Chapter Fourteen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ten minutes post-argument and I still felt like I was going to bubble over.
My unwillingness to stop replaying the fight with Tina wasn’t helping, either. She hadn’t come back from the kitchen, and knowing her, she’d avoid me for the rest of her shift.
Ugh.
The cheery jingling of the door opening contradicted my stewing rage, but the cold air it brought in took the edge off a little. Probably for the better. An interruption would help.
A towering frame, decked out in a tailored suit the shade of a biscuit, stepped inside. Havana brown sunglasses with darker rounded lenses lifted off the bridge of a proud, narrow nose, revealing icy blue eyes skirted by sandy lashes the same hue as his brindled hair.
Oh. It was just him. Relief sidled over me. I could ditch the fabricated cheery bit. Tina had nicknamed him Daddy Rover, but only because I was uncomfortable with her previous nickname—Pennybags. He wasn’t that old, even if he evidently wasn’t rubbing two pennies together to make a dollar. Not that I particularly cared to refer to him as the alternative nickname, either, but for the sake of simplicity, Rover it was.
Rover tucked the arm of the sunglasses into the front pocket of his blazer—wasn’t he cold without a proper coat?—and held up a hand in greeting, smiling.
It deepened the cradle of the dimple in his chin.
Everything about him screamed expensive, chin dimple included. From his stylish haircut right down to his shiny oxfords, bare of any traces of salt stains. And, of course, there was the matter of his SUV. The origin of his namesake.
Tina and I had never seen a Range Rover in person before he started showing up at the bakery on a near-regular basis about five weeks ago. He always left it idling, which was a byproduct of his arrogance or the lack of fear associated with his apparent wealth because, in the event of theft, he’d just buy another one.
I didn’t know why he kept coming here to eat. I mean, the food at the bakery was fine, but it would never win itself one of those star thingies—a Michelin? Our menu was about as basic and cheap as it got come the lunch hour, but it catered to a very specific palate. Not… well, not people like him. The few times he stayed to eat at one of the café tables, sweat sequined his strong hairline—Ma preferred the hot pepper paste over the sweet one, and was heavy-handed sometimes—and we’d brought him a glass of water more than once. But for whatever reason, Rover kept coming back. Three to four times a week. Initially, with a stern-faced older woman who wore her disapproval like lipstick, underwhelmed by the lunch options.
Eventually, he started coming alone.
I was leery of dubbing him a regular because he wasn’t a townie—not with that watch Tina had identified as a Rolex—but we’d determined last week he was in Fall River on business. His pager had gone off after he’d ordered, and he’d excused himself outside to take a call on his clamshell cell phone. He’d been, to put it indelicately, pissed, and I pitied whoever had been on the receiving end of his verbal lashing.
Not that it stopped either Tina or me from listening in. Kind of hard not to when we could hear him over the quiet crooning of the nearby battery-operated stereo. Tina adjusted the volume lower by a fraction.
We’d been curious, mostly because we didn’t know anyone with a cell phone, let alone someone who was important enough to have one.
“How’s my favorite girl?” Rover asked, flashing me a uniformed row of too-white teeth. I bet he’d worn braces, too, just like—nope. Not going there.
The longer Rover stared, the hotter my cheeks burned.
It was an involuntary reaction, and I couldn’t stop it no matter how hard I tried. On top of being flashy, he was borderline agonizingly flirty. When he wasn’t firing off directives on that cell phone of his, everything that came out of his mouth held an almost suggestive quality to it. He could out-sweet-talk Tina, and if it weren’t for Justin and that ring on her finger, I was certain she would have scaled the counter and asked him out already.
But I was mad at her right now, so I wasn’t going to tell her that her favorite guy was here because she pandered to that.
I didn’t.
“ Bifana sandwich?” I asked instead, ignoring the line. He ordered the same thing every time, even if he couldn’t handle it. Fried, thinly sliced pork loin marinated in half a bottle of white wine, a fistful of minced garlic, and pepper paste. We topped it off with onions and red bell pepper, served inside of a fresh bun.
Rover slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks. The motion parted his blazer, revealing a trim waist. His careful once-over concluded on my face. “I ate already.”
Okay…? “Dessert?” I extended my hand for a waxed bag.
