In middle school, I once tried to make true the future that seemed predestined. I caught Ramiro off-guard, and I kissed him. It could very well have been that kiss he held on to, even if I’d explained a million times that I’d been in a bad place when I’d done that. My mother had just died, and I’d honestly believed she wished for me to grow up and marry Ramiro one day. I knew now that she would much rather have seen me happy with someone else than unhappy with the boy she knew and had once chosen for me. I had long ago let go of that dream, but my poor papi still clung to it.
Dad was predictably in the kitchen, pouring spices and beer over trays of thinly sliced meat for the carne asada.
“Buenos días, Papi.” I kissed his cheek.
“Pero, what are you doing here? I told that güera you weren’t supposed to be here until six. She never listens.”
I laughed. “I wanted to help.”
His shoulders slackened in resignation. “Fine. Go help Ramiro outside.”
It was a herculean effort, but I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I loved spending time with Ramiro, but more and more, I avoided it. I needed them both to understand that Ramiro and I were never going to happen.
What Dad clung to, I believed, was his inability to let go of his roots. Every immigrant parent’s dream was for their child to become a doctor or a lawyer, but then I did. And he wasn’t careful with what he wished for. Now, he was having a hard time letting go of the fact that I would never be the homemaker, traditionalist, child-bearer he’d envisioned his daughter being. He couldn’t have it both ways, and the sooner he realized it, the better.
Because that is what it would be like. Ramiro wasn’t the type who would be okay with my sixteen-hour shifts and overnight on-call rotations. He was the kind of man who wanted a homebody who would have his favorite meal ready on the table every Friday when he got home from work, tired from a long week at the garage. That woman could not—would not—ever be me. Whomever that woman ended up being would be very lucky to have him, but she wouldn’t be me.
Ramiro balanced on a chair as he wrapped a string of twinkle lights around one branch of the tree in the backyard. He had earbuds in and didn’t hear when I called to him. He wore dark denim jeans and a black ribbed tank. He was tall and barrel-chested. A heartbreaker in every sense of the word. If only I could have loved him back.
He turned, and his eyes lit up at the sight of me.
“Caro!” He jogged over, picked me up in his arms, and swung me around. “Happy birthday, Corazón.”
“Put me down!” I smacked his giant shoulders. He was well built and hit the gym often.
“You weren’t supposed to be here until six. We aren’t ready.”
“I came to help dad. Ramiro, you really don’t need to be here helping him. That’s what I’m here for.”
His face fell for only one second before he shook it off. “You know better. You get treated like a queen on your birthday.”
“You two spoil me almost every day, not just my birthday. How can I help?”
“You can tie the tablecloths down, so they don’t blow away. That would be great.”
With the three of us, everything was ready by four in the afternoon, and all that was left was to fire up the grill when guests arrived. Ramiro left to get a bit of rest and change clothes. I went to my old room and took a quick shower.
I hadn’t thought to bring clothes, of course, so I had to settle for whatever old items I had in my closet. Luckily, one of my favorite deep green dresses was there. I wore this dress on very rare occasions, but I loved the square neckline that showed off my collarbones without too much cleavage. I had more than plenty in that department, so I didn’t need to be highlighting it more than necessary. The deep emerald looked beautiful on my dark, caramel-honey skin. It was also the perfect outfit for the hot, Kansan summer day.
Because it was so hot outside, I knew something was up when I laid eyes on Sara dressed in an outfit more suitable for fall. She walked in wearing a thin, long-sleeved blouse and didn’t remove her sunglasses even when she was indoors. Not this shit again. I was going to kill him. Oath or not, I was going to kill him. I took a deep breath before leading her upstairs to my room—I couldn’t take more control away from her.
Leading her to sit on my bed, I sat on the chair in front of her.
“Honey—” That’s all it took. One word, and she broke into a sob.
“I’m sorry, Caro. I don’t want to ruin your party, but I also couldn’t miss it. I promised your dad . . .” She trailed off into her sobs and wiped at the tears on her cheeks.
“Oh, sweetie.” I brushed her hair back. “You aren’t ruining anything. You know I hate these things anyway.” I smiled, and she laughed weakly. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Sara squared her shoulders and took her shades off. She’d done an expert job with the makeup, covering the blue and green bruises I knew were under that thin layer of pigment, but I couldn’t be fooled because the swelling was clearly there. My fists clenched at my sides, and I couldn’t help but bite the inside of my lip.
“Don’t say it,” Sara said. “I know he is slime. I know. I’m leaving him, okay?”
I’d heard this before, and there was not a shred of conviction in her voice, just like the last time. I wanted to shake her so badly, but just like the last time, I restrained myself. Even though it broke my heart, I couldn’t help her out of this until she decided she was ready. So much power is taken from a domestic abuse victim, I couldn’t bear to force her into anything she didn’t want, even if it did everything short of killing me to hold my anger in check.
“When you’re ready, I’m here for you. We are here for you; Papi, Ramiro, Sofia, and me. We got you. You got it?”
“I know.”
“Why don’t you stay up here and sleep it off? I’ll tell Dad you’re sick and resting here, and later I’ll sneak you a plate of food.”
