Tori
AFTER THE FRONT door slams shut, I flop onto the bed and groan. Somehow, I pull myself out of the dark abyss and gather my toiletries.
Minutes later, the doorbell rings, and I freeze. I’m not even sure I should answer it, but whoever is out there is resting a finger on the doorbell and isn’t going away.
I stomp to the door and peek through the side window. An impeccably dressed black man with the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen is standing outside. Now he’s resting his hands in the pockets of his pants, his expression pinched and impatient.
I crack open the door. “Yes?”
He smiles, and his dimples appear to say hello as well. “You must be Tori.”
“Are you Julian?”
“I am. Is Carter here?”
“He’s not, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.” I open the door wider. “Would you like to come in?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Sure. But I do have a key.”
My face warms. Of course he does.
Julian enters Carter’s home like he’s been here a million times before. I laugh to myself, because he probably has. He drops an envelope on the sofa table and sits in one of the accent chairs across from the couch.
I stand by the sofa table, unsure what to do. “We had a fight,” I blurt out.
Julian’s eyes widen, and then he grimaces. “If Carter were any other client, I’d pretend I didn’t hear that and point out the great weather we’re having. But he’s my best friend, too, so I’m here to listen if you think that would be helpful.”
I take a seat across from him. “He doesn’t trust me.”
He nods. “There are very few people who fall into that camp for Carter.”
“Yes, I can see why. But I thought I was among them. In that camp. And then he did something that revealed I wasn’t. I’m not sure I can get past it.”
Julian fiddles with his tie. “Guys like Carter are naturally magnetic. He’s a nice guy who does stupid shit sometimes.”
“You sound like him.”
“I prefer to think he sounds like me.”
My mouth twitches. “Fair enough.”
Julian studies the view from the living room window. “I’m not sure it’s my place, but I’ll give you my advice anyway. It’s easy to get drawn into Carter’s circle. But after a while your life might revolve around him, and that’s not healthy. He’s a bit of a lost soul himself, so it’s not wise to lose yourself in him. He won’t grow if you don’t challenge him.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
Julian turns his head, and his eyes bore into mine. “I am. And I’ll be the first to admit I don’t always get my own advice right.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Since we were kids. We’ve been best friends for over fifteen years.”
“How’d you end up being his agent?”
He shakes his head. “You ask a lot of questions.”
I shrug. “I’m an inquisitive person.”
Julian returns his gaze to the scene outside. “My parents were entrepreneurs, so I grew up in a household that valued business acumen. An MBA seemed to make sense. When I graduated, I thought I’d head to New York for a few years, work for a consulting firm or something, and then join my father’s company when I was ready. Around that time, Carter found out his then agent was skimming him, taking more than the customary commission and underreporting the pay he was getting for jobs. He asked me to look at his books, his contracts, everything. It snowballed from there. Before I knew it, I was interning at a talent agency in California.”
Julian’s professional and authoritative, “together” in a way that inspires confidence. Carter’s lucky to have him in his corner. But as Julian alluded to moments ago, there’s an undercurrent of discontent between them that worries me. Julian’s life revolves around Carter—and I suspect he’s not happy about it.
“What happened to his former agent?”
Julian grinds his jaw before answering. “Simon Cage is a sleazy piece of work, and I wish Carter would let me do something about him. When Carter accused him of stealing, he ripped Carter a new one, told him he was and always would be a B actor and he didn’t need this shit from him. Started badmouthing Carter with casting directors. It’s the reason Carter’s been more successful in television, it’s a different community.”
He leans forward and glances at his phone. “He’s not responding to my texts. I’m going to let him be. Work beckons.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Every day is a workday.” Julian rises, and we walk together to the door. “It’s great to meet you, Tori. I hope we’ll see each other again.”
I can tell from his tone it’s as much a question as it is a statement. “Maybe.”
Before he opens the door, he turns back to me. “Don’t misunderstand anything I’ve said. I owe Carter a lot. If it weren’t for him, I’d still be a junior agent somewhere, fetching coffee and copying contracts. But you’ve got to carve out your own space, otherwise you’ll get sucked into his world and have no space of your own.”
There’s no concern there. I’m not getting sucked into Carter’s world. I’m returning to mine.
