People wear friendship bracelets, and Miriam likes throwbacks. If she’s not watchingBuffy, she’s searching for random shows, likeThe Secret World of Alex Mack. The series aired the year I was born and had something to do with inherited superpowers. Or was it chemical goo? I asked if Alex Mack was like Spider-Man and got the side-eye.
“The team would probably want bracelets too,” I add. Crafts are a surprising way to destress after a game. Fucking too, but that comes with more strings.
“Tell you what. Get the materials, and I’ll swing by tomorrow with Aeris.” D points at me. “You’re paying my baby.”
“Consider it an investment in her college fund.”
Miriam is out of town with her sister for the weekend. Catching up on sleep, laundry, and making sure no one blows up Steel House with the microwave sounds like a plan.
Chapter 20
Miriam
“There are these things called restaurants that cook food. Traveling with fish in your purse is insane.”
“It was in my suitcase, not my purse.” A storage bag of the red snapper I cleaned, scaled, and marinated in another bag for safekeeping.
I cut my eyes at the passenger princess sitting on the counter. The kitchen in our rental at the mountain resort is a galley with pea-green cabinets. Marcela is taking up what little counter space we have with her big mouth and her bigger ass.
“Do you want to help with dinner or run your mouth all night?” I scold with a spatula in hand.
The only time she lifted a finger was to uncork the wine bottle. Did she offer me a glass? Of course not. She gets to sit pretty in a full face of makeup, a wrinkle-free pantsuit, and heels.
I pour the fish stew over rice into a bowl with a side of plantains and make one for my sister. She’s free to clown me about the hour drive to Ellicottville with red snapper in my bag, but guess who saved us from spending forty dollars each on a salad?
I question who raised my sister to desire overpriced food with a sprinkle of salt and pepper. We come from a long line of aunties who cook for every occasion.
Quinceañera? Cooking.
Wedding? Cooking.
Funeral? Cooking.
Family reunion? Cooking.
Baby birth? Cooking.
Someone’s in town? Cooking.
I picked up the tradition spending summers in Panama after our mother moved back. She would flip if she heard Marcela scoff at homecooked meals. She certainly did when I video called her to snitch.
Así que tú tienes plata? Compra tu marido y dame nietos.
Patricia Rojas will never not ask about the grandchildren my sister refuses to have. At some point I’ll be in the hot seat, but I’ve been dodging bullets thanks to school.
My job situation is still up in the air. I haven’t given Kieran a response. On paper, the position and salary are great, but something doesn’t feel right. I don’t know what or why, but I don’t want to make the wrong decision.
“Tu sabes lo que estás haciendo en la cocina,” Marcela says after a spoonful of fish and peppers. She shakes her freshly pressed hair with a nod.
“Thank you.”
If I close my eyes, we’re in our mother’s kitchen with the windows open to welcome the saltwater breeze from the ocean. It’s twenty degrees outside, a far cry from Panama’s dry season.
“Are we going out? You promised,” my sister reminds me at my groan.
“And you promised me a low-key weekend with sister bonding.” I grab my bowl for a second helping.
“We’re doing that.”
