Acting on Impulse

by Mia Sosa

  My mother reaches behind her and pulls another chair to the table. “Come join us, Tori. I’m Susan. Carter’s told us almost nothing about you.”

  I’m fucking toast.

  Tori laughs as she takes a seat. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Williamson.”

  “Susan.”

  “Susan,” Tori repeats.

  My mother takes on her hostess role. “This is Randall, my hubby of thirty-four years. Kimberly, Carter’s older sister. And these two cuties are Kim’s kids, Donovan and Isabella.”

  “It’s great to meet everyone,” Tori says with a cheerful smile.

  Maybe coming here wasn’t a terrible idea after all. The woman I like is meeting my parents under circumstances that won’t induce stress. Years from now, Tori will thank me for being forward-thinking.

  “Tori, would you like to hear embarrassing stories about Carter’s childhood? I’ve been waiting ages for the opportunity to share them.”

  Tori’s eyes crinkle, and her gaze darts to mine. “Oh, that would be great. Then I can share a few embarrassing stories about Carter’s adulthood.”

  My mother chortles while she pats Tori’s arm. “Ah, my dear. You’re a delight.”

  They’re cute together, just as I imagined, but I’m not letting them swap stories about me this early in their relationship. “The restaurant’s great, Tori. Has a real homey feel to it.”

  Future wife peers at me with a smirk on her face. “So what brings you to Mi Casita? I can’t imagine you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  My mother shimmies in her seat and claps her hands. It’s her patented I’ve-got-a-secret-and-I’m-about-to-share-it move. “Carter said he—”

  “Well, look at that,” I say to my dad as Bianca places his plate in front of him. “Those pork chops look fantastic.”

  Another woman, this one older than Bianca, places my plates on the table. I rub my hands together and unwrap the paper napkin surrounding my utensils.

  “Carter, you’re not going to eat all of that,” Tori says.

  Judging by the surprise in her voice, the correct answer is no.

  Kimberly leans forward and snickers. “Busted.”

  Tori’s stern expression clears. “Can I speak with you in private? It’ll only take a sec.”

  I rise from my seat. “Sure. Lead the way.”

  As I follow her, the kids chant, “Carter’s in trouble. Carter’s in trouble.”

  They don’t know the half of it. I’ve been in trouble since the day I met her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tori

  ONE DAY. ALL I wanted was one day to regroup from expending so much energy resisting Carter. Instead, he’s here, in my parents’ restaurant, with his family and a trough of food that will undermine his training goals faster than I can say jackass.

  Jackass.

  Okay, maybe it’ll take longer than that.

  I want to be annoyed, but I also can’t deny the warmth that spread through me when I first saw him sitting at the table. How does he do that? How does he affect me simply by being in my presence?

  I stride through the hall to the storage area past Mi Casita’s restroom. I scan the space to make sure we’re alone, and then I whirl around. “What are you doing?”

  He scratches his temple, bringing his freakishly long fingers into view. Images of those digits curling around my thighs and squeezing them tightly flash through my brain. Madre de Dios, I’m in trouble.

  Carter drops his hand. “Um, I’m eating. Is that a problem?”

  “Carter, you know you shouldn’t be eating like that while you’re training.”

  “But if gaining weight is the goal, I can at least indulge in this from time to time, right?”

  I make the sound of a buzzer for several seconds. “Wrong.”

  Carter slaps his hand against the wall, leans over, and laughs. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

  My lips quirk up at the corners. I can’t help being a little silly around him. “But seriously, do you have any idea how hard it is to gain muscle in six weeks?”

  “I have a clue, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  “That’s right. It requires discipline. It requires forgoing fatty foods. It requires your commitment to working your ass off to reach that goal, which, may I remind you, is your goal, not mine.”

  He threads his fingers through his hair, and then he rubs his neck. “Okay, okay. But here’s the thing. I can’t go back to the table and not eat. My mother’s stressed out about my skinny frame as it is. So what if I put in an extra session tomorrow? You can punish me for indulging.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Fine.”

  With a twinkle in his eyes, he mimics my stance. “Good.”

  I drop my arms. “You’re such a pain.”

  He stuffs his hands in the front pockets of his cargo shorts and bumps my shoulder with his. “Admit it,” he says as he dips his head to get me to look at him. “You’re starting to like me.”

  It’s a flippant comment, not unlike the others he’s made, but I absorb it differently this time—because it’s the truth. Damn, damn, damn. He’s right. I like him. But that’s as far as my admiration will go. Anything more would be foolish. “C’mon, let me introduce you to my mother.”

  He smooths his hair and runs his index fingers over his eyebrows. “Do I look okay? This is a big deal, meeting your mother.”

  “You look fine, and it’s no big deal.”

  “Does she know who I am? Will she be impressed?”

  “Unless you’re a star in one of her telenovelas, Denzel Washington, or an anchor on NBC10, she won’t know who you are. No worries there, believe me.”

  He frowns. “Well, that’s disappointing.”

  “Guess you’ll just have to rely on your sparkling personality to charm her.”

  His smile returns with a vengeance. “That I can definitely do.”

