“You want those walls? You can have them.” He faces the end of the street too. “You want that kitchen? It’s yours. But not the debt, Pen. Not the people who are hungry. Not the late-night phone calls that someone’s son or daughter was picked up by the police, that they’re being deported.” He looks me in the eye. “You can’t have the pain, Pen. The worry. I won’t let you.”
It isn’t a question, and he doesn’t wait for me to respond. Instead, he gets in his truck and drives back in the direction of the restaurant.
When the sun sets against the interior of the truck, my menu scratched out and the line finally gone, Chloe and I are sitting on the floor, back-to-back like after my move when we were both so exhausted we could barely hold ourselves up. And I can’t stop thinking about what my father said. That I could have the parts of the restaurant everyone sees—the building and the menu and even the customers. But not the troubles they bring with them.
And I couldn’t tell him… that the reason I love the restaurant is because it’s a life raft. I love that whether people come in hungry or broken or hopeless, they always leave full. Not because they always have money or something else to give in exchange, but because he can’t let them leave empty-handed. Because he cares. But for my father, caring is a curse. A curse he refuses to pass down to me.
Instead, he wants me to have something of my own.
Because he believes in me.
Because he loves me.
Chloe takes my hand, and I realize my eyes are wet. When her face comes into view, so does everything else—the truck, the mess, not just on the floor but on our faces too—and as I brush the flour from my cheeks, it hits me that I get to wake up tomorrow and do it all over again.
“What are you smiling about?” Chloe groans. “We’re filthy.”
“We are.”
She nudges me. “But it’s better than that stupid felt mustache?”
I exhale, settling into the filth. “So much better.” I lean my head back, spotting the moon as it appears through the order window. Because it’s mine.
Chloe reaches for the shoebox we used as a cash register. She drops it in my lap, bills flying. “How’s that for validation?”
I scoop them up. “Pretty freaking sweet.”
“Look at you making a pun.”
“Maybe I’m in a good mood.”
“Because all your dreams are coming true?”
I count out the money for Detective Freeman’s fee. “Yes.”
And now it’s Xander’s turn.
I don’t expect Detective Freeman to still be in his downtown office when Chloe and I pull up. The money’s in an envelope, Xander’s name and contact information on the front, ready to be stuck under the door. But when I spot him through the window, reading glasses on as he pores over a stack of papers, something tells me to go inside.
“This won’t take long,” I say.
Chloe’s staring down at her phone. Her big date with Angel’s tonight.
“How many times have you texted him?” I ask.
“Four.” She blows a strand of hair out of her face. “That doesn’t seem desperate, does it?”
“No. He should have answered after the first one.”
“It’s getting late. What if he’s bailing?”
I don’t know what to say. Bailing is absolutely something he would do.
<
br /> “Maybe they’re slammed at the restaurant. He’ll probably call you by the time we get back to the food truck.”
I’m not sure if Chloe believes me; maybe all of the awful things I’ve said about Angel’s relationship potential over the years are finally sinking in. I should be relieved, but I can’t take the heartbreak on her face.
“He’ll call, Chloe. He wouldn’t have asked you out if he wasn’t interested.”
Her cheeks warm, a smile cutting into them. “Yeah… I’m a catch.”
“Amen.”
Chloe follows me to the door. I let out a deep breath, knock twice.
Detective Freeman pushes it open. “Can I help you?”
“Uh, yes. My name is Penelope Prado. I’m a friend of Xander’s.”
He scratches his chin, thinking. “Xander… Xander Amaro?”
I nod.
“I haven’t heard from him in several weeks. Is everything all right?”
“He’s fine. He… actually doesn’t know I’m here.” I hold out the envelope. “I wanted to pay his fee for your services.”
He doesn’t take it, backing up instead. “Would you two like to come inside for a minute?”
We follow Detective Freeman into his office. He leans against his desk, looking from the envelope to my face as I try to appear as earnest as possible. I’m surprised he isn’t jumping at the cash, but maybe that’s actually a good sign.
“You said Xander doesn’t know you’re here?”
I shake my head.
“Look, I’ve got to be honest with you. The voice mail Xander left me was pretty loaded. It’s obviously a very sensitive situation. When he didn’t call to arrange paying for my retainer, I assumed he just wasn’t ready.” He pauses. “And when people aren’t ready, it’s not a good idea to force them, which is why I haven’t called him about getting the process started. That’s a decision he has to make.”
Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet Page 23
