Crashing into Her

by Mia Sosa

  I burst out laughing, just as she intended.

  “You are a badass,” she continues, “and we’re not going to let your father’s games throw you off track, okay?”

  She’s right. I know this. My father wants to force me to make different choices, and he’s doing what he can to facilitate his objective. Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t be at all shocked if he offered to help me, fully intending to back out once I got here. He would call it tough love, but love isn’t manipulation, and this latest stunt is exactly that. I slump down into the chair and rest the back of my head against the top rail. “No, you’re right. It’s just been a long day, and my badass mojo is spent.”

  “Well, let me give you some of mine, then.” Lips flattened into a threatening grimace, she rises and strides with typical purpose to a black credenza, where she throws open a cabinet and riffles through it. I don’t have enough energy to be angry, but she’s happy to be my surrogate, and I love her for it.

  “Okay, let’s figure this out,” she says, finally producing a fresh notepad and a ballpoint pen.

  When she sits again, I notice the pen features the studio’s logo. Fancy.

  “What did your father promise to pay?” she asks, pulling me out of my random thoughts.

  “He said he’d help with rent for the first year or so. I can cover that with savings, but that’ll mean I’ll need to table my plans to buy a used car.”

  With a wave of her pen, she dismisses that concern as though it’s no big deal. “Plenty of people don’t drive in LA.”

  “Oh yeah? Do you know any of these”—I make air quotes—“plenty of people?”

  She shrugs unapologetically. “Nope.”

  “Figured you’d say that. But a car would make a big difference to a transplant like me. I’m still furnishing my apartment, and I’d like to explore everything this town has to offer. A car would make all that easier. Anyway, if I can find some way to supplement my income from time to time, I’d be in good shape to rebuild my car fund. Problem is, my schedule here is all over the place. If I try to get another job, what will I tell them? I teach class at 10:00 a.m., 11:00 a.m., then again at 3:00 p.m. some days, and at 5:00 and 7:00 p.m. every other day?”

  She writes “irregular schedule” on the pad. “And technically, you’re on probation here, so I can’t give you extra hours. Not yet. Because if I did, I’d have a mutiny on my hands. Dammit.” After writing “no additional hours for now,” she drops her forehead onto the table, her mass of curls obscuring her face from view. “This sucks.”

  “Tori, this isn’t your fault, so please don’t go there. I came into this knowing I’d have to prove myself before you’d give me a full schedule. And it’s not like I’m worried about paying rent or anything like that. As much as I’d like one, a car is a luxury for me.”

  She lifts her head and regards me with sad eyes. “Your father’s a butthead.”

  I can’t help laughing at the juvenile description, partly because it’s true and partly because I know she wants me to.

  “I hesitate to ask this, but . . .”

  “Ask,” I tell her.

  “What about your mom?”

  “That’s a no.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  “Well, the easiest answer is that my mother’s not swimming around in extra cash. But the more complicated one is that I don’t want to summon a shitstorm. I already mentioned to her that he’d agreed to help me. If I told her he reneged on that commitment, she’d go nuclear.”

  Besides, I’m not in the mood for I-told-you-so’s. And if she knew he’d acted exactly as she’d predicted, she would remind me that in the hands of the wrong man, love is a weapon he’ll use to control you. My problem is, they’re always the wrong men. “This is a lot to take in, especially after the shit Nate pulled. I just want to figure this out without a man’s tentacles trying to orchestrate my choices.”

  Nate, my ex-boss in Philly and occasional lover, who wouldn’t release me from my obligation to give thirty days’ notice because he thought he could change my mind about leaving in the interim. Before that, it was Jason, my first serious boyfriend after college. I thought we’d get married someday. He did, too, but he wanted it to happen sooner than I did, and his brilliant idea to accomplish his goal was to steal my birth control pills and try to convince me to have sex without a condom. I found my pills in his jacket when I was searching for the apartment keys he’d borrowed. Needless to say, Jason and I never married.