He hummed lowly, a faint spark skipping up my spine. “It’ll be something like that,” he mused, smirking.
Uhm, alright. Averting my gaze, I stared at the glass case. “The pastéis de nata are fresh out of the oven.” Portuguese custard tarts.
I’d been making them myself for the last four years. I hadn’t been allowed to make anything without Ma overseeing it before then. But when Ma had forgotten a cake order and realized two hours before the bakery opened, she shoved the recipe card into my hand and shooed me.
I thought I’d blown it when a customer asked to speak to Ma about the tarts. “What’s wrong with them?” she demanded, her hands flexing at her sides, eyes flicking from the customer to me.
No one had been more surprised than me to hear the words, “These are so much better than usual, Matilda.” To say I was relieved was an understatement, especially since I’d taken a few creative liberties with the recipe. I had to express myself somewhere.
Ma preened, accepted the credit for it, and I never corrected her. I hadn’t thought I needed the praise—I was just happy to make other people happy—but now that I thought about it, I supposed that was another thing she took from me for herself.
A tiny gasp escaped me when Rover closed the distance and approached the counter. The halogen lightbulbs caught the inky pupils set against his glacier eyes. Like his car and his cell phone, I’d never seen eyes quite so pale and blue before.
I swallowed. Hard. Too close. Why was he so close?
God, even his cologne and haircut screamed aristocratic. Amber, sandalwood, and what I thought was cardamom wafted off him, and his headful of carefully groomed hair was brushed off his forehead, silver streaking the strands near his temples. But it was his smile I’d bet he affected a lot of women with, yours truly included apparently.
Blushing, I looked elsewhere. It was another uncontrolled response. Not that anyone could blame me. Rover was polished and easy to look at, but that was where my interest in him stopped and ended.
Plus, he had to be at least thirty. In my peripheral, he scanned the glass display carefully, but the whole thing felt performative somehow. “I’ll take six of those.”
“You got it,” I replied, reaching for a pastry box with a clear window, folding the sides quickly, and fitting the edges into each other. He monitored me as I transferred the tarts from the tray to the box cautiously, not wanting to compromise the integrity of the flaky dough.
“How’s the forehead?”
Was this his idea of small talk? I didn’t stop my work, pursing my lips. He’d asked about it two weeks after it happened. Guarded by his intrusive question—he was a stranger, after all—I told him I’d walked into a door.
“Fine.”
“Watching where you’re walking these days?”
“Yep.” Folding the lid shut, I tore a piece of tape from the dispenser, placing it against the opening of the box and slid it his way. “Can I get you anything else?”
“I’m Nicholas,” he volunteered. “Nick.”
A knot registered under my belly button, but it wasn’t nerves. Rov—I mean, Nick —stared at me expectantly, and I bowed my head, hesitant. Right. This was the part where I told him my name. “Belmira.”
“Belmira,” he repeated confidently. “Pretty name.” My lips parted, and I swayed in place. “It suits you.”
“Th-th-thank you.” And now I was stammering. Fantastic . What was worse? I was smiling , like, actually smiling, displaying my overlapping front teeth I was self-conscious about. I folded my lips over my teeth, snuffing the smile out.
My heart was doing the Macarena. Or the Hammer dance. Or some hybrid of both.
I changed my mind. Where was Tina? I needed help.
“I don’t normally do this,” Nick said, rubbing his lips together. Do what? “I don’t normally have to do this.” What was with the correction? The fine hairs on my arms stood at attention.
“The oblivious, innocent girl thing works for you, though.” He shot me another grin, disentangling the tight knots in my belly. “You’ve played hard to get very well.”
Played… hard to get…? I wasn’t—oh my God, no! That’s what he thought this was? I wasn’t doing anything. Although now that I thought about it, when he usually came in, Nick always waited until I was free, no matter how long it took. Even when Tina redirected her lineup my way to make herself available to him, it never worked. It was like she wasn’t there at all.
I met his eyes, his intent finally clear to me.
“Uhm, Nick—” the argument died as he opened his blazer. Long, callus-free digits plucked a business card, and he held it out to me.
My hand grew a mind of its own apparently, because I did the unthinkable and accepted the thick stock, examining the embossed inky text.
