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Allie
“You haven’t called your sister.”
My mother’s voice bellows over my Bluetooth like a looming storm. A very dark storm determined to kill me via a lightning bolt through my heart.
My mother can’t be this naïve or heartless. I’ve been a wreck following the conversation we had the other day. I helped Andres through thick and thin, only for him to help himself to my sister. Mom knew this would devastate me, so why does she keep calling me to discuss all the wedding festivities?
“Alegria? Are you still there?”
“Yes, Mom,” I reply. “I’m still here.”
“Then why do you seem so distant? Why does it feel like you’re not listening at all?”
This is the moment where I express how hurt I am. But different rules have always applied to my sister and me. I’m the sponge, the one they cyclically squeeze dry. Valentina remains the queen. This time, I can’t bow down. Valentina wears a very tarnished crown and for once my mother needs to see it.
“This is a lot to take in. This was someone I was once very close to.”
“This doesn’t change your relationship with Valentina,” my mother interrupts. “You’ll always be best friends.”
If I was driving in the coal regions and not into Philly, I might very well consider ramming down on the accelerator and driving over the edge. This is where my mother always takes me; to the very edge of sanity where all that separates me from men in white scrubs wielding restraints is a minute thread of reason.
My mother’s voice continues in that animated and bizarre speech pattern she’s adopted over the years, feigning that she’s a worldly socialite and not a first-generation Latina who worked at a canning plant most of her life.
“You’re worried Valentina will forget about you, aren’t you?” she asks.
She doesn’t even consider that perhaps I meant Andres. Nor does she acknowledge Valentina and I haven’t spoken in years. Valentina knew what Andres meant to me. Everyone did.
I take a breath, gathering courage that abandoned me long ago. “Mom, I was talking about Andres.”
It’s my last attempt to share what I’m feeling. To show her I’m hurt. Me, the woman who saw past Andres’s idiosyncrasies and promised to marry him.
“Niña,” Mom says. “You knew that was never going to work out.”
No. I didn’t. Not then.
Traffic eases to a slow crawl. “You used to complain about Andres,” I remind her, unable to let the conversation drop. “When we were together, you used to tell me I was wasting my time on someone who wouldn’t amount to anything.”
“I don’t remember that,” my mother says. “Did I tell you they’re having the wedding at the Montana Elite?”
“Yes, you’ve mentioned it.”
“Oh, don’t worry about the price,” my mother insists, as if that’s the problem. “Andres can afford any reception hall after obtaining his doctorate in physics.”
I should remind her I helped pay for that degree, but I don’t want to sound bitter. I’m better than that. At least that’s what I thought until my mother shared the big news.
“Andres promised Valentina everything she deserves,” my mother gushes.
“Great,” I say, through bared teeth.
I think I growl. This is what my family has finally reduced me to, a growling, crazy woman who’s contemplating biting someone.
“The waiting list for the Montana Elite is years. Did you hear me? Years!” My mother happily declares. She laughs. “But, once they knew who the bride was . . . Well, they weren’t going to let a celebrity of Valentina’s status slip through their fingers, now were they?”
“Heaven forbid,” I agree.
Andres isn’t the man for me. I knew it when he confessed he’d spent the afternoon in Valentina’s bed. As much as it killed me, I couldn’t stay with a man who traded me in so easily.
My mother rambles on about Valentina’s meeting with the designer who fitted her for the last Oscar ceremony. I shake my head, the motion giving the young women standing in front of a deli pause, as if I’m somehow judging them. I wouldn’t do that. But I am judging the situation in my family.
There are several things not allowed in my household. The main one is any negativity aimed at Valentina. The second is to speak up against an elder. It’s been ingrained in me and perhaps in Valentina, as well. The difference is, I was berated into silence. Valentina knew how to use her words, so they were encouraged rather than dismissed.
“The cake,” my mother says, remembering I’m still here. “Oh, the cake! That celebrity cake boss has agreed to make one with the groom proposing to Valentina in front of the fountain, just as Andres proposed to Valentina at that famous fountain in Paris.”
