Silvana leans closer across the table, squinting her eyes as if it would make her vision clearer. It feels like she can see right through my dress and find that it’s just tattered rags sewn together by my mice friends.
“Doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen from him. Must be old,” she finally says.
“You mean like the Prada dress you’re wearing from four seasons ago?” Valentina chimes in.
She doesn’t look up from the wine she’s been swishing in a circle. Her long, slender fingers envelop the glass, keeping it comfortably secure in her grasp.
Silvana huffs in her seat and returns to stabbing pieces of lettuce from her side salad to shove into her mouth.
“Thanks,” I murmur loud enough for Valentina to hear.
“Anytime,” she says, pressing her leg against mine lightly.
I can’t help but wonder if Valentina was trying to defend me or just wanted to shut her ex up for once. Either way, I feel grateful. I was sure I was just about to get exposed as the liar I am, especially considering the dress I’m wearing is a random one I found at TJ Maxx a year ago and hung up in my closet, never to be worn.
How does Valentina even know Silvana’s dress is four seasons old? I didn’t even know there were seasons for clothing. It’s easier to fake it with accessories; a designer bag, even if it’s not real, does most of the talking for you with all those obvious emblems. But clothes? They’re more subtle. No logo to flash, no easy shortcut to convince people you belong. I usually don’t have to think about it—I spend my days in my usual work clothes. Dior and I aren’t exactly on a first-name basis.
I glance down at my dress, one I brought from home instead of from Maria’s closet. I had tried on a few of her pieces, but none of them felt like me. They were stunning, sure—sleek cuts, luxurious fabrics, and designer labels—but I felt like I was walking around in someone else’s life, wearing their choices, not mine.
This dress, at least, is mine. It might not have cost more than my monthly rent, but I know every thread and seam. I know how it moves when I walk, how it feels against my skin. It feels safe, even if it doesn’t scream “luxury.” Still, I can’t help but wonder if my family’s trained eyes can tell the difference. The thought makes my throat tighten. I don’t know if I can keep pulling this off.
I grab some water to keep my throat from closing up. Immediately, a waiter appears and refills it.
“Oh, thanks,” I mumble, startled by his attentiveness.
I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less from an event organized by Sofia.
The main course starts to come out of the main hall, where several servers walk down in unison, holding plates. One of the servers places a dish in front of me. It’s the duck confit, and it looks divine. In fact, it looks like something I probably couldn’t afford to eat otherwise. Maybe because it’s duck, and I wouldn’t even know where to get a duck. Your local pond? It could be because Valentina does an excellent job at plating dishes to make them look like literal works of art. It’s nothing compared to the Cuban sandwiches I serve at La Mariposa. Even our fanciest flan doesn’t compete. I might as well be serving slop in comparison.
“So, mija. How’s business?” Rosita asks in between bites of the duck. The pieces are so soft they practically melt in your mouth.
I try to swallow a bite before speaking. This is my time to shine. Or lie. Mostly lie. Oh God.
“It’s going well.”
I hear Maria snort silently next to me, but I ignore her.
“We’re looking to expand to help grow our customer base and footprint in our small New Jersey area. In fact, I was hoping to talk to Luciano a bit about it.”
“I’m looking forward to hearing your big plans for the new space,” Luciano adds.
I muster a small smile, trying to project confidence. “Actually, you’ll get a little preview tonight. It’s something special, and I think it’ll give you a taste of what La Mariposa is all about.”
Luciano raises his brows, intrigued. “Now I’m even more curious about your restaurant.”
“It’s so great to see you and Mari are finally doing well for yourselves,” Maritza says.
Her words are nice, but the tone has an edge to it. Almost as if she’s trying to remind me how poor we once were. Well, still are.
“Yeah, it’s interesting. La Mariposa, you said it’s called?” Silvana says as she scrolls through her phone.
“That’s correct.”
“Weird, your social media channels are pretty bland. Not a lot of followers.”
“So?” Maria pipes in, offended since she’s the one who manages most of it.
“I’m just surprised that someone about to expand their business has such a small footprint on the internet. Where does your marketing come from?”