“Nicholas Hill,” I read out. Ma would hate it. It was all-American perfect. His name sounded like he played polo as a pastime—polo was the game you played on horseback with the mallet thingy, right?—and had a summer car, too. “Hill Architects, CEO and Senior Partner.” That explained the jargon he’d been using on his phone call a few weeks back. Probably could have afforded to have someone grab his lunch for him every week, too. Like that woman he’d been with, who’d been reading off an itinerary to him while he listened absently.
I turned the card over between my fingers, and he surveyed each rotation with an unwavering concentration.
Nick appeared disappointed it hadn’t warranted a bigger reaction, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by his ease. “Now you have my number,” he said, his head tilting my way. “Do I get yours?”
The only appropriate answer was a firm “no,” but I bought myself time by lowering my eyes and retreating in my head.
I didn’t want to. Say “no” that was.
I wasn’t entirely sure why.
Because you’re still angry at him , my conscience replied. People move on by meeting other people, not by becoming a recluse trapped under their mother’s thumb.
Him. Felix. Felix. Felix. It was about time I practiced disempowering the chokehold his name had on me. Desensitize myself to it like exposure therapy instead of avoiding it because I’d convinced myself his name alone brought unsavory consequences.
I stared at the faded numbers on the cash register. The decimal long gone, and the sticky enter button that hadn’t worked properly in years. You needed to hit it the right way for it to work, and— did everything I did have to be centered around him ? Did every choice, every emotion, every thought, all have to be a river, spilling back into the endless ocean in my mind—I took a breath—that Felix existed within?
He’d turned out to be all the things I hadn’t wanted him to be, and I… I wanted him to feel what I felt—that hot, scorching, searing pain, lacerating the center of my chest relentlessly that made it hard to breathe at times—and maybe that made me no better than Ma, wanting to get back at him. Maybe that made me as petty, vindictive and spiteful as she was, but it hurt. Every time I thought about how I’d bared myself to him, made myself vulnerable with him in a way I never had with anyone else before, only for it to result in the exact revelation I’d feared, I got all worked up again like I was reliving the moment in real-time.
Nick was still looking at me. I didn’t need to check. The hairs at the crown of my head tingled, confirming it. Restless, I resisted the urge to pick up the pen settled in a niche under the receipt dispenser, just for something to fidget with. Or to write my number down.
I couldn’t give Nick my number. Not even for the hell of it. Not even in some stupid attempt to prove something to my brain, to my heart, that I could move on because I wasn’t allowed to skin my knees. I wasn’t allowed to make choices for myself, experiment, and see what happened.
Because you let her, Tina’s voice retorted in my head.
Maybe there was some truth to that, even if I hadn’t wanted to hear it, but not because I wanted to. I wanted lots of things. No matter what Tina or anyone else thought. Hundreds of people passed through the bakery every week. People who’d known my parents for decades, people who’d watched me grow up, who’d pitied me when Dad left and called me coitadinha —poor thing—when the latest of Ma’s antics made its rounds. People who watched me on bated breath, wondering when I’d snap. If I’d snap. When I’d finally break free.
But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t because I was afraid. I wasn’t a risk taker. It was why I wouldn’t gamble on myself. The fear of the unknown was so great it felt safer to remain tethered to what hurt me instead.
If I walked through those proverbial doors, there was no coming back. And then what?
I’d lived my life serving Ma’s emotional needs. But there was this part inside of me that had been finding a momentum I now struggled to ignore, loud and demanding, seeking answers for unspoken questions I’d always been too afraid to acknowledge.
Was remaining at her side, perpetuating this cycle, for her benefit or mine?
This enmeshed web had kept me stuck to her, and I was so tired of it, of not knowing what life could be, of not knowing who I could be.
Of not trying at all.
Yes, I was scared. Scared . That singular word failed to encompass the true depth of my boundless terror. But I finally began to grasp that I was more afraid of not knowing who I was outside of her.
Outside of this place.
“Bels?” Nick said.
“ ‘Bels?’ ” I repeated, my attention jerking to his, my brows meeting in the middle. “Did you just give me a nickname?” He was ballsy.
He shot me an impish smile, the fine lines near his eyes deepening. “Too forward?”
“I don’t date customers.” It was adorable I said that like I’d had a choice in who I dated at all.
Nick deliberated for a moment, nodding his head. “So, we’ll say that this is the last time I eat here, and in exchange”—his mouth quirked—“you’ll have dinner with me on Friday night.”
