“Mami!”
“Ay, I’m just kidding, mija. But you do need to eat healthier. No es bueno. You should care more about your figure and how you present yourself,” she mumbles as she rummages through her purse, looking for a compact mirror to double-check that she has no lipstick on her teeth.
I glance over at Maria, who is side-eyeing us while she pretends to clean a table. She is such a little shit.
“How was the rush today, mija?” She walks around the store with her hands clasped behind her back, inspecting the restaurant. This is comparably worse than when the actual health inspector visits.
“Great! Super busy, as usual.” I grit my teeth into a smile. She looks up at me momentarily, fixated on my strange grin, and then returns to her daily inspection. I can already feel the walls of my casual facade crumbling. If there is anything I can’t be, it’s calm and collected. She knows something is up.
“Que bueno, mija,” she says flatly.
I wish I could read minds.
I follow behind her trail like a small bird trying not to lose sight of its mother. She pauses and turns around, causing me to bump into her.
“Cafecito?”
I nod and scamper into the kitchen to pour her some Cuban coffee, which consists of an obscene amount of sugar and espresso. It’s truly delicious. As I walk back to the table where my mother has taken up residence, I see Maria through my peripheral, giving me two thumbs up. I turn to her and give her one middle finger up so she’ll stop hovering. I don’t need a cheerleader right now; I need a miracle worker. I need Walter Mercado to predict how this conversation will go so I can brace myself.
“So”—I put down her coffee and sit across from her—“you’ve heard about Sofia’s wedding.”
“Claro, mija. How could I not? Everyone I know hasn’t shut up once about it on social media. Your cousin Yolanda is a bridesmaid and has already posted photos from the venue. I can’t believe her fiancé bought ese maldito summer camp for her. And they expect only thirty people to show up? What about the rest of the family? It’s just like them. Trying to show off how much money they have and how popular they always were.”
I watch as she lifts the coffee to her nose, taking a few whiffs. Not because she wants to embrace the delicacy of Cuban coffee but because she wants to judge how I made it. I see her nose crinkle slightly before she takes a sip. It’s not good enough for Mariposa, but it’ll do—which is basically the tagline for my entire existence for her.
“Yeah, so crazy,” I encourage. “It’s, like, a whole week-long thing, too.” I move cautiously as I gauge her temperament.
“I don’t even believe it. Who has the time to attend a wedding for an entire week? And they expect the whole family to stay there the entire time? It’s all for show, mija. That’s what they’re always about.”
“Yeah, who has the time?” I repeat awkwardly. “Certainly not us.”
“You’ll do better than that when you get married, verdad? No week-long circus. Just something elegant and tasteful. For me, por favor. You just need to find yourself a good spouse. When are you going to do that, mija?”
“Mami, when do I have the time? I have to run the store, and need I remind you that every single relationship I’ve had, you had something to say about.”
I pause, thinking about my string of failed dates. But if I am being honest with myself, it wasn’t just Mami’s constant nagging that ended them—it was me. I could never make enough time, never give them what they needed, because the restaurant always came first. I was always putting out fires at work, too distracted to focus on anyone else. And then, when things got rough in the relationships, I’d start seeing everything that was wrong with them, as if my mother’s voice had crawled into my head and pointed out all their flaws. I started blaming them for why things weren’t working out—too needy, not serious enough, didn’t understand the pressure I was under. But the truth was, I wasn’t honest with myself about how much I’d pulled away. I couldn’t commit. Not when the restaurant was on the brink of collapse.
It was easier to say they were the problem than admit I wasn’t even trying. And now? The idea of letting someone in again feels impossible. But still…part of me wonders what it would be like to stop running, to finally find someone who could see past all the mess I made and want to stick around anyway. But there’s no time for that. No time for anything except keeping this place alive.
* * *
“That’s because no one is good enough for my perfect daughter. You used to always listen to your mama, you know.” She squeezes my cheeks with the palm of her hands. “Just promise me you won’t have a wedding like that.”
I sense a hint of resentment in her words. As if my being single is inconveniencing her when really, it’s the only thing keeping this restaurant afloat. If I started dating someone right now, she’d try and get me to break it off so that I would be here to watch the place. It’s what she always does. She’ll say they’re taking up too much of my time or don’t make enough money. That I need someone more independent so I can spend more time in the restaurant.
“Sure, Mom,” I say halfheartedly.
As if a wedding is anywhere on the horizon for me.
“So, about the wedding…”
I look at my mother, but she’s sipping her coffee slowly, her face expressionless. I subtly glance over at Maria, who’s hiding behind the counter now, pretending to take phone orders. She nods and fans her hand toward me to urge me to continue. I sigh deeply.
“I think I should go,” I blurt recklessly.
She chokes on her last sip of coffee.
“Why would you do that, Isabella?”
