by Mia Garcia
Jason squeezed his hand. “It does.” Then he leaned closer. “But you know what feels even better?”
Damn that was a good first kiss. Jason’s hand traveled to Ryan’s cheek, deepening the kiss and Ryan flushed up against Jason, his own hands grabbing the waist of his jeans. Jason walked Ryan home after, hand in hand, identical grins on their faces.
His father dropped a metal pan, and the clatter brought Ryan back from the past, phone still in his hand, looking through Jason’s social feed. There was nothing new, and the last photo Jason had put up was a stack of books with the caption: Essay due tomorrow. Please kill me.
Did Jason look at his feed like this? Did he obsess over every dumb photo Ryan put up? It was all that damn party photo’s fault—the one from Liz’s party, where Blake’s hair had peeked through. Ryan’s heart had leapt a thousand feet when Jason liked it, and more than that, commented: Looks like fun! I like the purple hair on you.
It was the first time he’d messaged since the second breakup, and maybe he should take advantage of it?
Ryan: How is the essay coming along? Still alive?
He hit send before he could stop himself. It was a harmless text, after all. Nothing would come of it.
Moments later his phone buzzed.
Jason: Ha! Almost. You know me, I do my best writing the day before anything is due.
Ryan still remembered the late nights talking on the phone as Jason rushed to finish one more page.
Ryan: Good to see some things never change.
Jason: If it works, it works! I’m really happy you texted, talk to you later if this essay doesn’t kick my ass too much?
Ryan: You know I’m always up late.
Was Jason hurting like Ryan was? Or was he just hiding it very well?
Because Ryan wasn’t hiding it well. And he was trying to. He knew his smiles didn’t reach his eyes, and he knew he should be able to go five minutes without thinking about Jason. If his resolutions were meant to distract him, to force him out of his funk and into the world, they weren’t working yet.
Yes, he’d felt good for a second after kissing Blake—he was outside his own head, at least—but that momentary spark didn’t last. By the end of the week he’d been back to moping and worrying that all the second resolution was going to prove was that he truly had nothing left.
What if he was the exception to the rule that misery produces good art?
He felt his mom move closer to him, and he stuffed the cell phone into his pocket and tried to look less depressed. “Don’t tell him he needs to put the pan in the oven before the water or else it will be a splashy mess again.” Her smile made her eyes crinkle.
“What was that?” His dad looked over to them. “Sabotage?”
“Just talking to my son.”
“So you say.” He cracked a smile. “Get ready for the best flan of your life.”
“I’ve been ready for several weeks now,” his mom countered, arching a brow.
“Patience is on my side. Before I didn’t give it the time it needed in the oven; it was a mistake. I was lulled by the simplicity of the dish, and I won’t make that mistake again.”
He brandished the whisk like a sword, pointing it at the two of them before tackling the mix. He brought the caramel-coated metal mold closer to him and was about to pour the mixture in it when—
“Sieve,” his mother whispered under her breath, and his dad course corrected, grabbing the sieve from the utensil drawer and pouring the mixture through it into the mold. “Looking good, mi amor!” She gave him a thumbs-up before turning to Ryan. His parents’ banter had lifted enough gray clouds that his smile almost reached his eyes. “Nervous about the class?”
“A bit.” Blake had come through with the information, and he’d signed up for a beginners’ class called “Faux Beginners” for people who had let life get in the way of their art. Which was apparently so common it had its own class. “Not looking forward to getting up early for two classes on a Saturday.” His art class schedule fit in perfectly with his Mandarin classes. Yay.
“Ay, nene, ten a.m. is not early.” She smiled. “You used to get up at six when you were a baby. We still can’t get Katie to sleep past nine.”
Hearing her name, Katie smiled then went back to whatever was going on between her dolls and ponies. “It’s a pincer move,” she provided, showing how the My Little Ponies surrounded the dolls on all sides. “Right, Mami?”
“Exactly!” She beamed at Katie before turning to him; she was already bringing out her patented backrub move. “But that’s not it, is it?”
He shrugged, resting his head down on the countertop.
His mom rubbed his arm, and he felt the anxiety try to hold on but lose against his mom’s moves.
“Losing your first love is tough,” she said.
Ryan lifted his head, finding her eyes. “You’ve said that before.”
“I know. It’s still true. Why don’t you try and tell me what you’re feeling?”
He dropped his head again. “I don’t know what I’m feeling.”
“I think you do,” she said quietly as she leaned down so only he could hear. “Whatever it is, I promise you it’s not silly or dumb or whatever you think I’m going to say, okay?”
She squeezed his shoulder until a breath released.
“What if there’s nothing left of me?”
His mother sighed, and he felt her hand reach for his. “I remember that feeling.”
“You do?” He lifted his head.
“I do.” Her smile was soft, and her hand reached out to touch his cheek. “Heartbreak will do that to you. And I know it feels like you think there’s nothing but an empty hole in there, but I promise you, you will mend it.”
He felt his face prick a bit, the beginning of tears. “But Jason.”
