Abuela cut her off. “No? So who forced you to insult him and turn him down? Who forced you to believe el George without following up?No mija, no. It was your fault, perdón, pero noeres la ultimate Coca-Cola en el desierto.” (Sorry but you aren’t the last Coca-Cola in the desert.)
She knew Abuela was right, and Lizzie knew that some of the perceived slight was her own ego and need to be acknowledged. She was the one acting like a brat. And she couldn’t just take it back now.
Abuela was still talking—something about how she’d sized George up the first second he walked in, how she’d warned Lizzie about raising crows, how grandchildren never listen—but Lizzie only caught fragments.
At least, she thought grimly, the next two weeks were inventory.
Night shift.
6 p.m. to 3 a.m.
Will wasn’t likely to set foot in the warehouse after six.
Perfect.
She could hide in the dark with the pallets and pretend the last forty-eight hours had never happened. Thank youJesusitofor small miracles.
Lizzie was not a night owl. She also wasn’t a menial-task, counting-beans person; so she really wasn’t a night-shift-inventory-in-a-lonely-warehouse-while-she-avoided-the-shame-of-her-employer person. But here she was at 6 p.m., starting what would be the beginning of a two-week sentence. Milo, the security guard, greeted her warmly; then she met Jose, Karl, Dino, and Max—four college kids who worked nights for tuition remission. They showed her the basics: unload boxes, shelve product, update counts, and load tomorrow’s orders if time allowed.
Inventory was like the warehouse’s alter ego. The DC warehouse was buzzing, lively, and was all about what you could move out. Inventory was repetitive. Soul-crushing. Itwas the setup for everyone else’s success. She hadn’t analyzed this process before her proposal, so the first days were spent watching Max put box after box on a shelf, then make a note. Or Jose explaining that he counted product A, then found product A on the sheet, and wrote the number, as if this would shock her to her core.
Breaks were the guys sharing class horror stories or arguing about Call of Duty load-outs. They were polite, but she was clearly the visiting aunt they tolerated. She missed Carlota’s fire, Ignacio’s booming laugh. This felt like punishment. Or self-flagellation for her rotten judgment. The one bright spot was Milo—sixty-something, ex-cop, gave off wise-tío energy.
Third night in, she confessed the hours were killing her. The next night, and every night after, a freshcoladawaited on her desk.God bless you, Milo!Lizzie thought.
At home, Lidia was in full lovey-dovey delirium. George picked her up in a different luxury rental every time. Lizzie had to bite her tongue while Lidia gushed about how he waited five whole minutes when she changed shoes or offered to buy her breakfast. Every sentence out of Lidia’s mouth seemed to start with “George says,” or “When George does that…” Saint George could do no wrong.
Thankfully, night shift meant Lizzie avoided seeing George, and she only had to deal with Lidia for an hour or two at most before she left. At least it reinforced that she and Abuela had been right to stay quiet. No way would Lidia have listened to them about George. And Lizzie consoled herself with the idea that Lidia, while growing as an influencer and making good money, didn’t make enough to be preyed upon by the likes of George Wick. At least not for financial gain.
Then, at the end of week one, Carlota texted:
Third-party auditors are coming on Monday. Verifyingyour numbers. Sorry, amiga. Corporate thing.
Lizzie’s stomach dropped. Will didn’t trust her anymore. The rejection had flipped a switch. She wasn’t worried about the numbers—she knew they were bulletproof—but the implication stung worse than she expected. She remembered Will saying she was worth every penny. Remembered the thrill when Jim told her Will had said a directive from Lizzie was a directive from him. She’d liked that feeling. Liked it more than she had realized until this moment. Now it was gone
Milo walked by just then, seeing her looking downcast. “Lizzie, everything ok?”
Lizzie smiled reassuringly. “Yeah, I’m just tired and hungry, I think.”
On Monday, when Lizzie came in, Milo smiled widely at her and held up a white box. She knew what was inside by the smell before she saw them. Golden, buttery crust, and a sticky-sweet filling;Pastelitos de Guayaba.
Lizzie’s mouth watered. “Oh my goodness, yes!” She grabbed one and took a big bite. The tangy, sweet filling burst into her mouth, and her eyes rolled back. “Mmm! So good!” She said, her mouth full.
Fifteen minutes later, stomachs full and laughing together, Lizzie was feeling better than she had in over a week. The magic ofpastelitos.
“Thank you, Milo, this and thecoladashave been such a welcome surprise.”
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it, but I’m not the one to thank for any of that.”
“What do you mean?” Lizzie said, confused.
“I haven’t been bringing you the coffees, and I didn’t bring the pastries.”
Lizzie was genuinely shocked. She had just assumed it was Milo and never even thought to question it. Her head spinning, she asked, “Then who?” But as soon as the words left her mouth, she knew.Will.
“He’s been coming in around 5:30, bringing the coffee and checking to see how you’ve been doing. But I get the impression that he doesn’t want you to know.”
“Why?” Lizzie asked, wondering about his intentions.