  We walk into the kitchen, and the first thing I see is my father in the corner chomping on frituras. My mother’s slicing onions as Bianca chats with her. The energy in here is happy, but my disappointment in my father threatens to ruin the atmosphere. He can make his own choices. Enjoying my mother’s food in moderation won’t kill him. I try to talk myself out of calling him out, but in the end, he’s my father, and I’d rather have him around and annoyed with me than not have him with me at all. “Papi, what are you doing?”

  My father spots me and drops the plantain chip in his hand onto his plate. After wiping his mouth with a napkin, he gives me a pleading expression and pinches his thumb and forefinger together. “I just wanted a little taste.”

  “It’s never a little taste with you.” Then I face my mother and Bianca. “Why are you letting him do this?”

  My mother suspends the knife in midair and stands next to my father. “Do . . . what?”

  “Letting him eat whatever he wants,” I answer.

  “Here we go,” Bianca says with a roll of her eyes.

  They all stare at me as if I’m hysterical, but I know I’m not. We almost lost my father, not once, but twice. Still, they refuse to learn from those hellish experiences. I could rant about how Papi’s cholesterol numbers haven’t improved. I could question him about his high blood pressure. But I’m forced to skirt around one of the issues that might make a difference in his health. So I can’t tell them he should lay off my mother’s cooking.

  Not when this food has been passed on to us from generation to generation.

  Not when this food is the staple of my mother’s restaurant, her life’s work.

  Not when this food is the way my mother communicates her love to us.

  It’s such a central part of who we are that if I tell my father he shouldn’t eat it, they’d perceive it as a rejection of our culture, my mother’s love, and her sacrifices. But it hurts like hell to hold this inside.

  I take an audible breath while I clench my fists at my side.

  Behind me, a hand reaches for mine and s
queezes.

  Carter.

  It’s a small gesture, a show of support, but it means so much to me because I’m not standing on the other side of the divide alone. Somehow, he knows I need him. Deciding to disrupt the strained moment, I squeeze back and pull him next to me. “This is Carter. He’s an actor, and I’m training him.” I turn my head and meet his gaze. “He’s a really good guy.”

  Visibly relieved, my mother and father speak at once, both saying hello and welcoming him to the restaurant. Mami even invites him to my father’s upcoming birthday party.

  “I’d love to,” Carter tells her, glancing at me with a smile as he does.

  Bianca speaks to my parents in Spanish. “Él es una persona famosa.”

  A hushed conversation ensues between them. They have questions, and she has answers, and wow, she knows a lot about Carter’s career.

  I study Carter, who stands still under their inspection. “Sorry. They’re speaking Spanish so they can talk about you. It’s a thing. Don’t worry, though. Bianca’s report is flattering.”

  Carter preens. “I’m picking up a few words here and there.”

  Finally, Papi uses his cane to stand and grips Carter’s hand in a firm handshake.

  “Mucho gusto,” Carter says.

  My father straightens, and his eyes go wide. “El gusto es mío.” His smile is broad and welcoming, and I’m struck by how handsome my father is. He wears his age well, his salt-and-pepper hair curling a lot like mine, and he’s got scarily perfect teeth. We almost lost him. Twice. And I don’t want to lose him ever.

  “I have to go,” I say in a quavering voice. After grabbing my duffel bag off the floor, I rush out of the kitchen, shutting out the sound of my parents’ voices as I make my escape. I don’t cry often, the day of my father’s stroke being the last time I’ve done it in recent memory. But the tears are welling under my lids now, and I bow my head to avoid the questioning eyes of anyone who might see my face.

  As I pass Carter’s family, I mumble, “It was great to meet you,” and dash out the door.

  Outside, my vision is hazy as I rifle through my bag for my car keys.

  “Tori.”

  Carter stands next to me, his hands hanging from the pockets of his cargo shorts.

  “I’m okay,” I say, wincing when my voice snags on the second word. I clear my throat and give him an “I’m fine but not really” smile. “I have to teach a class in an hour, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Do you need me to take you?”

  “No, I’ve got my car over there.”

  He raises his face to the sky and closes his eyes, the long column of his neck exposed to the sun. Would it be weird if I bit him there? What am I asking? Of course it would. What is even happening to me?

  “Tori, I can spot an actress a mile away.”

  I try to laugh, but my voice isn’t cooperating, and a sigh emerges from my lips instead. He tugs my hand and pulls me close, bending his knees to meet my glistening gaze. Before I can stop him, he swipes his thumbs under my eyes and wipes my tears. “Can I ditch my family and join you?”

  There’s so much in my head it might burst. My father. My family. Carter. I know he means well, but I wish he’d stop being so fucking nice. Don’t be sweet, I want to scream. Don’t disarm me by showing you care. And I feel wretched for it. Because who thinks this way?

  I shake my head. “Wouldn’t your family be offended if you leave them?”

  “Their bellies are stuffed, and they’ve been riding in a car for three and a half hours. They’ll be napping in my condo within the hour. Don’t make me listen to my father’s snoring. Please.”

  I wrinkle my itchy nose and clear my throat. “Okay, I’m teaching at Open Arms Community Center. It’s at . . . Carter, quit staring, break out your phone, and take this down.”