Sara smiled up at me as I stood. “Did you make the salsa?” she asked.
“Yes. I made the salsa.”
“The molcajete salsa—your mom’s recipe?”
“Yes, with the secret ingredient.”
“Bring extra?” she said as she curled into a ball under the blankets.
It was hard to get into the partying mood after that, but as tough as it was, we moved on. It was horrid to think it, but as often as that bastard Brian had beaten her up, Sofia and I had started getting used to it. And wasn’t that just the shittiest bit of it all? We were the only two who knew because we were the only people in the world she couldn’t hide her bruises from. We were too analytical.
Dad was happy, and we both knew this party was more for him. He’d invited all the neighbors—Ramiro’s parents weren’t present because they were vacationing in Florida—all of the mechanics from the garage, among whom were Ramiro’s best friends, and Sara, but I kept her tucked away in her tower—my room.
The music came to a stop at six-thirty when we thought everyone had arrived. Dad said a few words, in Spanglish, of course.
“I want to thank you all for being here today to celebrate my hijita. It is a special day for me. She turns twenty-six today, and I’m the proudest dad in the world.” As he spoke, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dr. Medina enter our backyard. He carried a box wrapped in navy blue paper, finished with an orange bow. I smiled at him, and he waved back before placing the box carefully on the gift table.
Dad continued, and I returned my attention to him. “Mija, you are smart, strong, and beautiful. I don’t know what I did in my past life to deserve a daughter like you, but I’m glad I did it.”
“Don Gustavo.” Ramiro jumped in, beer in his hand. “Mind if I say a few words too?”
I panicked. Oh, god, no. Please, Papi, don’t let him.
“Of course, mijo.”
“Thank you,” Ramiro started, and I sank into my chair. “I would like to propose a toast to Caro. Todo el barrio loves you. You treat patients for free at their homes when you
can, and you are always helping your dad. You come from a hard worker, and I know you are a hard worker too. It’s been a privilege to grow up with you, and I can’t wait to start the next chapter of our lives. To Caro!” He raised his beer, and glass bottles clinked all around me.
Ramiro walked to the spot where I sat on my chair and offered me a hand. I grabbed it, smiling tightly, and stood to hug him. He went for a kiss, but I gave him my cheek instead of my lips. As I turned my head, I saw Hector still standing by the gifts, his eyes shadowed completely by his strong brow—his face unreadable.
I grabbed my drink before walking over to him.
“Dr. Medina. Hello.”
“You look surprised I showed.”
“To be honest, I am a little bit. I’m glad you came, though. You will be a novelty here tonight.”
“I doubt that. They have you.”
“I don’t mean because you are a doctor.” I laughed. “These people here, my people, are working-class people. The offspring of migrant workers, for the most part. I don’t think you’ll find many fancy Mexicans here tonight besides yourself.”
“I’m a fancy Mexican?” he asked. At first, I thought he was joking but stifled my laugh when I sensed his earnestness.
I eyed him up and down, hand on my hip. “Yes. Definitely a fancy Mexican.”
He stiffened when I laced my arm in his and led him to the opposite corner of the yard where Dad was grilling and talking to my uncle. I didn’t miss when Hector used his free hand to straighten his tie.
“Papi!” I said. “I want you to meet someone.”
Dad said a few more words I couldn’t make out to my uncle and then handed him the apron and tongs. He came around the food table next to the grill. He smiled at me, but his lips thinned, seeing my arm was still linked with this strange man’s.
“Papi, this is Dr. Hector Medina. My new boss.”
Dad leaned back a bit and narrowed his eyes, studying him. Finally, after what seemed like years, he reached out his hand to shake Hector’s, making him realize he had to let go of my hand.
“It’s a pleasure,” Dad said.
“Likewise. Thank you for inviting me to your home.” I covered up my snort with a pretend cough. Invited? This fool invited himself.
Dad wanted to interrogate him further, but he heeded my glare. This was my boss after all, and I owed him respect. He couldn’t treat him like any other man I might bring home—not that I had brought anyone home for him to meet anyway.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked Dr. Medina, trying to break the awkwardness.
“Water would be great.”
“Let’s go into the kitchen, and I’ll get you some ice.”
He followed me back into my childhood home, and I suddenly felt very nervous about him seeing where I grew up.
“This is a nice house,” he said, and I couldn’t tell whether or not he was mocking me.
“I was happy growing up here.”
Once the glass of water was in his hand, I suggested going outside for a plate of dinner, but he shook his head. “How about a tour instead?”
I almost choked on my beer. “A tour?”
“Yes. I’d love to see the rest of the house that was so happy for you growing up.”
I cocked my head, unsure if I should give some excuse as to why that was a bad idea. I envisioned his childhood home in Mexico—probably a mansion—and I recoiled at the thought of showing him around. I couldn’t come up with anything, so I led the way.
The living room was cozy, and I was glad I’d come early to help dust and tidy up a bit. I knew Dad abhorred dusting or any other household tasks besides cooking.
