Tori
ONE DAY. ALL I wanted was one day to regroup from expending so much energy resisting Carter. Instead, he’s here, in my parents’ restaurant, with his family and a trough of food that will undermine his training goals faster than I can say jackass.
Jackass.
Okay, maybe it’ll take longer than that.
I want to be annoyed, but I also can’t deny the warmth that spread through me when I first saw him sitting at the table. How does he do that? How does he affect me simply by being in my presence?
I stride through the hall to the storage area past Mi Casita’s restroom. I scan the space to make sure we’re alone, and then I whirl around. “What are you doing?”
He scratches his temple, bringing his freakishly long fingers into view. Images of those digits curling around my thighs and squeezing them tightly flash through my brain. Madre de Dios, I’m in trouble.
Carter drops his hand. “Um, I’m eating. Is that a problem?”
“Carter, you know you shouldn’t be eating like that while you’re training.”
“But if gaining weight is the goal, I can at least indulge in this from time to time, right?”
I make the sound of a buzzer for several seconds. “Wrong.”
Carter slaps his hand against the wall, leans over, and laughs. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
My lips quirk up at the corners. I can’t help being a little silly around him. “But seriously, do you have any idea how hard it is to gain muscle in six weeks?”
“I have a clue, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“That’s right. It requires discipline. It requires forgoing fatty foods. It requires your commitment to working your ass off to reach that goal, which, may I remind you, is your goal, not mine.”
He threads his fingers through his hair, and then he rubs his neck. “Okay, okay. But here’s the thing. I can’t go back to the table and not eat. My mother’s stressed out about my skinny frame as it is. So what if I put in an extra session tomorrow? You can punish me for indulging.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Fine.”
With a twinkle in his eyes, he mimics my stance. “Good.”
I drop my arms. “You’re such a pain.”
He stuffs his hands in the front pockets of his cargo shorts and bumps my shoulder with his. “Admit it,” he says as he dips his head to get me to look at him. “You’re starting to like me.”
It’s a flippant comment, not unlike the others he’s made, but I absorb it differently this time—because it’s the truth. Damn, damn, damn. He’s right. I like him. But that’s as far as my admiration will go. Anything more would be foolish. “C’mon, let me introduce you to my mother.”
He smooths his hair and runs his index fingers over his eyebrows. “Do I look okay? This is a big deal, meeting your mother.”
“You look fine, and it’s no big deal.”
“Does she know who I am? Will she be impressed?”
“Unless you’re a star in one of her telenovelas, Denzel Washington, or an anchor on NBC10, she won’t know who you are. No worries there, believe me.”
He frowns. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
“Guess you’ll just have to rely on your sparkling personality to charm her.”
His smile returns with a vengeance. “That I can definitely do.”
We walk into the kitchen, and the first thing I see is my father in the corner chomping on frituras. My mother’s slicing onions as Bianca chats with her. The energy in here is happy, but my disappointment in my father threatens to ruin the atmosphere. He can make his own choices. Enjoying my mother’s food in moderation won’t kill him. I try to talk myself out of calling him out, but in the end, he’s my father, and I’d rather have him around and annoyed with me than not have him with me at all. “Papi, what are you doing?”
My father spots me and drops the plantain chip in his hand onto his plate. After wiping his mouth with a napkin, he gives me a pleading expression and pinches his thumb and forefinger together. “I just wanted a little taste.”
“It’s never a little taste with you.” Then I face my mother and Bianca. “Why are you letting him do this?”
My mother suspends the knife in midair and stands next to my father. “Do . . . what?”
“Letting him eat whatever he wants,” I answer.
“Here we go,” Bianca says with a roll of her eyes.
They all stare at me as if I’m hysterical, but I know I’m not. We almost lost my father, not once, but twice. Still, they refuse to learn from those hellish experiences. I could rant about how Papi’s cholesterol numbers haven’t improved. I could question him about his high blood pressure. But I’m forced to skirt around one of the issues that might make a difference in his health. So I can’t tell them he should lay off my mother’s cooking.
Not when this food has been passed on to us from generation to generation.
Not when this food is the staple of my mother’s restaurant, her life’s work.
Not when this food is the way my mother communicates her love to us.
It’s such a central part of who we are that if I tell my father he shouldn’t eat it, they’d perceive it as a rejection of our culture, my mother’s love, and her sacrifices. But it hurts like hell to hold this inside.