“Les fontaines de la Concorde?” I offer. That’s wonderful and coincidently where Andres promised to propose to me.
“Yes, that’s the one.”
Or two, I don’t bother to explain.
I say nothing more. My entire family sees Valentina as a hero, the epitome of the American dream my grandparents, immigrants from Honduras, wanted for their children.
“Where are you?” Mom asks.
I’m barely listening at this point, but manage to answer and keep my emotions from my voice. “I’m driving.”
“Where to? Valentina wants to see you. Are you available for lunch?”
She can’t be serious. “No,” I reply, speaking a little too fast. “I have a very busy day.”
That’s a lie. Today is one of those days set aside for catching up on emails and treating my staff to something nice.
“It’s been years since you’ve seen your sister. What’s so important you can’t make a little time for her?”
Um, perhaps everything? I’d rather cover my naked body with honey and jump into the closest bear enclosure.
“Work. I told you, I’m very busy. I’ll be in the office all afternoon.”
“And now?” she asks unable to drop the subject.
“I’m on my way to Termini’s Bakery,” I say without giving it much thought.
“That’s completely out of your way.”
“I know,” I reply.
“Then why are you going there? Why drive so far out of your way if you’re too busy to see your family?”
“It’s my favorite bakery,” I tell her. “And I wanted to treat my staff to celebrate our success from last week’s sales.”
Mom doesn’t sound excited about my good news. “A little early in the day for sweets, don’t you think?” she says, instead.
“What—”
“This isn’t a good time for you to gain weight,” she snaps, the frustration in her voice as tangible as the cool March breeze flowing through my partially cracked window. “You have a bridesmaid’s dress to fit into and Valentina has enough to worry about.”
“For goodness sake, Mom. How many ways can you slap me in the face?”
“Alegria!” My mother screams. “I called to arrange a lunch with my daughters. Not to be insulted.”
I should hold my ground. But it’s not my nature to cause problems. “I have a lot to do today,” I respond, attempting to calm.
“No, you have a lot to do for everyone except your family, who should matter most,” she adds, coolly. “Explain to me how people who spend the day filing and answering the phone are more worthy of your time than your adoring sister?”
“You want me to have lunch with Valentina,” I say. “For what? So you can pretend Valentina and I are fine and this absurd wedding has no effect on me?”
By now, my mother is screaming. “What has gotten into you?”
Years of my family’s constant badgering has taken its toll. I want to yell and curse, like I think I deserve to. But once more, I revert to being the good daughter. The one who fills out her family’s tax returns, never raises her voice, and maintains her composure. It sounds stupid and weak, and it is, but it’s the role I adopted long ago to survive.
I don’t want to be cast aside and forgotten. I want a fighting chance at belonging and meaning something to someone. And no matter how pitiful and fragile my connection to my family is, and how imperfect and dysfunctional they are, aside from my career, they’re all I have.
“I’m going to Termini’s,” I repeat. “Goodbye.”
It’s as much as I manage before disconnecting.
I’ll receive an earful from her later and more from my aunts after she’s done crying to them. There’s crazy and then there’s my family. Is there any wonder I feel so alone?
I rub my temple. Today was supposed to be a good day. My business is booming. I can’t let my mother and Valentina take that away from me.
The breeze intensifies as I near the bakery, giving me enough of a chill to shut the window. By some miracle, I find a spot right in front of the store. I hop out, my small heels clicking onto the sidewalk and my thick braid slapping against my back.
My Infiniti SUV sits high, and I bounce every time I slip out. It normally gives my clients a giggle. I don’t mind. They find it endearing.
I walk into the bakery and wave to Cara Maria, the young woman at the counter. She doesn’t notice me. She’s preoccupied with the man leaning over the counter. His stance appears relaxed, but there is a coiled energy and alertness lurking beneath, ready for anyone and anything.
As I venture further in, the display of cannoli and fresh baked goods catches my attention, albeit briefly. Something about the man flirting with Cara Maria is familiar.
