Trashed: An Eastside Brewery Novel

by Mia Hopkins

  “You sure you can’t sneak out tonight?” I ask. “I’m good to go again if you are.”

  She groans a little. “Don’t you ever quit?”

  “No,” I say. “I don’t.”

  “I’m sore, you know that, right?” she says quietly.

  I feel a little flash of guilt. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s a good hurt.”

  We talk a little bit more. In between, we flirt with each other, both of us giddy about this new thing we’ve discovered. I’m hungry to know—to feel—more.

  She yawns. She slurs her words. “I’m falling asleep,” she says. “I have to hang up.”

  “Will you call me tomorrow?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good night, baby girl.”

  “Good night.”

  My dumb heart is all hot and achy. I stay on the phone until she hangs up.

  I’m squashed between my brother and the door of the old truck. We’ve just finished our delivery run and are on our way to the bakery where Carmen’s parents want to meet us to share their decision.

  Vanessa is in the driver’s seat, chatty and animated. She’s confident that they’ll say yes, and she’s excited about the first steps we’ll take to open the brewery. Sal as usual is reserved. He’s waiting to see what their decision is before he expresses any emotion.

  Vanessa parks in the small lot next to the bakery. This is where Slim was beat up. I try not to think about that as we get out of the truck and slam the heavy doors shut.

  “Ready?” Vanessa’s high heels click over the sidewalk. I wish I had her confidence. I can fake it, though, so I follow behind her and my brother with my head held high. I employ my gangster lean, just for the hell of it.

  Inside, Carmen’s mother stands behind the counter with her arms folded. She has turned on all the lights of the bakery, showing off the empty cases. The machinery is still covered in clear plastic. She’s turned on the fans to ventilate the place. Air rushes above our heads, swirling under the high ceiling.

  Carmen isn’t here. Neither is Slim.

  Not good.

  Carmen’s mother shakes hands with both Vanessa and Sal. When I hold out my hand, Carmen’s mother looks me in the eye and drops hers.

  Okay, then.

  That’s how it’s going to be.

  Sal and I exchange a look as I step back behind Vanessa.

  “I’ll get right to the point, Ms. Velasco,” says Carmen’s mother. “The terms of the lease are acceptable to my husband and me. Pending the building inspection, we will make any necessary structural changes, but you will be responsible for any improvements or changes on top of that.”

  Vanessa looks at the documents the Centenos have prepared for her. “This looks good. And the term of the lease?”

  “We agree to the lower monthly payment provided you agree to a three-year lease with an option to renew.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see my brother take a quick breath. Three years—that is a serious commitment. Neither of us have committed to do anything for three years before, except hang out in prison. But that wasn’t exactly our choice.

  “Excellent.” Smiling, Vanessa looks over the paperwork. “I’m so happy you’ve decided to move forward. This will be a great addition to the neighborhood, and I’m glad we’re able to keep this transaction in the community. I’ll call the broker to draw up the lease today so that we can—”

  “Wait,” says Carmen’s mother. She looks at me. “There is one more thing.”

  Eighteen

  Vanessa’s smile doesn’t move. “What’s that?”

  Directly to me, Carmen’s mother says, “We will agree to sign the lease if you stop all contact with my daughter.”

  Vanessa’s smile disappears and she stands straight up. She’s little but there’s something about her body language that makes her look bigger than she is. Before she can get a word out, Sal steps in front of her.

  “Mrs. Centeno.” His voice is calm. “Can you explain what you mean by that?”

  Carmen’s mother is cool. Her face is expressionless. I’m trying to figure out how someone could throw such a big monkey wrench into the machine without even blinking.

  “My daughter’s happiness is of the highest importance to me,” she says. “I’m sure you understand that I want to protect her. My husband was beaten by gang members. Horribly. A fact you know.”

  Sal says, “It makes me sick that this happened to Slim. But my brother and I—we had nothing to do with that.”

  Carmen’s mother continues to stare at me. For a moment, I think about my own father and my inability to protect him when he needed me most.

  “Gang members did this,” she repeats. “Whether this gang or that gang doesn’t matter to me. They were gang members just like you.”

  Without hesitating, Sal takes the folder out of Vanessa’s hands and puts it back on the metal counter. “Mrs. Centeno, thank you for agreeing to meet with us. Send my regards to Slim. But there are other properties in this city. And our family doesn’t do business like this.”

  “Stop,” I say.

  “Eddie,” Sal says. “We’re done here.”

  “No, we’re not.” I look at him. He’s a goddamn hero. But I need a chance to be a hero too, and if that means removing myself from the equation, I will do it. I turn to Carmen’s mother. “What exactly do you want?”

  “Stop calling her. Stop seeing her. Leave her alone.”

  I stare her right in the eyes. “Those three things?”

  She blinks. I can see her mind racing, covering her bases. “Delete her number from your phone.”

  I take out my phone and show her the screen as I erase Carmen’s number. My anger almost—almost—eclipses the ache in my heart when I do it. “Anything else?”

  “If you break any of these rules, we take back the lease.”