“Mira, listen to me. I want you to remember what I’m saying because it may not mean much right now, but eventually you’ll know. Relationships, love, they are extensions of you. They are not all of you. You do not cease to be when they are over. Ryan is still in there, even if he’s a bit hard to find right now.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m your mother.” When Ryan rolled his eyes, she slapped him on the shoulder. “And the fact you are taking that class means something.”
He couldn’t take credit for that. “That’s all Jess’s fault.”
She shook her head. “Jessica is persuasive, but you made the choice to do it.”
“But . . .” Doubt still clung to Ryan like honey; he’d felt it coating his body since the breakup, sticky and impossible to ignore. He paused and took a breath, feeling his mother’s steady hand in his. “What if it just proves that’s gone too?”
“I don’t think it is.”
“What if I suck?”
“We still ate that flan even though it was horrible, didn’t we?”
His father finished loading the flan into the oven, splashing water on the floor. “Now you’re being mean.”
“You put three times the right amount of vanilla in it.”
“I did not.” He laughed, then paused. “Did I put vanilla in it this time?”
With a sigh his mother dipped her finger into the batter-coated bowl. “Yes.”
“Oh good.” His dad smiled and turned to Ryan. “Your doubt will always be there, and it will be the hardest thing to fight because it knows you so well. But there’s no better feeling than proving it wrong.”
“You won’t believe us now.” His mother nodded. “But just keep going. I promise you, you are not gone.”
The hole in Ryan’s heart begged to differ. It was wide and gnawed at his chest. It screamed that the class would be in vain, that he’d put aside his art for love and now both were gone. He was alone.
“You know what also helps?” his father added. “Sometimes when I’m feeling a bit off, I think, ‘What would Ma do?’”
What would his grandmother do? Hadn’t she lost the love of her life? And look at h
er now, conquering the world. The thought brought a spark of life to Ryan’s frame. What would his grandmother do? She’d shake a finger at him and tell him to go paint! That spot on the wall wouldn’t fill itself. She would know all along that Ryan was still in there. She wouldn’t have any doubt.
Ryan clung to that, hearing his grandmother’s voice in his head over and over again. Do it for her, he repeated until it was enough.
Behind them Katie had already massacred the doll army and headed toward the Palace Pets nation. She took no prisoners.
Nora
NORA’S EYES NEVER left the oven as the little macaron domes rose, acquiring their signature crinkled feet. This batch would turn out much better than the last. Though the previous one had tasted delicious, the macarons didn’t rise properly—she’d mixed the batter too much. Not that Hector cared, as he’d already eaten half of the first batch and was dipping the second half in Nutella.
“Nena, tienes un don.” He reached for another misshaped shell before returning to the front of the house. “A gift.”
Nora waved him away, making sure not to take her eyes away from this latest batch. She would not mess this recipe up again! When the timer dinged her heart skipped a beat as she rushed to open the oven door and gently take the macarons out. This batch looked great, perfectly domed tops, cute wrinkled feet, and more or less evenly sized. It felt a bit like cheating to use a paper outline when she piped, but she reminded herself she was still learning.
Reaching for the one closest to her she pulled it off the Silpat, holding her breath because if it stuck it meant she’d taken them out too early, but it quickly came right off. As did the next.
Nora couldn’t help but do a little dance as she set each shell aside. Now it was time to make the filling. It should be Islita inspired, of course. Maybe a creamy dulce de leche buttercream or a papaya puree? She’d made the shell with vanilla extract so it would go with most flavors. She walked around the kitchen, fingers traveling over the stocked ingredients. Should she do a savory macaron? No, macarons weren’t overly sweet, but no one wanted a salted cod one. She could keep it simple and stuff Nutella between the shells, but that would be too easy and her body ached for a challenge.
She hadn’t spent hours making another batch to go simple now.
“Nora.” Hector popped his head through the doorway.
“¿Sí?”
“Do we have any more pastelitos de guayaba y queso back there?”
Nora nodded, knowing exactly where she’d shoved the last tray. She was handing the golden pastries to Hector when she had an idea.
With a turn she flew to the shelves, gathering the guayaba paste and digging out the white chocolate from the pantry.
She set the chocolate to melt and dropped the guayaba in a pot with a shot of vinegar and water to cut the sweetness. To the chocolate she added sugar and cream cheese until it mixed to fluffy buttercream-like peaks. The guayaba took longer to get right. She needed it to be the texture of jam, but she’d added a bit too much water to begin with and had to balance it out with more paste. Then of course, she had to cool it down in an ice bath.
Around her Bomba Estéreo blasted.
It was time for assembly. She held the little cream shell in her hand and piped the white chocolate and cream cheese mixture around the edges, leaving a hole in the middle. There she dropped a bright-red dollop of guayaba, sealing it with another shell. She continued until every shell had its match and filling.
“¿Listos?” Hector waited by the doorway.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough!” He held out a hand for one of the finished macarons and Nora obliged. Instead of simply popping it in his mouth like he usually consumed most food, Hector paused and took a small bite. The guayaba leaked a bit, and she made a mental note to fiddle with the recipe.
With another bite he finished off the macaron, and Nora waited for a verdict.
“Well?”
Hector sighed. “It’s a sin.”