RETURNING TO MY world isn’t easy. Even less so now that Carter’s not around. I’d planned to bring him to my father’s birthday party this week, but instead I’ll be going alone.
The party is no small deal. Each year, my mother closes Mi Casita during a weekday on or close to my father’s birthday—Saturdays are moneymakers and can’t be spared. She throws a serious bash with a live band whose members are my father’s good friends.
My job is to bring alcohol. In my family, a standard liquor order consists of lots of rum and two cases of Budweiser. If you’ve been tasked with supplying drinks and forget either of those items, you might as well turn around and not show up.
Because I refuse to lug a case of beer when I’m wearing a dress, I bring the alcohol to the restaurant Wednesday morning, figuring I’ll return to the apartment after work and change before the party starts. Holding a case of beer against my stomach, I kick the door to get someone’s attention.
I peer inside and see my mother and sister at a table, a mountain of green plantains resting between them.
Bianca rises, unlocks the door, and holds it open for me. “Just one case?”
“No, just two hands. The other case is in the trunk.” I give her a saccharine-sweet smile. “Good morning, Bianca.”
“Good morning, Tori,” she says in a singsong voice that sounds remarkably like “Fuck you, Tori.”
Surprise, surprise.
I set the case on the counter. “Hola, Mami.”
She smiles and continues to score the green plantain in her hand. “Hola, mijita.”
After bringing in the remaining liquor, I rinse my hands in the sink behind the counter. “What are you making? Mofongo?”
My mother glances at me. “Your father’s favorite.”
It’s my favorite, too. What’s not to love about fried green plantains mashed with garlic and pork cracklings? “Can I help?”
As usual, Bianca rejects my offer. “It’s okay, we’ve got a good system going.”
Translation: We don’t need or want your assistance.
I’d usually throw up my hands and leave, but I can practically feel Carter pushing me in their direction. I purse my lips and blow out my breath softly. “Actually, I don’t have anything else to do this morning, so I’ll peel.”
Bianca purses her lips but doesn’t object. I suspect that if my mother weren’t here, though, she’d kick me out the door.
I settle into my seat and grab a plantain and a knife. Just as Abuela taught me, I score the plantain along the seams, making sure not to cut too deep, and then I cut off the heads and tails before carefully peeling back the skin.
My mother and sister stop what they’re doing and watch my handiwork, perplexed expressions on both of their faces.
I scan the table behind them, which is filled with ingredients for various dishes. “Where’s the salt water?”
Bianca rises. “It’s in the back. I’ll get it.”
“¿Quién te enseñó cómo hacerlo?” my mother asks.
“Abuela Clara taught me how.”
When I was a teenager, Abuela moved from the house she’d once shared with my grandfather in Carolina, Puerto Rico, to a small bedroom in my parents’ home above Mi Casita. The transition did not go well. She missed her backyard, where she’d raised chickens and tended to a small garden. She resented not having her own kitchen in which to cook her meals and stuck her tongue out behind my mother’s back when Mami tried to clean up after her the few times Abuela cooked in her presence. Most of all, she hated the noise, whether it was an ambulance siren or the steady thumping of a bass beat from a car driving past our building.
But for the few years she stayed with us before she died, Abuela and I spent many afternoons together while my mother and Bianca worked in the restaurant. This was when she’d sneak in our kitchen and cook, and I’d help, cutting vegetables, sifting and rinsing rice, and peeling potatoes.
If Abuela were alive, I’d be in the kitchen with her today, pounding out my frustrations on whatever root vegetable she needed for the dish she was making. I’d tell her about Carter and the mess we’ve made of our relationship. I’d tell her that I have no idea how to turn my dreams for my career into a reality and that I’m nervous about my future.
“Is that what you two were always doing up there?” my mother asks.
I smile and nod. “Yes. And watching Wheel of Fortune. I was responsible for returning the kitchen to its original state.”
“I thought so. You were always so heavy-handed with the air freshener.”
Bianca returns with a pot of salt water.
After slicing the plantain in one-inch pieces, I use my knife to slide the chunks from the cutting board to the pot, and then I pick up another plantain, ready to score and peel. Holding my knife in midair, I take a deep breath before I speak. “We should do this more often.”
“We didn’t think you’d want to be bothered,” Bianca says. “You’re never around anymore. And then you drop by and expect us to be thankful for your presence. What’s it like having a life outside this restaurant? I’d love to know, Tori. What’s it like to go to college? Please, educate me.”
