“Oh shit, she talked about her father,” Maria says, whispering again.
“Maria!” I shout.
“Sorry, shutting up.” She mimes a zipper being closed on her lips.
“I know, Val. It’s okay. I really do forgive you. And I hope you forgive me. I—don’t want to end things like this.”
“Or at all,” Maria whispers, even softer this time.
“I don’t either. But I respect your decision and will be here if you need me. Like the investigation or any troubles you have. I’m always here for you, Isa.”
I smile softly. “I know.”
Valentina looks me in my eyes, her gaze unwavering. Her mouth opens slightly, as if she’s about to say something. My breath catches in my throat as I anticipate her next words.
“Val! Let’s go find our seats.”
I look over to see Silvana waving Valentina over to their table. My stomach twists, and a poisonous rage is starting to ruminate inside me. Of course, they’re still seated together—it’s part of the original seating plan. I can’t believe I let this person—this monster—take the one thing that has made me happy in such a long time. I want to run over there and snatch Valentina away. Maybe even expose Silvana and Maritza’s story before she can expose mine. But I can’t. Not only will I be known as the poor lying cousin, but I’d be the backstabbing one too. The one who would willingly bring down someone else for their gain. And that’s not me. Oh, but I wish it were.
“Let’s go find out seats, prima,” Maria urges as she pulls my elbow to get me away from the situation.
The guests begin to find their name cards and sit comfortably in elegant chairs arranged around the tables in a symmetrical pattern, with soft music playing in the background. The servers move gracefully around the tables, offering glasses of sparkling pink champagne and presenting carefully curated dishes. The plates are like pieces of art, each dish crafted with exquisite attention to detail.
The first course is a beautiful salad with fresh greens, grilled peaches, and crumbled goat cheese, all dressed with a tangy vinaigrette. The peaches’ sweetness contrasts with the goat cheese’s saltiness and perfectly blends with the sourness of the vinaigrette. I’m not the kind of person that enjoys or even thinks about salads, but I could eat this every day and live a very happy life.
“How does she manage to make salads fancy?” Maria snorts, shoving a huge mouthful of greens into her mouth.
“That’s all Val.” I smile, shifting my eyes toward Valentina, who must have heard me because she is looking right at me. Those little butterflies I know so well begin to flutter inside my stomach. That, or I’m seriously allergic to goat cheese, and this is the first sign.
“Valentina, you never cease to amaze me,” Maritza says as she savors each bite of the perfectly grilled peach. “You’ll have to make this for Silvana and me when we return home.”
“The only thing Valentina is going to make when you get home is pancakes the morning after your stay at her place,” Maria whispers.
“Maria!” I nudge her with my elbow and look around to ensure no one else heard.
Every so often, I find myself glancing over at Valentina, and almost without fail, she manages to look at the same time.
The main course begins to arrive. It’s a choice between two options: pan-seared salmon with a citrus glaze, served with roasted asparagus and creamy mashed potatoes, or grilled filet mignon with a red-wine reduction, served with garlic mashed potatoes and sautéed green beans.
Everything looks delicious, but something feels off. “Why aren’t there any Latin food options to choose from?” I finally ask. Everyone looks up at me, almost shocked I would even ask such a question.
“Well.” Maritza laughs. “I may not have planned this wedding, but I think I can speak for everyone when I say that most Latin foods just aren’t…up to our standards for this event.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I retort, my words sharper than I intend.
Maria hits her foot against mine, trying to keep me from making a scene, but I can’t help myself.
“Oh, right. You’re saying the Cuban food we grew up on isn’t fancy enough. Got it.”
As I slice into my steak, a surge of pride bubbles up, mingling with the resentment I feel. I know the food we serve at La Mariposa is special. It’s rooted in our history and culture, and it has a soul that this polished steak could never hope to touch. Yet here I am, trying to fit in, feeling like a fraud with each bite. My thoughts drift to the ropa vieja and croquettes we make—the dishes that may not cost much, but they mean everything to me. Their dismissiveness just reinforces the chasm between us, one that feels deeper with each passing moment.
“Get ahold of yourself, pendeja. I don’t want to get kicked out before I can pick up the last wedding favor,” Maria mumbles.
“Sorry,” I say dryly.
“Isa is right,” Sofia finally says. “I wanted to create a menu that would feel extravagant to match my wedding, but I’m kind of craving a Cubano, aren’t you?”
Everyone laughs in agreement.