Nora shuffled. “Huh?”
“To keep all that talent locked up!” he followed with a smile.
Nora let out the breath she was holding, feeling the grin engulf her face. “Really? You liked it?”
“Dangerously good.”
Behind Hector a voice came. “Lo que sea dangerously good,” Doña Rodríguez shouted. “I better get a try.”
Hector ducked back to the front, leaving the decision up to Nora. Usually she kept her experiments to herself and her friends, but those adorable little treats made her so proud she couldn’t say no to the request.
She arranged them neatly on a plate, making sure to snap a photo and send to the group along with a message saying:
You better come by before these are all gone!
Nora brought the macarons and her notebook up to the front counter to where Doña Rodríguez waited for her chance to try them. Nora wrote down the recipe for the filling along with a note to try for a thicker guayaba center as she waited for the verdict.
“Bueno, niña,” she started, her face grim then quickly cracking a smile. “¡Esto esta de show! I love them.”
Nora could feel the blush on her cheeks and the swell of her heart.
“How long did these take you?”
“All morning,” Nora replied.
She’d started off the day researching new compostable straws for her continuous crusade (her mother’s word, not Nora’s) of turning La Islita into a more eco-friendly store, when she’d gotten distracted by someone’s post about the new fancy patisserie just a few blocks away and the bright pastel macarons they sold.
Nora had always wanted to retry her hand at macarons. She’d made them once for Jess’s birthday a year ago and not since. Before she knew it, she’d piled the compostable straw samples on her mother’s desk and was pulling out ingredients and tracking down the saved recipe in her notebook.
Now that she thought of it, she hadn’t finished typing up the vendor analysis she’d promised her mother, who would not be swayed by graphic videos of plastic straws jutting out of adorable animals’ bellies. This was business and facts were what mattered, which meant cost analysis. Nora printed out the final breakdown as her mother burst through the door.
“Nora!”
“Hola, Mami.”
Nora waited by the counter as her mother chatted with Doña Rodríguez, then quickly popped into the back to drop off her purse. When she came back Nora had the analysis sheet waiting for her.
“If we can do the individually wrapped one that would be great, plus hygienic.”
Her mother sighed but took the papers. “Not bad.”
“Plus they look fancier but are still cheap. . . .”
“That I like.”
The next chart showed their current orders and how the change would balance out with enough units. The final paper was a photo of a bird with a straw jutting out of its mouth.
Her mother gasped and held it up. “¿Y este? What’s this for?”
“Efecto.”
Her mother rolled her eyes then smiled, which meant Nora would get her straws, and all those little birds that didn’t end up in her mother’s asopao would be safe. She handed back the papers and was about to turn around when she stopped and looked over Nora’s shoulder.
“What are those?” Her mother walked around her, plucking one of the macarons from the plate.
“I made quesito and guayaba macarons.” Nora stood straighter, unable to hide the smile from her face.
“What for?” she said as she took a bite. “Though they are delicious.”
Nora shrugged. “I just wanted to try out the recipe.”
Her mother nodded, finishing up the macaron. Behind them Doña Rodríguez piped up, always willing to offer an unsolicited opinion. “You should sell them! They are perfect.”
Nora beamed. “They still need a little work.” But the thought had crossed her mind; it always did when she tried new recipes. Nora had always wanted to debut
new recipes at the store. To update their chalk menu with Nora’s Postres of the Week! in a bright yellow chalk design.
“You should sell them!” Doña Rodríguez repeated.
It made Nora think back to the photo that had started it all. “You know, they sell them for two dollars at the patisserie a couple of blocks away.”
“That’s indecent,” Doña Rodríguez said, then added, “You should sell them for two-fifty!”
Nora laughed, turning back to her mother. “And you can pretty much keep the shells the same but with different colors and just switch out the insides all the time! We can do a dulce de leche one or a Nutella one.”
Her mind raced for new flavors; she should be writing these down.
“Or flan on the inside.” She closed her eyes as she imagined the delicate custard inside the chewy shells. There were so many possibilities.
“Nora.” Her mother reached for a napkin to dust off the sticky guayaba from her fingers. “You know what I’m going to say.”
She did, but her heart still hurt when she said it.
“It’s not our style.” She placed her hands around Nora’s shoulders. “I love that you’re trying new things, but they’re not for La Islita. We have to keep our style classic. Things your abuela would make.”
Her abuela would make the macarons though; she loved to learn new things. In fact, you could probably go to Puerto Rico and find delicious macarons there, so why couldn’t they experiment a bit?
“Macarons are French cuisine.” Her mother touched her chin. “You understand?”
“Yes,” she said, the lie bitter on her tongue.
The music shifted as Marc Anthony came over the speakers singing about living your life.
Nora continued the afternoon, the conversation still heavy on her shoulders. She put away the macarons after one too many customers asked if it was a new item on the menu, then followed it up with a confused “Why not?” when Nora shook her head. What felt like eight hundred cafecitos later her mother grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Niña,” she said, a giant smile on her face. “No lo vas a creer.”
“What?”
“Guess.”
She didn’t have it in her to guess. “Another quinceañera?”
