“Just like that?” I ask quietly.
“You ready?”
I down my drink in two gulps. Antonio pays Leah and helps me with my coat. I get a forehead kiss before he interlaces our hands to leave the bar. A chill wind blows through the bare branches waving gently along the street. Colorful row houses light up with nightlife in a neighborhood that barely sleeps.
Antonio dropped me off at the bar before he parked the car at his condo up the block. He told me he has a surprise for us later, but he got caught in a work call before he could give any more details. I’m tired already just thinking about staying up late in this dress.
“There go those wheels turning,” he teases.
“Can you at least give me a hint about what we’re doing?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out. If you must know, we’re swinging by the house first. I have something in the oven.”
What?
“Are you sure it won’t be in flames when we get there?”
He scoffs and puts a hand over his heart. “I take offense. Can’t a man bake his woman dessert without involving the fire department? I madeconcolón, thank you. I can flambé.”
“You burned the bottom of a pot of rice, and my mother helped you save it. We had to air out her house for two days.” I crack up remembering Antonio’s first visit to Panama over the summer.
We spent two weeks with my mother, whose exact words were, “If you don’t marry this boy, I will.” She fell in love quick with her “son-in-law” and is coming up in March for his first home game of the season. She’s yet to visit me or Marcela in Buffalo but actively texts with Antonio throughout the week. He’s earning bonus points for learning Spanish.
“I know what I’m doing,” he says. “I left the plantains in the skillet on three before I came to get you.”
“Youwhat?! You can’t leave hot oil unattended.” I snatch the keys from his hand and sprint up the stairwell.
Don’t ask me why I thought this was smart. There’s an entire elevator to prevent me from wheezing or puncturing a lung. I don’t exactly have Iron Man stamina.
The triathlon, not the Avenger.
“Doe!” Antonio calls from the lobby.
Who gave him the bright idea to flambé anything?
“We’re never watching a baking show together again!” I shout back.
With sweat kissing my skin and the edges of my hair reverting back to its natural curl pattern, I reach the top floor. I made it six flights of stairs in platform heels and a wool coat that’s about to incinerate my insides.
I’m a glistening mirror ball.
My breaths come in gasps as I thrust the key into the lock.
“You’re fast as hell,” Antonio says from behind me. Of course, he’s breathing properly.
“You.”Wheeze. “Don’t.”Wheeze.“Touch.”Wheeze.“Appliances.” I push open the door and stumble inside to find pink and white rose petals.
D’Angelo’s “Untitled (How Does It Feel)” spills over the sound system into the kitchen and living room, which is somehow not engulfed in flames.
“What?” I pant.
I blink at the white floating candles in cylinder vases that line a path from the front door through the living area. Hundreds of white balloons float over the space, which is covered in rose petals. Tied to each gold ribbon is a polaroid of Antonio and me.
Our first selfie in the ER four years ago.
A photo of me laughing on the phone with my mother in the home improvement store after he broke my shower curtain.
Vegas with the Steel.