  Vanessa says, “But there’s no legal precedent for—”

  “Done.” I put my phone back in my pocket. I look at Vanessa’s confused expression. “Listen, I won’t be the reason you and my brother can’t get this business off the ground.”

  “But what about Carmen?” Vanessa asks. “Isn’t anyone going to ask what she wants?”

  “This is what Carmen wants. She just doesn’t know it yet.” Mrs. Centeno’s eyes burn into me, dark like her daughter’s but cold instead of hot. “Remember, Eduardo. I’ll say it again. If you break any of these rules, we take back the lease.”

  She’s tall, but I’m taller. I weigh two times what she does. But she doesn’t budge, and now I see where Chef Centeno gets her steel backbone.

  “Understood.” I adjust my hoodie and put my hands in my pockets. I’m so worked up I could put my fist through one of the cinderblock walls, but I won’t let this woman see my anger. I avoid looking at Vanessa or my brother as I head straight out the door.

  Five minutes.

  That’s all it takes.

  Regret hits me like a Metrolink train.

  I’m pacing back and forth by the lake in the park, staring down at the dirty water and wondering what the hell I was thinking.

  How could I let that woman set me up? I’m Trouble Rosas. I know all the scams and cons and get-downs. Nobody fools me. Right?

  But I just fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book. It works because it’s simple. Cops use it all the time. Look your mark in the eye and tell them they have two choices, A or B. Make the decision dramatic, life or death. The key is to stress the other person out so bad they forget there’s a whole fucking alphabet of letters after A and B.

  The reality? My choices were not limited to A. Stop contacting Carmen Centeno or B. Ruin Sal and Vanessa’s chances of opening the brewery. There was also C. Tell that dictator to kick rocks, D. Steal a car, pick up Carmen, and take off for Mexico, or E. Ignore Carmen’s mother’s ultimatum completely and do whatever the hell Carmen and I want.

  What have I done?

  I make fists but I’ve got nothing to
punch, so I shove my hands back in my pockets and keep walking around the lake as if the solutions to my problems are going to rise out of the pond scum.

  When Carmen finds out, will she be angry? I want to think she’d be furious as hell that I sold us out to her mother.

  But there’s that word again. There is no us. Not yet. We’ve been hooking up for a couple of days. And yes, it’s good.

  More than good.

  It’s fucking amazing.

  I think of Carmen, her hardness and her softness, the way she sets her sights on something and just goes for it. Her ability not just to do shit but to do it well.

  In the last few days, I’ve learned so much about her. Behind Chef Centeno is Carmen. Carmen knows how to be kind to little kids even though she pretends not to like them. She’s a woman who knows how to connect with others, to make them feel welcome and safe. A woman who came to visit me when she was worried about me. A woman who isn’t afraid to get close to me, who isn’t afraid to see me as more than a warm body on a Saturday night, or as a tatted stranger she wants to fuck once and throw away.

  And underneath that, even deeper—a woman whose body I want to hold tight and never let go, from the moment the sun goes down to the moment it comes up, skin to skin. I want to hide inside her, my hunger matched to her hunger, to take the pleasure she gives me and return it to her times ten, times a hundred, times a thousand. I’ve never had sex like this before. I’m not the man I was before her. Wherever this thing with her goes, she’s changed me. I never knew it could be like this.

  Fuck.

  For reals. What have I done?

  There’s a chunk of loose concrete on the edge of the sidewalk by the lake. I kick it hard and it flies into the water with a small splash.

  More regret.

  Why—Jesus, why—did I say yes to Carmen’s mom?

  Carmen told me I needed to think before I speak. That I was a grown-ass man and I needed to work on that aspect of my personality. I know. Shit.

  For once I wanted to play the hero. The martyr. For once I wanted to get out of everyone’s way.

  A group of middle school kids in PE uniforms crosses the street from St. Amaro’s. They start a game of flag football on the grass while their coach stands by. I watch them for a second, their little serious game faces and the way the scoring team cheers, as if there is no greater happiness than a day in the park doing exactly this.

  Takes me back.

  I was around the same age as these kids when my life went completely to hell.

  So long ago.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and surprises me. I answer it. “Hello?”

  “What were you thinking?” Women have a special talent of whispering in such a way that makes you feel like they’re screaming at you at the top of their lungs. “Is this what you really want? Never to see me again? Are you tired of me already, Eddie?”

  Carmen is angry, but I can tell from the desperate tone in her voice that she’s more hurt than mad. Her hurt becomes my hurt. I want to reach through the phone and hold her, because I don’t really have the words right now to explain why I did what I did.

  “Answer me,” she says. “Is this what it was going to be? Because…I thought”—she sniffles—“actually, I don’t know what I thought. Fuck.”

  I watch the kids running up and down the clearing. A screech of the whistle. The smell of torn-up grass, green and rich.

  An ugly truth rises up inside me.

  Something I’ve been trying not to think about since I saw Carmen standing in the kitchen at Giacomo’s.

  What can I honestly offer her?

  I flinch at the truth.

  Any guy would be better for her than me. I don’t want to admit it because I want her for myself, but that wanting is selfish. I’m the reason she lost her job. I’m the reason she’s fighting with her mom. I’m unemployed, and I don’t have any money. I’m nobody.