It wasn’t a question or a suggestion. He’d already decided on it for me. It should have made me feel the opposite of secure, and yet there was a safety in that I was struggling to understand, never mind explain.
The noisy hinges on the door behind me swung open—we needed to oil those things—the halt of soles squeaking against the tiles registering.
Nick didn’t look behind me, and I couldn’t compel myself to check, either.
I sensed her the way prey did their predator.
I’d spent my entire life monitoring her. She’d taught me genuine fear and an unhealthy level of vigilance, and that the only way to have what I wanted was to do it behind her back.
And sure, she’d been right about Felix—to a degree—but it didn’t change he tried.
He had tried.
I’d spend the rest of my life wondering what if? What if he’d been honest? What if I’d been given the chance to hear him out and decide then?
What if I came with a history, too, a past he had to decide if he could accept?
“She’s busy,” Ma announced for me. She’d heard. Ma yanked the box of fragile pastries from the counter, tossing them toward him with little care. “It’s on the house.” She kicked her chin to the door, ordering him out.
But Nick didn’t move. “You must be the door,” he observed, but the comment was for me. Ma frowned, not understanding the implication.
But I did because even perfect fucking strangers could see it so clearly.
His brow rose a little, unmoved by her posturing. “What do you say, Belmira?” he asked, keeping his voice soft.
What did I say… I got a choice, didn’t I?
Choices, no matter how small, mattered. They held consequences.
My biggest one was reminding me of her presence. “Belmira.” The unspoken threat ordered me to back down. Say no. Walk away. Get in the kitchen.
What was the worst Ma was going to do?
Hit me?
Throw me out?
Kill me?
It would look worse on her, wouldn’t it?
I searched within myself for some sign from my intuition that this was wrong, that I should decline, that I shouldn’t take the risk.
But there were no butterflies. No warning bells. Nothing that suggested there was anything to be fearful of. There was just quiet.
I didn’t know why this man wanted to take me to dinner or what his intentions were. Why someone like him had any kind of interest in me. But some bigger part of me didn’t care to know.
I was bidding on myself. I’d deal with the consequences, whatever they were, later, because trying to be perfect or living my life the way she wanted, hadn’t done me any favors.
And if I allowed it to go on, it would cost me my life. Wasn’t that why I’d left Martin?
I was done obeying, flinching when she raised a hand or dissolving into sobs when she screamed.
She’d taken the last thing away from me.
I held down the enter button on the cash register, the receipt dispenser rumbling as it fed blank paper through its mouth.
Ma entered my periphery, hissing in Portuguese, “What are you doing?”
Exactly what it looked like. Tearing a strip off, I wrote our address down. “Here.”
She wasn’t entrapping me anymore. I’d throw myself out the fucking window and break every bone in my body first.
She could answer to that.
I flapped my hand, urging him to hurry up and take it. “She’s never going to let me answer the phone,” I explained, ignoring the flood of adrenaline.
In my peripheral, Ma’s hands flexed at her sides.
She wouldn’t strike me in front of him. She’d wait.
And I’d be ready this time.
Nick accepted the receipt, smirking. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“If I don’t come to the door by the second knock, she’s murdered me,” I said, half-joking while the blood roared in my ears. “So, save yourself. I’m not worth the trouble.”
Nick released a throaty laugh. “We’ll agree to disagree on that.” When he inclined his head, I noticed the resting lines against his forehead. Maybe he was older than thirty.
Honestly, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going on this date with the prospect of marriage. I was doing it to prove something to myself. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.” He tucked the receipt into his pocket.
“Said every great serial killer,” I replied.
He rubbed the corners of his mouth, deliberating. “From the sounds of it”—he glanced at Ma—“your number is up, either way. Might as well make it interesting with me.”
“Figures.” Tina announced herself from the threshold of the kitchen. “The hot businessman is masquerading as a Patrick Bateman wannabe.”
Patrick, who? And why did she sound a bit irritated? I’d thought she’d be proud of me right now.
Ma spun around, seconds away from wringing Tina’s neck, but any traces of Tina’s aggravation vanished, and she doubled over with inconsolable laughter.
I was missing something, but whatever.
Delighted with the reference, Nick snapped his fingers, pointing at Tina. “Did you know they’re trying to turn the book into a movie?”