A row of picture frames lined the fireplace mantel. Dr. Medina’s eyes zeroed in on them, and he walked over.
He picked one of me at the pool when I was six. “This is you?”
I nodded. “I’m an only child.”
“That explains a lot.”
“Excuse me?” I asked with mock-offense. “It’s my birthday. I will not be put down on my birthday.”
“My apologies, Dr. Ramirez. I meant nothing by it.”
So, we were back to Dr. Ramirez. Okay. That was fine. “None taken, Dr. Medina,” I said pointedly.
Next, he picked up a photo from my quinceañera, my coming-of-age party, when I turned fifteen. I winced, and my pride couldn’t take it. I nearly snatched the photo from his hands, but it was too late. There I was, standing next to Dad, in the monster of a dress engulfing me in pink tulle.
Under different circumstances, I would have died before having the classical Mexican coming-of-age party. I would have opted for hell before agreeing to wear the Pepto-Bismol pink monstrosity, but as it was, I couldn’t find it in my heart to say no to Dad.
“That’s, um, a pretty dress—” my boss started to say. He tried to hold back a chortle but failed, and I couldn’t help but smack his arm playfully.
“I did it for my father, okay?”
“No, really, really,” he said between the laughter, “you were a very pretty cotton-candy.”
“Where is your mother in the photo?”
And just like that, all the laughter went out of me. He sensed the clouds behind my eyes and started to apologize.
“It’s okay,” I said. I brought a hand up in a friendly gesture. “She had been gone a while by the time I turned fifteen. It’s been my Dad and me ever since.”
“I’m sorry, Carolina. That must have been very hard.”
We were back to Carolina, and I offered him a weak smile. “It was, though it would have been much worse if my father had been anyone other than the one I got. He really is amazing.”
“He must be,” he said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“To have a daughter like you, he must be pretty amazing.”
“Well, that’s it. The house, as you can see, is pretty small. Not much else to see.”
“Isn’t there an upstairs?”
“Yes, but—” and just like that, he was off toward the stairwell.
I’d forgotten Sara was resting in my room but exhaled when I opened the door and she was gone. The sneaky little twat—she’d get it later. Instead, I found myself in my childhood bedroom with a very tall, very handsome man who was also my boss, barely fitting in the tiny space.
I froze when I realized what he was staring at on the wall next to my bed. It could only be one of three things. He was likely not a fan of Jane Eyre, so it wasn’t that poster. He would certainly get points for being an Industrial November fan, so it could be the enlarged Metal Red Day album cover that drew him to the wall. Even if that were the case, that’s not what he was staring at now. Sandwiched between the two was the first page of the abstract to his first published paper in a journal of medicine.
I forced my legs to move next to him. His mouth was parted slightly, and he swallowed. He was trying and failing to speak, and I couldn’t find what to say in my defense.
If the earth could have swallowed me whole in that moment, I would have dived in head-first.
“Okay, please don’t freak out. It really is not what it looks like.”
He nodded but said nothing as he stared at his name printed on the page so carefully taped to my wall.
“Dr. Medina, I’m sure this must seem really inappropriate, but I swear, I’m not some stalker or anything like that.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve known I wanted to do cancer research since I was ten. I was in high school when I first heard of your work, and at the time, I had no idea you would one day be my boss. I never thought I’d meet you.”
The silence stretched as I allowed him a moment to answer, but he seemed incapable, so I, unfortunately, continued with the verbal diarrhea.
“I’m not in this room much, or I would have taken it down now that I know you.” Everything I said after that sounded weak even to my own ears.
“It’s okay, not a big deal,” he said, finally putting me out of my misery. “Why don’t we go back out
, join the party? They must be missing you.”
Once back outside, Ramiro’s gaze latched on to us. I ignored it and introduced Dr. Medina to the neighbors. Merengue blared from a sound system that hadn’t been in the yard before. Hector grabbed my hand. “May I have this dance?”
I laughed so hard, Hector frowned. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just, I have two left feet. I don’t dance. And this song,” I kept talking between fits of laughter as I listened to Esa Muchacha by Los Hermanos Rosario, “is about a girl who can dance really well.”
“Everyone can dance—”
“Mija, can you do me a favor?” my neighbor Mrs. Garcia called out to me.
“Sure, señora.”
I shrugged at Hector but was glad to be called away. It warmed me to my core when he took off his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves, so he could pass a soccer ball around with the two Garcia boys from next door. I sat with the boys’ grandmother.
“I had a little accident in the kitchen. You mind taking a look?” She brought up an arm to display a burn on her inner forearm.
“Hay, Mamá!” Francisca, her daughter, and the mother of the boys now playing soccer with Dr. Medina, said. “I told you, she is not that kind of doctor anymore.” She turned to me. “Sorry, Caro. I wanted to take her to the doctor, but she refused.”
“Don’t talk for me like I’m a child,” Mrs. Garcia said as she glared at her with a fire I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of. “Why would I go to a doctor,” she continued, “when I know it’s so minor and that Carolina would be happy to look at it?”
“I’m so sorry, Carolina,” said Francisca, completely flustered.
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