Suddenly, Mami’s most pressing worry is the state of my hair and washed-out makeup. A red lipstick materializes in front of my face.
“What are you doing?” I groan, unable to pull away from her death grip.
“You look like death, mija.” She holds my jaw in place with one hand, pressing the lipstick to my lips with the other. “Blot,” she orders, pushing a napkin between my lips. I mechanically obey, zapped of all remaining energy.
The doorbell rings. Mami ushers me out of the kitchen and into the foyer. She tosses aside her apron, glancing at her reflection on the console mirror. Then she takes one last full breath before throwing the front door open like some deranged game show host to reveal… a man. But not just any man—Juan Pablo Bustamante, the son of one of Mami’s oldest friends and my first Atlanta crush. My jaw nearly scratches the hardwood floors.
I first met Juan Pablo over a decade ago. I was an awkward, nerdy, pimple-faced high school senior, swooning over a med-school student six years my senior. Even then, Juan Pablo had telenovela leading-man charm, and the kind of smarts that got him into one of the country’s top med schools. Juan Pablo, with hisshiny college life, his Ultimate Frisbee league, and his summer trips to new and exotic destinations, represented everything about our new Atlanta life Mami wanted us to embrace. But to me, he was always out of reach. The kind of poised young man who’d never bother with a girl still trying to figure out her place in the world.
And now, here we are. Juan Pablo and his mother, Vidalina, stride into our foyer. Mami shamelessly spreads kisses, looking ridiculously abashed when he passes her a bouquet of hydrangeas and a bottle of champagne. A dozen roses eventually make their way to me with more kisses and salutations as we move to take our seats around the dinner table.
I try pulling the seat between Carola and Augusto, but Mami makes a not-so-subtle gesture for me to seat myself next to Juan Pablo. My embarrassed cheeks probably match the red of her lipstick. Blessedly, Augusto pours me a generous glass of wine. Drunk may be the only way to survive this evening.
For most of the salad course, I only half listen. I’m so checked out that Augusto has to nudge me when Vidalina’s questions turn to me and whatever lies Mami has told her about my career. But, unfortunately for my mother, I’m too tired to shine up my life and make things appear less grim than they are. So I tell her that, in fact, she’s mistaken, and I didn’t leaveThe Georgia Timesfor a career in film, but that I was fired because my boss is a snake. Mami glares at me as I pass my empty wineglass to Augusto, and he tops it off.
When it’s time to serve the lasagna, I try to stand and help serve, but Mami pushes me back down, glowering at me behind Juan Pablo, mouthing for me toTALK TO HIM!
I’ll give her this: Mami has brought home a doctor. A pediatric cardiologist who started his own charity, giving access to free life-changing surgery for families in need. He spends six weeks out of the year visiting rural clinics all over Latin America. On paper, Juan Pablo Bustamante is perfect. Sweet. Smart. Well-mannered. So why can’t I muster the energy to care?
My heart whispers that I already know the answer. But my head tells me—too loud to ignore—that nothing good will come from analyzing my feelings for Eli too closely.
At some point, after my third slice of lasagna, I’m comatose on all the wine, noodles, and cheese. Juan Pablo and I run out of small talk, which gives Mami and Vidalina license to exchange a list of our interests. I learn that I’m a remarkable cook,oh-so-talentedwith a thread and needle, a terrific party host, and utterly devoted to my nieces—only the last one is true.
“I tell Juan Pablo he should have his own show,” Vidalina exclaims proudly. “He’s handsome enough to be one of those TV doctors.”
“So handsome.” Mami winks, ogling in his direction.Jesus Christ.
“He just needs a good wife by his side,” Vidalina suggests, cutting her eyes to me. “Someone pretty and bright. And ready to give me some grandbabies.”
Beside me, Juan Pablo fidgets with a low groan. I top off his wineglass, and he thanks me, his expression mortified. As the conversation officially descends into arranged marriage territory, I want to slide under the table, steal the cake, and eat alone while hiding in my room.
“Is it true you like the opera, or is that also made-up?” Juan Pablo whispers beside me. He tilts his head, angling his very high cheekbones until our eyes meet. Only a few inches away, I’m treated to a close encounter with his flawless facial structure—strong jawline, defined brow ridge, well-proportioned nose. Eighteen-year-old me has to resist the urge to giggle.
“That is true,” I acknowledge. “And also true: I would lay down my own life for these three little monsters.” I glance to the end of the table where Rosita and Daniela are absorbed playing a wood block game of tic-tac-toe.
“I have season tickets to the Atlanta Opera,” Juan Pablo says, low enough so that only I can hear. I want to tell him that I, too, once had season tickets to the opera, but the admission that I can no longer afford said luxury is too embarrassing. “La Bohèmeis playing tomorrow night,” he adds, tempting me. “We can grab dinner and get to know each other.” He gazes at our overbearing mothers. “Just the two of us. Out in Midtown on a Saturday night.”
I stare back into those dark telenovela eyes, thinking how easy it would be to be with someone like him, someone who fits perfectly into his own life. Someone who has adulthood all figured out. In spite of my mother’s dubious machinations, I find myself considering his offer. It’s true, I love everything about the opera—the drama, the costumes, the live orchestra. And it’s Puccini, for Chrissake. If you are not sobbing in your velvet chair by the end of Act IV, you’re surely dead inside.
I close my eyes and release the air I’ve been holding, letting my shoulders sag in defeat. Maybe Mami is right. Maybe I should just stop fighting, stop thinking so hard about, well, everything. Maybe, for once, I should just go to the opera, enjoy the flowers, the dinner, and the champagne, and (possibly) even break my sex dry spell with someone who can offer me a real future.With a handsome pediatric cardiologist, Luisa!I hear my mother’s voice cry out.
Before I can give him an answer, a “Mississippi Goddam!” breaks out from the back pocket of my jeans, sending the girls into peals of laughter and cries of “Goddam!”
It’s Eli’s ringtone. The one I assigned him after that afternoon on the connector. It rings again, but I can’t bring myself to answer or peer at the screen.
“Luisa, por Dios,” Abuela chastises. “What is that noise? No phones at the table, mija.”
I take out my phone and turn off the ringer, ignoring the string of texts and missed calls from Eli. He’s been trying to reach me all week, surely to apologize. But the last things I want or need right now are his hollow regrets. Holly’s words from our call have been replaying in my head on a loop:He’s just using us. We can’t trust him. It’s over.
I turn off the screen and tuck the phone away.
“So, are we on for a date?” Juan Pablo asks beside me.
“Sure,” I say, trying to smile like I mean it. “A night at the opera sounds like a dream.”
CHAPTER 24Holly
The morning that Kyle, my smarmy landlord, showed up at my front door to evict me, I was still in my pajamas, wrangling Aidan into his booster seat for breakfast. Kyle was wearing that stupid black puffer vest that he always wore—even in the dead-ass heat of summer—with his company’s logo stitched on the chest:KW Housing Solutions. In pressed khakis and spit-polished loafers, Kyle always looked a little too smooth. And behind that clean-shaven facade and neatly stitched logo was a heart as cold as stone.
