She continued to shake her head, but her eyes glistened now. I knew Dallas would never let me or anyone else see her cry, butI also knew her well enough to know when she was trying her hardest to fight back tears.
“You’ve already done so much for me. It’s easier for me to pack up my life and career than it is for you to build your schedule around my fucked up heart,” I added.
“I don’t understand. There are more hospitals and better doctors here in Manhattan. We can even check in the Bronx or in Brooklyn or in Jersey. There has to be another option, Em!”
I exhaled a humorless laugh. “Unfortunately, Cam already found the best doctor in the country for my condition. He is in Champlain, right outside of Windhaven. Thisisthe best option for me.”
Her face crumpled at my words, but I knew she understood.
She let out a shaky breath. “I hate this.”
“Me too.”
After a couple seconds of silence, she looked up at me and said, “Then you go and you fight like hell. You can’t fucking die, Emiliana.” She made her way over to where I was and wrapped her arms around me. “I’ll try to come visit you in between tour stops.” She pauses and then continues, “and when you come back to the city, we can do karaoke again. I promise to let you pick the song.”
Remembering her words makes me smile. The idea of Dallas singing anything other than her usual “Como La Flor” is laughable. I don’t necessarily know if there will be anafter, but the promise of something normal on the other side of all this uncertainty is enough to settle me, at least for a little while.
The train jerks slightly, snapping me back to reality. Immediately, my phone starts ringing on full volume as “Salt Shaker” by the Ying Yang Twins fills the quiet of the train car, earning me yet another death stare from the old lady. I mouth the words “I’m so sorry” as I frantically try to lower the volume and answer the call, silently vowing for the tenth time to change that ringtone.
“Did you leave already?” Cam’s voice hits my ear like a bullet train—no hello, no small talk, just straight to business. I wouldn’t expect anything less from Camilo Diaz.
All three of my brothers are heavily guarded and seemingly angry creatures, but Cam might take the cake as angriest of all. I would say his career as a chef—with the constant high stress and intense pressure environment—simply intensifies his incredibly dark personality.
“Yes, Cam,” I sigh, shifting again in my seat to get more comfortable, which is impossible at this point because of the combination of denim cutting off my circulation and Amtrak apparently thinking padding is optional.
“How much longer?” He seems half-distracted with the loud kitchen sounds clattering in the background—metal plans clanging and the muted echo of someone calling out behind him.
“Relax, Gordon Ramsey. I’ll be there in like…” I glance at the time displayed on the phone screen before holding it back up to my ear. “Seven hours. Give or take.”
“Jesus, Em. You know I could’ve booked you a direct flight instead, right?” His voice is clipped and annoyed. I picture the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder as he paces around, double-checking inventory in a walk-in fridge or perfectly prepping a plate on the pass, cleaning any smudges around the rim, only accepting perfection.
“I could’ve done it myself,” I mutter. “But this is better. More quality time for me and my thoughts.”
“That actually sounds like a terrible idea,” he deadpans.
I snort out a small laugh. “Yeah, well… you’re not wrong. It may have been a mistake.”
He lets out a long, deep sigh, heavy enough to power this train. “I just don’t get why you’d choose the most exhausting and least efficient option of travel when you’re already—” He cuts himself off, but I know where he was headed.
When you’re already not doing great. When your body is fighting you every step of the way. When you could collapse or die at any moment.
“I just wanted to, okay?” I respond quickly, irritated at the thought of suddenly being treated like something delicate and fragile.
There’s a bead of silence on his end and when he speaks again, it’s calmer. “I just—if something happens on that train, I’m not there. And that doesn’t sit well with me.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I’m not completely confident of that, obviously, but I can hear the tension radiating through the phone—the weight of responsibility he always carries like a damn badge—so I try to sound as convincing as possible. He’s already juggling the restaurant, our family, our shared grief, and now me… again. The last thing I want is to be one more thing on his plate—on anyone’s plate.
“You better be,” he grunts.
There is a muffling sound on the phone. “—No, I said medium rare, not whatever the hellthatis. Fucking fix it.”
A pause. A sigh. Then back to me.
“Sorry. Kitchen’s on fire. Figuratively. At least for now.”
“Comforting.”
