by Mia Sosa
He leans forward and glances at his phone. “He’s not responding to my texts. I’m going to let him be. Work beckons.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Every day is a workday.” Julian rises, and we walk together to the door. “It’s great to meet you, Tori. I hope we’ll see each other again.”
I can tell from his tone it’s as much a question as it is a statement. “Maybe.”
Before he opens the door, he turns back to me. “Don’t misunderstand anything I’ve said. I owe Carter a lot. If it weren’t for him, I’d still be a junior agent somewhere, fetching coffee and copying contracts. But you’ve got to carve out your own space, otherwise you’ll get sucked into his world and have no space of your own.”
There’s no concern there. I’m not getting sucked into Carter’s world. I’m returning to mine.
RETURNING TO MY world isn’t easy. Even less so now that Carter’s not around. I’d planned to bring him to my father’s birthday party this week, but instead I’ll be going alone.
The party is no small deal. Each year, my mother closes Mi Casita during a weekday on or close to my father’s birthday—Saturdays are moneymakers and can’t be spared. She throws a serious bash with a live band whose members are my father’s good friends.
My job is to bring alcohol. In my family, a standard liquor order consists of lots of rum and two cases of Budweiser. If you’ve been tasked with supplying drinks and forget either of those items, you might as well turn around and not show up.
Because I refuse to lug a case of beer when I’m wearing a dress, I bring the alcohol to the restaurant Wednesday morning, figuring I’ll return to the apartment after work and change before the party starts. Holding a case of beer against my stomach, I kick the door to get someone’s attention.
I peer inside and see my mother and sister at a table, a mountain of green plantains resting between them.
Bianca rises, unlocks the door, and holds it open for me. “Just one case?”
“No, just two hands. The other case is in the trunk.” I give her a saccharine-sweet smile. “Good morning, Bianca.”
“Good morning, Tori,” she says in a singsong voice that sounds remarkably like “Fuck you, Tori.”
Surprise, surprise.
I set the case on the counter. “Hola, Mami.”
She smiles and continues to score the green plantain in her hand. “Hola, mijita.”
After bringing in the remaining liquor, I rinse my hands in the sink behind the counter. “What are you making? Mofongo?”
My mother glances at me. “Your father’s favorite.”
It’s my favorite, too. What’s not to love about fried green plantains mashed with garlic and pork cracklings? “Can I help?”
As usual, Bianca rejects my offer. “It’s okay, we’ve got a good system going.”
Translation: We don’t need or want your assistance.
I’d usually throw up my hands and leave, but I can practically feel Carter pushing me in their direction. I purse my lips and blow out my breath softly. “Actually, I don’t have anything else to do this morning, so I’ll peel.”
Bianca purses her lips but doesn’t object. I suspect that if my mother weren’t here, though, she’d kick me out the door.
I settle into my seat and grab a plantain and a knife. Just as Abuela taught me, I score the plantain along the seams, making sure not to cut too deep, and then I cut off the heads and tails before carefully peeling back the skin.
My mother and sister stop what they’re doing and watch my handiwork, perplexed expressions on both of their faces.
I scan the table behind them, which is filled with ingredients for various dishes. “Where’s the salt water?”
Bianca rises. “It’s in the back. I’ll get it.”
“¿Quién te enseñó cómo hacerlo?” my mother asks.
“Abuela Clara taught me how.”
When I was a teenager, Abuela moved from the house she’d once shared with my grandfather in Carolina, Puerto Rico, to a small bedroom in my parents’ home above Mi Casita. The transition did not go well. She missed her backyard, where she’d raised chickens and tended to a small garden. She resented not having her own kitchen in which to cook her meals and stuck her tongue out behind my mother’s back when Mami tried to clean up after her the few times Abuela cooked in her presence. Most of all, she hated the noise, whether it was an ambulance siren or the steady thumping of a bass beat from a car driving past our building.
But for the few years she stayed with us before she died, Abuela and I spent many afternoons together while my mother and Bianca worked in the restaurant. This was when she’d sneak in our kitchen and cook, and I’d help, cutting vegetables, sifting and rinsing rice, and peeling potatoes.
If Abuela were alive, I’d be in the kitchen with her today, pounding out my frustrations on whatever root vegetable she needed for the dish she was making. I’d tell her about Carter and the mess we’ve made of our relationship. I’d tell her that I have no idea how to turn my dreams for my career into a reality and that I’m nervous about my future.
“Is that what you two were always doing up there?” my mother asks.
I smile and nod. “Yes. And watching Wheel of Fortune. I was responsible for returning the kitchen to its original state.”
“I thought so. You were always so heavy-handed with the air freshener.”
Bianca returns with a pot of salt water.
After slicing the plantain in one-inch pieces, I use my knife to slide the chunks from the cutting board to the pot, and then I pick up another plantain, ready to score and peel. Holding my knife in midair, I take a deep breath before I speak. “We should do this more often.”
“We didn’t think you’d want to be bothered,” Bianca says. “You’re never around anymore. And then you drop by and expect us to be thankful for your presence. What’s it like having a life outside this restaurant? I’d love to know, Tori. What’s it like to go to college? Please, educate me.”