My attention travels away from the display and fixes like glue on him, lingering longer than it politely should. Dark jeans cling around rather long and impressive legs, skimming the top of what appear to be expensive running shoes. He must be one of those men who run all the time through snow and rain, to maintain his strong, bordering on immense stature.
His musculature isn’t that of a weight-lifter or someone I’m certain at one point religiously played football, but it is one that proclaims his athleticism and take-no-nonsense attitude. Broad muscles fill out the tight, dark blue T-shirt, warning those who would dare to start a fight that this is a man who won’t go down without taking someone with him.
I know him, I think to myself, and it’s not from the cover of some sports magazine. Familiarity and curiosity keep my interest. I can’t see his face, but it must be some spectacle of beauty for Cara Maria to be so engrossed by it, and not everything else this man has to offer.
I wander closer, pretending to take in the pastries all while stealing a better look and hoping to catch sight of his profile. Somewhere in the back room, the other workers hustle, preparing what must be a large wedding order. I catch a hint of a four-tiered cake being carefully lifted and carried in the direction of the rear exit. A young man follows, hoisting several boxes in his long arms.
“Thank you,” the woman at the counter tells the owner. She pays for an exorbitant number of cupcakes, her joy evident as she turns and hurries out.
“Tell her I said happy birthday,” the owner calls after her.
He nods to me as the woman passes. I start to help her with the door, but the big guy flirting with Cara Maria beats me to the exit. “I got you,” he tells her, opening the door wide.
I pause, waiting for him to turn around so I can finally see him, only to turn when the owner speaks. “What’s it going to be for you today, Allie?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer. In the time I turn, tall-dark-and-rock-hard ass cheeks is already back to Cara Maria’s side. The owner rolls his eyes, likely annoyed by how much time Cara Maria is spending with him. I can’t blame her. I’m practically gawking myself.
“My apologies,” I tell the owner. “I think I’m going to need a minute.”
“All right,” he says, “let me know when you’re ready.”
He lumbers to the back, evidently to fill another large order. “Try this one,” Cara Maria says to Mr. Sexy, her voice now more of a purr. “They’re stuffed with whipped cream and messy, but they’re tasty.”
“Yeah?” the man says, his voice deep and gruff, like many of the blue-collar workers in the city.
“Oh, yeah,” Cara Maria replies, a blush gathering on her face as she watches him chew. “They’re real popular for bridal luncheons.”
“Hmm,” he says. “This is good. Can I have another?”
Cara Maria laughs. “Sure. But you better not leave here without buying something.”
“I won’t. Trust me.” He seems to think things through. “Could you make a donut cake?”
“A donut cake?” Cara Maria questions.
I turn quickly to eye the eclairs when he finally seems to notice me. Who is this man?
“You know. Like a cake, except instead of layers of cake, there are layers of donuts,” the man explains. “Guests can pull off one at a time and eat it.”
“That sounds . . .” Cara Maria begins.
Genius, I think smiling. This curvy Latina body was shaped from plenty of tortillas and a few donuts.
“It’s for my brother,” he adds.
“Which one?” Cara Maria asks with a laugh.
“Good question,” he says, laughing with her. It’s a hearty laugh. One you expect from a man who laughs often and means it. It’s another trait that’s familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t place how I know him.
“It’s for Finnie. His fiancée wants him to have his own groom’s cake.” He holds out a hand, emphasizing each word. “The best part is, he gets to decide what kind. And my baby brother deserves a donut cake if any man ever did. Oh, and if you can sprinkle some of the donuts with bacon, that would be perfection on plate, if you know what I mean.”
The name Finnie catches my attention.
“Bacon for your baby brother?” Cara Maria gushes. “That is so sweet.”
“It’s the kind of guy I am,” he tells her. “Hey Cara, you sure you’re married? I could really use someone who thinks I’m sweet right about now.”
“I’m sure. But if I wasn’t . . .” She gives him the eyes. “I’d sure take you up on your offer, Seamus.”
“Seamus,” I repeat a little louder than I intend.
“Huh?” He turns around and looks at me. Now, I know exactly who he is.