  “Okay, your mother’s not an option. Let’s dispense with the simple stuff, then. If things get tight, you know I’ve got you.”

  “I appreciate that, but my whole point in moving here was to establish myself in a new city, so I need to come up with a long-range plan. My father’s shenanigans made me realize something I hadn’t really focused on.”

  “What’s that?” Tori asks.

  “I moved across the country to do exactly what I’d been doing in Philly. I’m just doing it in a place with a higher cost of living.”

  Tori’s face falls. “You’re selling this move short, you know. This is LA, dammit. I’m here. Your father’s not here. You won’t have to deal with Nate anymore, either. There’s a lot about this move to be excited about.”

  She’s not wrong, but I can’t ignore that niggling feeling inside me that I should be doing more. Proving once and for all to my father that I know what I’m doing.

  Tori writes “production stuff” on the pad. “I could ask Carter about any leads in the movie industry. Maybe he’ll know of some temp work that could give you a quick influx of cash.”

  My mind flashes to my interaction with Anthony this afternoon. “Actually, there’s something you might be able to help with. Your cousin? Anthony?”

  “Yes, I know who he is,” she says with a smile.

  “He owns a stunt training company, right? Or co-owns it?”

  Tori writes “Anthony” with a question mark after his name. “He’s an instructor, but he doesn’t own any part of the business.”

  Interesting. Anthony’s reaction to my inquiries suggested he was the person with the power to decide whether I could attend the boot camp, but that’s not the case at all. “Then Kurt’s the one I need to convince.”

  “Well, no. Kurt doesn’t make a move without consulting Anthony first. That’s just how they operate.” She furrows her brows. “But what would you need to . . . oh. Really, Eva? Stunt training?”

  “I know. Wacky idea, right? But you can’t deny I’m a decent candidate.”

  “I can.”

  “Haters gonna hate.”

  She scrunches her eyebrows. For an instant, I consider telling her they’ll stay that way permanently if she isn’t too careful, but she’ll know I’m trying to distract her.

  “Eva, that’s a completely different career,” she says. “And I’m sure it’s dangerous. And there’s so much involved in pursuing it, how would you even know where to begin?”

  I swipe the pen out of her hand, slide the notepad in front of me, and write, “Research stunt training.”

  “You’re serious about this?”

  I shrug. “I’m not sure, but I could be. If it’s something I want to pursue, would you put in a good word with your cousin?” Referring to him by his relation to her is a good way of recalibrating my brain: He’s not sexy. He’s not ridiculously generous in bed. He’s not as outrageous as I am. Nuh-uh. He’s just Anthony.

  She waves my question away. “You don’t have to ask. Of course I will. But I wouldn’t be your best friend if I didn’t point out that there are like a thousand other things you could do besides stunt training to supplement your income.”

  “Sure, I know that, too. This just feels more meaningful. I’d be able to grow that car fund and show my father that my physical training isn’t a negative thing, that it can open doors for me. And if I’m being honest, I kind of want to prove him wrong in a spectacular way.” I crouch down in my seat and wince. “Is that petty of me?”


  Tori purses her lips and nods. “Frankly, it’s petty as fuck. Which worries me.”

  “I understand. You’re skeptical. I’d be skeptical too if you came to me with an idea like this. Besides, I’m just thinking about it.”

  “While you’re thinking about it, consider this.” She snatches the pen back and reaches over to write “Anthony,” underlining his name three times.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’d have to work with him.”

  Oh. That. Well, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’m as uninterested in picking up where we left off as Anthony says he is. And we’re adults. That should be enough. “And that means . . . ?”

  “I have it on good authority that he’s a different person on the job. A real hard-ass. That has a lot to do with the bozos who show up and think they can become stunt performers just because they used to backflip off their roof onto the trampoline in their backyard. He says he gets a lot of those, and it’s a waste of his time. You’d be putting yourself at his mercy, and that’s apparently not somewhere you want to be.”