My mother grasps Bianca’s forearm. “Mija, you don’t want to work at the restaurant?”
Oh, wow. She’s the self-professed princess of Mi Casita. I never imagined she resented that position.
Bianca bows her head and slumps her shoulders. “I do. It’s just . . . No one ever asked me what I wanted. The responsibility just fell to me. And then I kick my ass working here, and my little sister comes back from college with her fancy fitness degree and criticizes our food. This is our culture, Tori. I’m sorry if you think it’s incompatible with your”—she makes air quotes—“healthy lifestyle.”
“I’m not criticizing our culture. I love this food as much as you do. I just want us to be able to talk about Papi’s health without everyone shutting down or thinking that I’m looking down on them. Can we all agree that Papi shouldn’t be having fried foods all the time?”
“Sí,” my mother says. “Of course.”
“Yes,” Bianca says in a low voice.
“Abuela talked about our food all the time. Even little things, like how she used to share her best mangoes with the family next door. How to pick the perfect one. There are so many wonderful ingredients we can use. I just think maybe we could expand the menu, so Papi can enjoy more of the foods he loves. Abuela had so many recipes she passed on to us. Pescado y chayote.”
“Asopao as the main meal,” Bianca adds.
“I know them all,” my mother says as she stares wistfully at the bowl of plantains in front of her.
I reach over and link my pinky finger with hers, a move that’s a throwback to my youth. “Maybe I could help you write them down—for me and Bianca. Maybe share them online?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, mija,” my mother says. “Those are our family recipes.”
“Yes,” my sister says. “But I suppose there’s nothing wrong with sharing them with others.”
“And we could also be creative ourselves,” I add. “I think it would be fun to come up with new ways to prepa
re dishes. Experiment more with boiling yuca or baking empanadillas, you know? Give Papi a few different options.”
“I never imagined you’d want to do any of this,” my mother says. “But I’m very glad you do.”
Bianca nods.
“This is important to you and to our family.” I gesture around us. “I want to be a part of this. And if I question something about the food, please know I’m doing it because I care, not because I want to criticize. Okay?”
They both nod at me, and the cloud that usually hovers above me when I visit Mi Casita breaks. “Next, I’ll work on getting Papi to take my class.”
Bianca shakes her head. “You’re asking for a miracle there. Good luck with that.”
My father walks in at that exact moment, and we all laugh hysterically at the table.
“What?” my father says. “Have you been talking about me behind my back again?”
We exchange knowing looks, and then my mother rises from her chair and pulls my father toward the kitchen. “Vamos a comer frutas,” she says to my father.
“Fruit?” he asks. Then he turns back to me with a smile. “This is your fault, isn’t it?”
Bianca and I laugh together at the table. Then we each return to scoring plantains, until she clears her throat.
After blowing out a long breath, she says, “I know I haven’t always been the easiest sister to have, and I can’t promise we’ll ever be the best of friends, but I’d like to try to get us back on good terms. Okay?”
“It goes both ways, you know. And I’d like to try, too.”
We give each other tentative smiles. Then she tips her head to the side and studies me.
“What?” I ask.
“Um, I saw the picture of you and Carter Stone in that online magazine, the photo that was taken right outside.”
My gaze darts to the ceiling and back, and then I set down my knife. “Yeah, I saw it, too. The paparazzo didn’t even throw us a bone and include Mi Casita’s signage.”
Bianca rolls her eyes. “I don’t care about that, and I know you don’t care about that, either. But I saw something that I thought was interesting.”
“What?”
“Did Abuela ever tell you her theory about how to tell if someone cares about you?”
I place my hand on my chest and nod. “Yes, yes. You’ll always know if someone cares, because you’ll see it in their eyes, right?”
“Right,” Bianca says. “I couldn’t see perfectly, because it wasn’t a great angle, but I’m pretty sure the way Carter was looking at you in that photo comes close to what Abuela was talking about.”
The man has my sister on his side. That’s . . . scary. But I must admit she’s right. Even when he doubted me, he cared. Nothing he did undermines my belief in that fundamental truth. Carter’s not perfect, and neither am I. But we care for each other—deeply. Now I just need to figure out how to make my way back to him.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Carter
JULIAN ARRANGED FOR my appearance on The Actor’s Couch after I’d landed the role in Hard Times. He leveraged the film credit to convince the show’s producers that I was on the brink of hitting A-lister status. It’s been a few days since Tori left LA, and I’ve heard nothing from her in that time. I’m not in the right headspace to field questions about my personal life, but withdrawing now would be unprofessional, and I don’t need any additional hits to my reputation. My one consolation: The show isn’t filmed before a live audience.
As I walk onto the set, the poor reviews for the film hover over me like a rain cloud. The producers of Swan Song will see this interview. If there’s any possibility they’d still cast me as the lead, this is my shot to show them I’m still the budding heartthrob they think I am. I’ll have to project confidence in my work and assure anyone who’s watching that Hard Times was an anomaly.
The set literally consists of a couch for the guest and a club chair for the host. It’s a comfortable couch, at least.