  Maybe it’s better to break up with her now, before I’ve had the chance to let her down for reals.

  “Since I came into your life,” I say, “I’ve caused you nothing but trouble.”

  She’s quiet.

  “It’s true,” I say. “You know it’s true.”

  “Are you being serious right now?”

  “Think about it.”

  “What did she say to you? What did she do? I swear to God—”

  “You have a career. A good one. You have a family who loves you. I mean, in their own way, they do. What can I be in your life but a problem? It’s only been a few days and I’ve turned everything upside down.”

  “You…” She’s quiet for a second, trying to gather up her thoughts. I imagine her hiding out in her room. “You are full of shit.”

  I don’t say anything, because she’s right. I am.

  “What was all that talk about ‘let’s see where this goes’? Were you lying to me?”

  “No, I wasn’t. That was the truth,” I say. “But I see things now that I didn’t before.” Even though I want her so much I hurt, a woman like her is not for me. One-night stands. Booty calls. That’s what my love life is supposed to be. Nothing bigger or better than that. That’s the only way not to disappoint someone. And breaking up with her now is a hundred times better than the alternative—bouquets of red roses. Fake apologies.

  Wanting something more from Carmen is only going to lead to disaster for her. She’s already had a taste of it.

  “Eddie, please,” she says quietly. “Talk to me. Don’t be like this.”

  My patched-up heart breaks in a completely new place it’s never broken before. I hold steady. “You know it’s better this way.”

  We’re quiet for a long time.

  “That’s all you have to say?” she asks.

  “What else is there to say?”

  “I don’t understand you.” Her voice is bitter as black coffee.

  “Carmen—”

  She hangs up and I stand there holding the phone to my ear as if the silence will turn back into her voice.

  I put the phone back in my pocket and let it all wash over me—the pain, the anger, the regret. The hot, thick tar of self-hatred. It is always there, inescapable. A worse prison than prison.

  The coach on the field blows his whistle. The kids run to him and gather around, panting and sweaty.

  My phone rings. I take it out. My heartbeat roars back to life. It’s a sign—I can fix this. She’s letting me fix this. She’s letting me undo the enormous damage I’ve just done.

  “Carmen,” I say. “Please, just listen—”

  “Hey, mi’jo.”

  At this voice, I’m completely speechless.

  “What, you ain’t got nothing to say?”

  Ghosts are supposed to appear at night, in your house, slamming doors and flickering the light switches. They’re not supposed to appear in the middle of the day, in the bright sunlight, while you’re standing in a park watching a flag football game.

  My voice cracks. “Dad.”

  Nineteen

  Dizzy—I’m going to fall over. My stomach seizes up like I’ve been punched.

  The last time I heard my father’s voice was over the prison phone more than two years ago. Between then and now, the rumors of his disappearance, his death, and his goddamn resurrection have brought me and my brothers to hell and back, again and again and again.

  “So who’s Carmen?” he asks.

  My worlds crash together and I can’t get my balance. I sink down on the grass and rub my face with my hand.

  My father is alive.

  “She’s—she’s just a girl,” I say. I shove all thoughts of Carmen away, out of Dreamer’s reach. I clear my throat. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay, mi’jo. Just fine.”

  I glance at my phone. His number is blocked.

  “So, did you miss me?” He laughs.

  To miss someone means that they’re gone and you want them back. My feelings for my father are more complex than that. “Where are
you?” I ask again.

  “Somewhere safe. Somewhere far away,” he says. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you, as a matter of fact.”

  “Witness protection?”

  “Are you kidding? No one wants to protect me.” He laughs. When I don’t say anything, he says, “Breathe, Trouble. Take a breath. In, out.”

  I do it. My dizziness subsides a little bit.

  “Now tell me. How are your brothers?”

  My throat is dry. Somehow I find the words to answer him. “I haven’t talked to Angel since Christmas. He’s probably okay. Abuelita and Tío Rick would tell us if he’s in trouble.”

  “They have him on the short leash. He’s probably a little altar boy by now. Praying morning, noon, and night.”

  I want to tell him that the short leash is what’s keeping Angel from following his older brothers’ footsteps, and that all of us are lucky our relatives in Salinas could take him in. But now’s not the time. “Sal—he’s in school,” I say instead. “College.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah. He got a big scholarship.”

  “That’s tight. What’s he studying?”

  “Brewery science.”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “Beer making. He’s learning how to brew beer. He’s selling it too.”

  “Who knew? That’s wonderful.” I can almost see his crinkle-eyed smile. “And you, mi’jo? How are you doing?”

  Without thinking, I take little handfuls of dry grass and rip them out of the dirt. What do I tell my father? That I can’t hold down a job? That I hurt a girl who is worth a dozen of me, or that I’m broke, no better off than on the day I got out of prison? “I’m okay, Dad.”

  He grunts. “You don’t sound okay.”

  “Naw, I’m fine. Great. Going straight. Figuring it out.”

  “Good. That’s good. You know, this kind of thing, it takes time. You’ve gotta just take it one step at a time. Each day is a new day.”