The idea that she swallowed the story I fed her. That she let him walk away clean. That she would rather live in a lie than face what he actually is.
“Go,” I say, crossing the room and throwing the window open.
Cold air rushes in, but she doesn’t argue. She just stares at me like she’s already gone before she climbs out into the dark.
Chapter 13
Efren
PRESENT
“They’re loving it!” Olivia exclaims, coming to the back of the kitchen where I’m prepping the poblano peppers. “Adrian said you could cook, but I underestimated how talented you were!”
I’d proposed Chiles en Nogadas for the special today— a poblano pepper stuffed with ground beef, pine nuts, apple, plantains and raisins.
“How’d you learn all this stuff anyways?” Olivia asks.
“Jail. And watching a lot of cooking shows.” I shrug.
“I’m sorry you and Adrian went through that.” Olivia places her hand on my shoulder.
My back jerks lightly at the touch before her hand falls, and I walk to the fridge to get more pomegranate seeds. When Adrian proposed the job offer here at Tres Coronas, I debated it for days. I wanted to pursue cooking full-time one day, but it was hard to find a job in my situation.
I’ve despised the Consuelo family, even though Adrian was one of them. He didn’t count because he wasn’t raised around them, and he sure as hell doesn’t act entitled. He also kept his mother’s maiden name, Ibarra. Thalia doesn’t count as she’s now a Macias, and well, Olivia is growing on me too.
She is the youngest daughter of Vicente Consuelo. While his other children settled for titles at Calavera Hotels, Olivia stayed true to her dream of becoming a chef. The atmosphere at Tres Coronas reflects not only her culinary skills but also her leadership. In the short time I’ve been working here, she immediately picked up on my social discomforts and respects my need for space when things get chaotic.
Communication isn’t my strong point. I remember when we were little, and kids my age would cry, and I would stare at them. Confused at how it worked. Most of the time, I just felt numb, roaming the earth in search of something unattainable.
Alma is the only exception; the only person I know to make me feel—empathy? Is that the word? When you want to keep something close to you and never see it hurt? Maybe that is obsession, but still it’s the most empathetic I get.
I never felt that for my parents growing up. Nothing. For years, I blamed it on my adoption. They did too. I could see it in their faces. There were times I’d catch Angela staring at me. Studying me like I was some defective part she couldn’t return. Always comparing me to her golden boy.
“You’re still coming to my dad’s party, right?” Olivia asks.
“Ya, I’m going to pick up my suit tomorrow. I went with a more pachucho style fit.”
“Orale. Muy firme.” She laughs before exiting to check on customers.
As soon as Olivia leaves, my thoughts return to Alma. I wasn’t expecting to have a roommate, but it does make stalking her easier. Especially when I installed a camera system in the house while she was gone. And one in her office. And one in the Calavera Hotels break room, just in case.
Two weeks have passed, and she’s avoided me like the plague. Adrian tried talking me into moving, but the keywordis tried. I’m not one to challenge him on what authority he thinks he has over me. I left the dick comparing bullshit in jail, but I’m not moving unless it’s into his house with him and Mireya and their newborn son. Which I offered to do, but his possessive need to be the only man in her life outdid her being angry at him for the penthouse mix-up. Besides, Alma’s cat and I have already bonded. Can’t do that to Don Cheetos.
For the past two weeks, I’ve followed Alma’s every step. Hacking into her phone, I track her every movement from her morning Nespresso, to her daily text messages, to her friends, the highlights on her Kindle—those are interesting to say the least—to her recent Google searches on pegging.
Interesting.
Alma plays a “good girl.” But here’s the thing, I’ve never cared for the good girl. I want themalas, thesucias, thetóxicas. I want the person Alma is at her core not who she pretends to be in front of her friends. Give me the girl that threatens to fuck up my whole life, slaps me across the face, or goes out of her way to light candles to hex me. That kind of crazy is what I subscribe to.
When my shift’s over, I pack two boxes of food to go. With a sharpie, I write Alma’s name on the front. I pull up my phone, itching to double-check her location, when I see a message across the screen.
Bud
I hope you can forgive me one day.
The message is one of a thousand unanswered. One of his late-night drunk messages begging for my forgiveness. Bud and Angela had spent years telling me lies. Angela painted this pictures of two parents that didn’t have the means to take care of me. It wasn’t until I was detained and eventually deported to Mexico that I found out the truth.
My mother was dead. Her name was Paloma Muñoz, anescort from Tijuana. She was making her way across the border, hopeful that my father would embrace her with open arms. Hopeful that she would have a new life inel norte, one where she could escape the life she’d been forced into. But that never happened. Instead, there in the hot and lonely desert, she was broken, beaten, raped, and left to die.
