Page 50 of A Curvy Girl’s Hurricane Survival Guide

I come in, order a cortadito and some bocaditos, and claim a plastic table just outside. Trevor pulls up in an Uber a few moments later.

His hair, normally light brown, has streaks of blonde, as if he has spent the whole trip spraying it with Sun-In. His skin looks darker, obviously tan, and he is dressed in a white t-shirt and cargo shorts. I used to think he was so attractive. Now he looks too thin. Lanky. His features are sharp in that Joker-ish, mischievous way that suddenly feels mean instead of charming.

He comes over, smiles, and sits down across from me with a simple “Hey.”

I gesture to the coffee and small sandwiches in front of me. “Coffee or bocadito?” He looks at it with mild disgust.

“No thanks,” he says. “A bit too… exotic for me.”

Bocaditos are simple bread rolls filled with ham paste. Not exactly escargot.

The memory of Sonny happily trying everything at dinner last night hits me hard. I sigh.

Trevor doesn’t seem to notice. “So this isn’t what I expected.” He gestures quickly at the surroundings.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Just like, you know… It’s Miami. You think it’s going to be like beaches and Lamborghinis and shit. This is just… lame. Like this could be like somewhere in the Midwest.”

I look around. There are locals chatting, a family laughing, and the post-hurricane hustle that feels like appreciation and relief after a storm. “Well, we did just have a hurricane pass through. Sorry, we didn’t get Daddy Yankee to roll out the red carpet for you.”

Trevor puts his hands up defensively. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to touch a nerve, geez.” Nothing about his tone is sorry. “So… What’s up?”

I can feel the anger rising. He is going to act like this is just a casual conversation? “Are you kidding me right now? You need me to tell you, ‘What’s up?’ Put that on the list of worst questions asked next to, ‘Mrs. Lincoln, how was the theater?’”

Trevor rolls his eyes and pulls an obnoxiously big Monster Energy drink can out of his backpack. “Ok, ok, so you want to talk about Puerto Rico.”

“What? No, Trevor, I don’t want to talk about Puerto Rico. I want to talk about you going to Puerto Rico and getting close to a woman you have, it seems, been secretly friends with for a long time. I want to talk about you letting me know you weren’t coming back via text, then blocking me so I couldn’t get ahold of you or even ask what the fuck was going on. I couldn’t give a shit less about Puerto Rico.” My voice is rising, and people are starting to look our way.

Trevor takes a large swig of his drink and pinches the bridge of his nose as if he’s getting a headache. “Ok, I shouldn’t have blocked you, but can you blame me? You can be a little dramatic.” He is gesturing to me as if I am demonstrating his point right now.

I try to keep my voice level as I say, “Gotcha, and I should’ve reacted calmly when you told me you were staying in Puerto Rico indefinitely as if the last year meant nothing?”

“I didn’t say that,” Trevor says. “But I didn’t want you putting yourself through any trouble thinking this was a bigger deal than what it was.”

I grab my phone, thinking I’ll show him exactly what he said, but get distracted by a text from Crispi asking when he can expect me back. He needed help clearing around the house.

Taking note of my distraction, Trevor says, “What’s going on?”

I shake my head. “It’s my brother asking for some help around my parents’ house.”

Then I have a thought. “Tell me, Trevor, if I asked you to come with me now and help with some yardwork around my parents’ house, what would you say?”

“Come on, Cai. I just got off the plane. I’m pretty sure I’m getting a headache too.” He rubs his forehead to drive the point home.

“Mmm,” I nod in understanding. “And if instead I suggested that you come eat with my parents, tios, siblings, cousins, Abuela—the whole family basically— where they’ll grill you and ask you all kinds of questions about us, what would you say to that?”

“I mean, it sounds pretty terrible…” Trevor eyes me suspiciously.

“And if I asked you to pay half the rent? Pose for a Christmas card picture? Take an interest in any of my hobbies?”

“Fuck fine!” Trevor throws up his hands in a sign of surrender. “If that’s what it takes to be done with this stupid conversation, fine, I’ll take a picture with you for the fucking Christmas card.”

I don’t want that. I don’t want any of it. I would be embarrassed to be seen with him. I’m struggling to see what I ever saw in him in the first place.

“Trevor, you have until the end of the month to find somewhere else to live.”

“Come on, I said I would do it!”