  The unintended innuendo in her words isn’t lost on me. Honestly, being at Anthony’s mercy doesn’t sound all that bad. No, no, no. I can’t go there. One-and-done is my new motto. I need to approach any future dealings with Anthony in a detached manner, push any memories of the masterful way he swivels his hips when he’s on top way back to the dustiest recesses of my mind. “Oh, come on. How bad can he be? He’s such a chill guy.” And based on what I’ve seen, that’s certainly true. Still, a frisson of unease runs through me as I remember the way he rejected my attempts to get more information about the school.

  “Not about his work, though.”

  “That may be, but all I’m asking is that you soften him up a bit for me.”

  “Done.”

  “And as for Anthony’s attitude, I’ll deal with it.”

  “Famous last words,” Tori says under her breath.

  “Whatever, bitch. Mark my words, then. Anthony will be handled.”

  “Okay, we’ll see about that. In the meantime, we can’t have your father’s news souring your first week in LA. How about you come over for dinner Friday? Decompress a bit. Carter would love to see you.”

  I’m not in the mood to be social—in fact, this might be the first time in history that I’m experiencing sensory overload because . . . LA—but a quiet evening with Carter and Tori promises the kind of low-stress environment I need. Anything more than that could be dangerous—for the people around me.

  Chapter Six

  Anthony

  The savory scent of my father’s picadillo hits me the moment I open the front door. That must mean he’s making empanadas. Hells yeah. I take the stack of mail with me down the front hall to the kitchen, where I find him rolling out dough, a pair of black-rimmed glasses like the ones I sometimes use for driving resting on the tip of his nose as he studies a recipe. That’s unheard of in this house.

  “Hey, everything okay in here?” I ask.

  He doesn’t look up when he answers. “Not sure. I’m making one of the recipes in that book. Trying to support my sister and nieces.” Sighing, he shakes his head and shrugs. “Baked empanadas. Who ever heard of such a thing? Bueno, vamos a ver.”

  That book refers to the collection of recipes my Tía Lourdes and her two daughters—Tori and Bianca—published recently. It takes the traditional dishes my aunt serves in her Philadelphia restaurant and updates them for people wanting to incorporate Puerto Rican food into their healthy lifestyles. My father’s proud of them but skeptical.

  He tsks as he sprinkles salt on the mountain of dough he’s made. “I don’t know, mijo. It’s called Puerto Rico Over Easy, but maybe they should have called it Puerto Rico Under Salted. Who in their right mind puts just a teaspoon of salt in their dough? I think I’d rather use Goya discos than stuff my precious carne in this.”

  He’s contemplating using store-bought empanada dough? Shit, that’s saying something. “Give it a chance, Pop. Tía Lourdes knows what she’s doing. And maybe you have to taste it all together before it’s the real deal.”

  He mutters under his breath, indignation apparent in the set of his shoulders and the wrinkles in his forehead. Still, he presses a large cookie cutter into the dough. Chacho, even convincing him to use that technique was a feat. Before I introduced him to modern kitchen tools, he used a small plate to form the discs. “This size is perfect. No fancy tool’s going to do better,” he’d say. I love the man, but he’s stubborn as hell.

  “How was your day?” he asks, finally looking up.

  “It was fine,” is all I can manage. Truth is, I don’t know what to make of my day. Eva’s unexpected arrival threw me off center. It’s as if my brain can only perceive her in one context—my cousin’s sexy, outspoken friend who I thought I’d only see occasionally at a family gathering years after I’d put our amazing night together behind me—and it’s refusing to adjust to the new reality: That sexy, outspoken friend isn’t going anywhere, that night is still fresh in my mind, and now I need to navigate my interaction with her so I don’t come off like a dick. I’m doing a poor job so far.

  “Must have been exciting,” he says, watching me curiously. “Any of that mail for me?”

  The question reminds me that I haven’t looked through the stack yet. “Not sure.” I round the kitchen counter and pull the garbage cabinet open, sifting through the envelopes and glossy coupon books and tossing the junk mail in the recycling bin. Something pings in my chest when I see the letter from the bank. What’s inside isn’t a mystery, but seeing tangible proof that my mortgage application was declined dredges up a memory I’d rather not revisit: the day my mother told me she was leaving Papi for good and asked me to take care of him.