The host, Elaine Daubert, and I exchange pleasantries, and then she gives me a brief rundown of what to expect during the interview. “Our most popular interviews are ones in which the actor looks relaxed. If it’s scripted, the audience will pick up on it, even if your acting skills are extraordinary.”
She’s probably given this speech countless times and knows it by rote. “Sure, sure.” I settle into the couch as a sign of my good intentions. “I’ll do my best.”
The cameras roll, and Elaine introduces me to the TV audience. “Our featured actor on the couch this evening is Carter Stone, a man who’s made many ladies swoon with his roles on two popular sitcoms, My Life in Shambles and Man on Third.”
As expected, Elaine asks me about my roles in those shows and tries to share a few spoilers about the upcoming seasons. Here is where I generally thrive.
Seven minutes or so in, Elaine shifts her body a few inches away from me. The move is so subtle the audience probably won’t notice it. “So, Carter, let’s talk about your first foray into film.”
Ah, so that’s what that shift was about. She’s going to broach a topic she knows I’ll be unhappy about. It’s not a surprise. After all, this wouldn’t be entertaining without some conflict.
“Hard Times is different from anything you’ve ever done before. What was it like working with Hollywood legends Maggie Boyd and Dennis Satch?”
“I was in awe of them. Intimidated, too. I mean, these are the folks you aspire to be as an actor. Counterparts of Nicholson, Streep, and so on. And they were so gracious, sharing their expertise. There’s a scene in the movie when Dennis Satch’s character grabs my character, Chris, by his collar and is screaming in his face. And to be honest, at that moment, I was thinking, How is this my life?”
Elaine laughs, but then her face turns sober. “The early reviews are in . . .”
I nod. “They are.”
“They’re calling it ‘bad.’”
I pound my fist against my chest as though I’m being stabbed in the heart. “It hurts,” I say with a laugh.
“Why not take the skill set you’ve mastered and start with a romantic comedy? Wouldn’t that have been a wise career move?”
The wise career move would be to say that my acting skills aren’t limited to romantic comedies and move on to the next topic. But I’m tired of pretending, tired of making decisions to shield myself from criticism. Tired of being ruled by what others think of me. Sometimes the best approach is to speak from the heart and see where it takes you.
“I suppose starting with a romantic comedy would have been a sound career move, but my decision to take on Hard Times was about more than getting a film deal. Look, I’ve been in this business a long time. I grew into a man on-screen. I don’t know who I am without acting. And for me that was always okay, because I loved what I was doing. But after years of playing the same kind of character, I need more. I need to stretch myself. Being the cute guy or the funny guy just isn’t enough.”
“And Hard Times is the kind of role you were looking for,” she offers.
“Exactly. I’ll be honest, I’m worried as hell. I’m worried that the career I’ve given my life to isn’t enough to sustain me, and even worse, I’m worried that I’m not good enough to stretch myself in the way that will make me happy. If it turns out I’m not suited to dramas, I’ll do something else. But I think it’s too early to make any big decisions. One movie will not make or break my career.”
“You’re entitled to a flop, is what you’re saying.”
Tori’s reaction when I told her about the early reviews of Hard Times comes to mind. “Yeah, I’m entitled to one Gigli.”
Elaine blinks before she breaks out into a smile. “Well, you’ve just guaranteed you won’t be starring in any films with Ben Affleck.”
I return her smile. “Probably. But I’m more concerned about closing off any possibility of dating Jennifer Lopez.”
Elaine throws her body forward as she cackles. When she recovers, she wiggles
her ass into her seat as if to say, Now comes the juicy part. “Speaking of dating, is there someone special in your life?”
If self-preservation is the goal, my answer would be simple. I’d make some quip about not having time or say something charming or self-deprecating to deflect attention from the answer I don’t want to give. But I just told Elaine about my fears as an actor, and I never would have risked being vulnerable that way if Tori hadn’t called me out on my insecurities.
“The truth is, I’m not a great boyfriend. I have a hard time letting people in my life. I’m always wondering about their motives, questioning why they’re befriending me. That has everything to do with my own issues about my self-worth. A friend once told me my need for validation leads me to make bad choices.”
Elaine’s eyebrows disappear under her bangs. “A friend, you say?”
“Yes, a friend, and looking back on some of the things I’ve done, I can’t disagree. I’m not perfect, far from it. Hollywood can convince you otherwise, but we’re all struggling with something.” I look directly at the camera. “Read my lips, fans. I. Am. Not. A. Catch.”
Wide-eyed, Elaine leans back against the couch. “You’re blowing me away here.”
I chuckle. “I don’t mean to. Believe me, I don’t think this is going to up my likeability factor at all.”
In fact, I need to climb out of this train wreck and talk to Julian. He’ll help me figure out how to fix this.
But Elaine’s not done with me. “Have you ever been in love? And before you answer, remember that your response might crush a sizeable part of the female population.”
Yeah. If Tori were sitting on the couch with me, she’d gag at that one. God, I miss her so much. “I’ve been a serial dater for most of my adult life, so until six weeks ago, the answer would have been an emphatic no. But now I can say yes, I’ve been in love. Still am in love. But I don’t deserve her. If I did, she’d be the special person in my life. So. Yeah.”