I take an audible breath while I clench my fists at my side.
Behind me, a hand reaches for mine and squeezes.
Carter.
It’s a small gesture, a show of support, but it means so much to me because I’m not standing on the other side of the divide alone. Somehow, he knows I need him. Deciding to disrupt the strained moment, I squeeze back and pull him next to me. “This is Carter. He’s an actor, and I’m training him.” I turn my head and meet his gaze. “He’s a really good guy.”
Visibly relieved, my mother and father speak at once, both saying hello and welcoming him to the restaurant. Mami even invites him to my father’s upcoming birthday party.
“I’d love to,” Carter tells her, glancing at me with a smile as he does.
Bianca speaks to my parents in Spanish. “Él es una persona famosa.”
A hushed conversation ensues between them. They have questions, and she has answers, and wow, she knows a lot about Carter’s career.
I study Carter, who stands still under their inspection. “Sorry. They’re speaking Spanish so they can talk about you. It’s a thing. Don’t worry, though. Bianca’s report is flattering.”
Carter preens. “I’m picking up a few words here and there.”
Finally, Papi uses his cane to stand and grips Carter’s hand in a firm handshake.
“Mucho gusto,” Carter says.
My father straightens, and his eyes go wide. “El gusto es mío.” His smile is broad and welcoming, and I’m struck by how handsome my father is. He wears his age well, his salt-and-pepper hair curling a lot like mine, and he’s got scarily perfect teeth. We almost lost him. Twice. And I don’t want to lose him ever.
“I have to go,” I say in a quavering voice. After grabbing my duffel bag off the floor, I rush out of the kitchen, shutting out the sound of my parents’ voices as I make my escape. I don’t cry often, the day of my father’s stroke being the last time I’ve done it in recent memory. But the tears are welling under my lids now, and I bow my head to avoid the questioning eyes of anyone who might see my face.
As I pass Carter’s family, I mumble, “It was great to meet you,” and dash out the door.
Outside, my vision is hazy as I rifle through my bag for my car keys.
“Tori.”
Carter stands next to me, his hands hanging from the pockets of his cargo shorts.
“I’m okay,” I say, wincing when my voice snags on the second word. I clear my throat and give him an “I’m fine but not really” smile. “I have to teach a class in an hour, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Do you need me to take you?”
“No, I’ve got my car over there.”
He raises his face to the sky and closes his eyes, the long column of his neck exposed to the sun. Would it be weird if I bit him there? What am I asking? Of course it would. What is even happening to me?
“Tori, I can spot an actress a mile away.”
I try to laugh, but my voice isn’t cooperating, and a sigh emerges from my lips instead. He tugs my hand and pulls me close, bending his knees to meet my glistening gaze. Before I can stop him, he swipes his thumbs under my eyes and wipes my tears. “Can I ditch my family and join you?”
There’s so much in my head it might burst. My father. My family. Carter. I know he means well, but I wish he’d stop being so fucking nice. Don’t be sweet, I want to scream. Don’t disarm me by showing you care. And I feel wretched for it. Because who thinks this way?
I shake my head. “Wouldn’t your family be offended if you leave them?”
“Their bellies are stuffed, and they’ve been riding in a car for three and a half hours. They’ll be napping in my condo within the hour. Don’t make me listen to my father’s snoring. Please.”
I wrinkle my itchy nose and clear my throat. “Okay, I’m teaching at Open Arms Community Center. It’s at . . . Carter, quit staring, break out your phone, and take this down.”
He jerks to life. “Right.” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and jots down the address I give him.
“Don’t call attention to yourself, and wear a hat.”
“Why would you want to stifle all this gorgeousness?”
I shake my head. “The class starts at two.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Don’t be late. The instructor gets cranky when someone’s tardy.”
His mouth curves into a delicious smile. “I have an easy time picturing that.”
I clip him on the shoulder, and he rubs the spot, pretending that I’ve hurt him.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be on time.”
He spins around to head back in, but I grab the back of his shirt and stop him. His eyebrows lift in surprise.
“Thank you,” I say.
His face softens in understanding, and all I want to do is hug him.
He squeezes my hand again. “It’s no big deal.”
And as I watch him slip back inside, I realize he’s wrong. The way he shows he cares? It’s a big deal to me.