  He jerks to life. “Right.” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and jots down the address I give him.

  “Don’t call attention to yourself, and wear a hat.”

  “Why would you want to stifle all this gorgeousness?”

  I shake my head. “The class starts at two.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Don’t be late. The instructor gets cranky when someone’s tardy.”

  His mouth curves into a delicious smile. “I have an easy time picturing that.”

  I clip him on the shoulder, and he rubs the spot, pretending that I’ve hurt him.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be on time.”

  He spins around to head back in, but I grab the back of his shirt and stop him. His eyebrows lift in surprise.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  His face softens in understanding, and all I want to do is hug him.

  He squeezes my hand again. “It’s no big deal.”

  And as I watch him slip back inside, I realize he’s wrong. The way he shows he cares? It’s a big deal to me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Carter

  NOW THAT THE family is settled in my condo, for equal parts napping and snooping, I take a Lyft ride to Open Arms Community Center. I know nothing about this area of the city, but my driver, who says he’s familiar with the street, gets me there with five minutes to spare.

  The community center’s brick walls are covered in peeling pastel-green paint, and the row homes beside and across from it are similarly painted in light colors. It’s like the Easter Bunny ate every candy in the world and vomited on the block.

  There’s no reception desk, so I follow the people in workout clothes down a long hall and up a short flight of stairs that leads to a large room doubling as both a gymnasium and auditorium. Stacks of aluminum folding chairs are propped against the walls, and I spy a separate wheelchair-accessible entrance. By my estimation, approximately fifty people of all ages, sizes, shapes, colors, and ranges of mobility have shown up in the middle of a Saturday afternoon to take Tori’s class. That alone impresses me.

  Skirting the clusters of people chatting before the class begins, I stroll in and claim a spot by the double doors at the back of the room.

  Tori walks in, and it’s like the office boss is making the rounds unannounced. The chatter diminishes to a murmur, and people disperse to take their places around the room. A woman pushes a young man in a wheelchair to the center of the floor, and in that moment, I suspect I understand why Tori is driven to make this program a success. It brings people together in a way I’ve not seen in any of the gyms I’ve been to: young, old, differently abled—they’re all here.

  A laugh on the left side of the room snags my attention. A handsome guy with dark hair, dark eyes, and brown skin is talking to Tori as she adjusts the knobs of the stereo system and positions her wireless headset. He maintains a respectful distance for a few seconds, but when she joins in his laughter, he seizes the opportunity to reach out and place his hand on her arm.

  She moves away from him and claps her hands, signaling the start of the class. “Hi, everyone. Thanks for joining me. My name’s Tori Alvarez, and I’m going to make you sweat today. Do we have any newcomers?”

  Several people raise their hands.

  “Welcome,” she says. “Chat among yourselves while I come around and greet the newbies.”

  Tori stops to talk to each of the individuals who raised their hands. When she gets to me, she tilts her head and scans my body. “Where are your workout clothes?”

  “I’m resting today, remember? I’ll just be observing.”

  “Right,” she says, drawing the word out as though she’s skeptical about my intentions. “You’re just going to stand here?”

  I hold up my phone. “And check my email. Maybe make a few calls. The stuff I can’t do with my family around.”

  “Right,” she says again. After casting a sideways glance my way, she spins around and strides to the head of the class. “For the new folks, I have three helpers. Assistants, come on up.”

  An elderly gentleman and a middle-aged woman weave their way to the front of the
room, and the young man in the wheelchair joins them as well.

  “This class is all about doing what you can and knowing that’s enough. I don’t focus on fitness levels here. It’s all about moving your body and getting your heart rate up. I’ve worked with each of my assistants to modify the exercises to fit their comfort level. Follow whichever person—including me—who matches your personal comfort level, and bear in mind that you don’t have to stick with just one person for the duration of the class. Any questions?”

  She claps her hands together and clicks the small remote in her hand. “All right, let’s go.” After she places the remote on the floor, she jumps up. “One more thing. From time to time, you might hear a Spanish word or two. Sigue asi. Vamanos. Muy bien. Just know it’s all encouragement, and I’m telling you to keep going, okay?”

  Several people nod and smile. The positive energy reverberates through the room.

  “Okay, vamanos,” she shouts.

  Tori leads a medium-paced class that tests everyone’s coordination and stamina. Her assistants know exactly what move follows the current one, and many of her students switch between comfort levels with ease. The music is a mix of hip-hop, pop, and Latin sounds, and some of the members sing along to the more popular songs. They’re having fun.

  Tori has a gift for motivating people. And judging by her wide smile and bright eyes, she’s embracing that gift to the fullest. I’d love to capture her happiness in this moment. When my phone vibrates in my hand, I’m reminded that I can. With a few clicks and a swipe, I open my phone’s video camera and begin recording the class. I’m sure Tori would love to see the class from this perspective.

  Soon after, the group transitions into a five-minute cooldown, and then the class ends to another round of applause.

  The guy who monopolized Tori’s time earlier seeks her out. She nods at whatever he’s telling her, but her face loses all the brightness that kept everyone going through the class.