My mother grasps Bianca’s forearm. “Mija, you don’t want to work at the restaurant?”
Oh, wow. She’s the self-professed princess of Mi Casita. I never imagined she resented that position.
Bianca bows her head and slumps her shoulders. “I do. It’s just . . . No one ever asked me what I wanted. The responsibility just fell to me. And then I kick my ass working here, and my little sister comes back from college with her fancy fitness degree and criticizes our food. This is our culture, Tori. I’m sorry if you think it’s incompatible with your”—she makes air quotes—“healthy lifestyle.”
“I’m not criticizing our culture. I love this food as much as you do. I just want us to be able to talk about Papi’s health without everyone shutting down or thinking that I’m looking down on them. Can we all agree that Papi shouldn’t be having fried foods all the time?”
“Sí,” my mother says. “Of course.”
“Yes,” Bianca says in a low voice.
“Abuela talked about our food all the time. Even little things, like how she used to share her best mangoes with the family next door. How to pick the perfect one. There are so many wonderful ingredients we can use. I just think maybe we could expand the menu, so Papi can enjoy more of the foods he loves. Abuela had so many recipes she passed on to us. Pescado y chayote.”
“Asopao as the main meal,” Bianca adds.
“I know them all,” my mother says as she stares wistfully at the bowl of plantains in front of her.
I reach over and link my pinky finger with hers, a move that’s a throwback to my youth. “Maybe I could help you write them down—for me and Bianca. Maybe share them online?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, mija,” my mother says. “Those are our family recipes.”
“Yes,” my sister says. “But I suppose there’s nothing wrong with sharing them with others.”
“And we could also be creative ourselves,” I add. “I think it would be fun to come up with new ways to prepare dishes. Experiment more with boiling yuca or baking empanadillas, you know? Give Papi a few different options.”
“I never imagined you’d want to do any of this,” my mother says. “But I’m very glad you do.”
Bianca nods.
“This is important to you and to our family.” I gesture around us. “I want to be a part of this. And if I question something about the food, please know I’m doing it because I care, not because I want to criticize. Okay?”
They both nod at me, and the cloud that usually hovers above me when I visit Mi Casita breaks. “Next, I’ll work on getting Papi to take my class.”
Bianca shakes her head. “You’re asking for a miracle there. Good luck with that.”
My father walks in at that exact moment, and we all laugh hysterically at the table.
“What?” my father says. “Have you been talking about me behind my back again?”
We exchange knowing looks, and then my mother rises from her chair and pulls my father toward the kitchen. “Vamos a comer frutas,” she says to my father.
“Fruit?” he asks. Then he turns back to me with a smile. “This is your fault, isn’t it?”
Bianca and I laugh together at the table. Then we each return to scoring plantains, until she clears her throat.
After blowing out a long breath, she says, “I know I haven’t always been the easiest sister to have, and I can’t promise we’ll ever be the best of friends, but I’d like to try to get us back on good terms. Okay?”
“It goes both ways, you know. And I’d like to try, too.”
We give each other tentative smiles. Then she tips her head to the side and studies me.
“What?” I ask.
“Um, I saw the picture of you and Carter Stone in that online magazine, the photo that was taken right outside.”
My gaze darts to the ceiling and back, and then I set down my knife. “Yeah, I saw it, too. The paparazzo didn’t even throw us a bone and include Mi Casita’s signage.”
Bianca rolls her eyes. “I don’t care about that, and I know you don’t care about that, either. But I saw something that I thought was interesting.”
“What?”
“Did Abuela ever tell you her theory about how to tell if someone cares about you?”
I place my hand on my chest and nod. “Yes, yes. You’ll always know if someone cares, because you’ll see it in their eyes, right?”
“Right,” Bianca says. “I couldn’t see perfectly, because it wasn’t a great angle, but I’m pretty sure the way Carter was looking at you in that photo comes close to what Abuela was talking about.”
The man has my sister on his side. That’s . . . scary. But I must admit she’s right. Even when he doubted me, he cared. Nothing he did undermines my belief in that fundamental truth. Carter’s not perfect, and neither am I. But we care for each other—deeply. Now I just need to figure out how to make my way back to him.