  I can’t suppress it, no matter how hard I try. “You’re a man now,” she’d said, taking my hand and leading me to sit on our couch. My father was in the kitchen, whistling while he stuck candles in a cake so my parents could celebrate my eighteenth birthday with me. It wasn’t my actual birthday—that would have been too cruel. No, she’d waited until the next day, after I’d partied all night with my friends.

  I’d puffed out my chest a bit, figuring she was going to share some motherly wisdom; instead, she told me she’d held on as long as she could, but it was time for her to go, and moving back to San Juan was the easiest way to make a clean break. She loved him, she’d explained. Neither one had cheated on the other. They hadn’t bickered or disrespected each other. She just didn’t love him as much as he loved her, and she’d always felt smothered. “He’s going to need you. So be there for your father like he’s been there for you. You two, together, will be fine.” And just like that, she mentally checked out, throwing away twenty years of marriage before I could even make a wish.

  I understand her a little better now. Experience does that to you. Now I know a simple truth: In every relationship, you run the risk of either being hurt or doing the hurting. No relationship can achieve that perfect balance, that point when two halves love each other equally. In my parents’ case, my father loved my mother more, and he’s still paying the price.

  Still, I’ve never viewed caring for Papi as an obligation simply because my mother placed that burden on my young shoulders. It’s what I would have done even if my mother had never sat me down for that talk. But the letter in my hands reminds me that there’s more to be done so my father and I can be “fine.”

  “Dear Mr. Castillo,” it reads. “Thank you for applying for a home loan with Ridley Financial Services Group. Unfortunately, we regret to inform you that your application has been declined for the following reason(s) . . .”

  I might as well emblazon the reason on my chest like a modern-day scarlet letter: “Insufficient stability of income.”

  Fuck.

  I’m thirty years old, and the bank has deemed my income insufficiently stable. Never mind that in some years, I can easily clear six figures. It’s the other years that matte
r. The years when steady stunt work isn’t available. Or the ones when a production budget can’t absorb the cost of having both Kurt and me on set. If I can’t convince him to make me a partner in the business, I’ll be stuck in this adulthood limbo forever. And I need to raise this issue with him soon. For now, though, I rip up the letter and shove it under the junk mail in the bin. “Nothing for you, Pop.”

  Unfortunately, bending down sends a wave of pain from my sternum to my shoulder. I rub my chest in a circular motion and wince, the sound catching my father’s attention.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Get hurt on the job?”

  Hardly. “No, a woman elbowed me in the chest in that self-defense class I teach.”

  “You taught her well, then.”

  “Nope, she already knew what to do.”

  He tilts his head and puckers his lips. “So why’s she taking the class?”

  “She’s not in the class. I just . . .” I’m not up for explaining this tonight. “Never mind. It’s not important.” Knowing I’ll distract him if I sample his picadillo before the flavor’s developed to his exact specifications, I scoop some onto the wooden spoon on the stove and blow on the meat.

  “¡Para! No está listo,” he says, trying to bat my hand away.

  “That’s okay. I just want a little taste.” Damn, that’s good. As usual, the chunky ground beef is seasoned to perfection. When I chew, a burst of onion, tomato, and garlic flavors hits my tongue like Pop Rocks. That doesn’t mean I won’t mess with him. “Did you put cilantro in the sofrito?”

  “Of course.”

  “Might want to add some more.”

  He frowns at me. “Is that so?”

  I take a few steps before I mention the other missing ingredient. “Oh, and you might want to add a little more salt. Seems Tía Lourdes isn’t the only who undersalts her food.”

  The dishrag hits me in the back as I run out of the kitchen.

  “These empanadas need to bake for thirty minutes,” he calls after me. The sneer in his voice is plain when he says the word bake. In this house, baking an empanada is a high crime punishable by ten years in food prison.