She was laughing too hard to reply.
Oh. Now, I was following. Patrick Bateman was a book character. Well, there was something we had in common. Books . Sorta. I doubted we shared the same genre preference.
…What the hell were we going to talk about on this date? Y’know what, it didn’t matter. Not the point. With the slow return of my appetite again, if I got a meal out of it, then this wasn’t the worst use of a Friday night. It beat the alternative by a long shot.
“Belmira,” Ma hissed.
This was exhilarating. Freeing.
“You’re not going,” she said. She looked at the pastry box and then glowered at him. “She’s not going.”
“Yes, I am,” I decided, my voice foreign. Had I just said that? “And you’re not going to do anything about it.” Who was I?
Ma sandwiched her tongue between her bared teeth, the threat vibrating in her shaking eyes.
“You can’t afford to lose me,” I pointed out, openly embarrassing her now. “And I can’t afford the cost of this being my life anymore. So unless you’re planning to kill me,” I said, taunting her. “I’m going.”
She took everything that mattered most to me away.
Everything I wanted always a little out of reach.
But not anymore. The odds were no longer stacked in her favor.
For once, she was the vulnerable one—not me.
“Don’t push me,” she advised in Portuguese.
“Or what?” I volleyed back, staring at her with scornful eyes.
She paled.
I’d never looked at her that way. I’d never allowed my features to communicate what I felt the most because I always spared her feelings for my own, but it was high time she knew.
I hated her. More than I hated Dad. More than I hated him . More than I’d ever hated anyone or anything.
The worst part was, despite those dark thoughts, I loved her, too.
I was tired of her holding my oxygen mask out of reach, of begging for air.
It was a date. A single date. Not the end of the world.
Nick tugged a fifty-dollar bill free from his billfold, setting it on the counter. Ma made a tiny snarl, but he didn’t react. I thought little got to him, and I didn’t get the sense he was showboating. It was the smallest denomination he had on him.
“I’ll see you Friday, Belmira.”
I offered him an awkward wave, watching his escaping figure. He settled in his car, our eyes connecting.
Nick winked at me.
Tina’s strained, ear-piercing squeal reverberated through the bakery when he drove away, and she raced toward me at a dead run, her hands registering against my biceps while she bounced on her toes.
I was having a hard time getting a read on her, but I mirrored her enthusiasm. This was what she’d wanted, right? For me to do something for myself?
“If you go on that date, don’t come home,” Ma seethed, crossing her arms over her chest.
Tina shot her a dirty look, and fear slithered up my spine. “Okay,” I replied, shoving the feeling away, calling her bluff. “I won’t.”
Ma’s head snapped back. She reared away, holding a hand to her heart. She tried a different angle, appealing to the daughter she’d raised where mother knew best. “He’s too old for you.”
God, she was predictable. The whole thing was exhausting. “He’s too old for me,” I began, holding up a hand and folding my fingers as I listed off the infractions from his predecessors. “Felix came from a bad family.” My chest squeezed at his name on my tongue. “And he fucked me in public,” I said, her mouth falling open.
I was being deliberately crass to illustrate —thanks, Maria!—my point.
It was honesty hour now, and Ma deserved the unfiltered truth.
So here was another.
“And you know what, Ma? I liked it!” My laughter turned haughty and incredulous. “Martin would have been perfect because you thought you could control him, that his family would make you look good, and make your life easier. But who cares what Belmira wants or deserves.” I dropped my hand. “The only thing that would bring you greater joy is me being as unhappy as you .” I narrowed my eyes, releasing a shuddering breath. “And I want to know why.”
Her bewilderment turned her body rigid. She didn’t recognize me.
I didn’t recognize myself, either.
But it was empowering.
She didn’t speak.
“What do you want from me, Ma?”
Nothing.
I inched toward her. “What do you want from me?” I demanded again, louder this time. I’d never taken this tone with her before, so it was no surprise when her hand whipped out in front of me in a blur, striking me. I’d walked right into that. I’d predicted it. Some part of me had needed her to do that, to drive the importance of this decision home.
“ Senhora !” Tina gasped.
Irritation flared in my cheek. I lifted a hand, nursing the sting.
Ma wanted to break me.
She wouldn’t.
Not this time.
“I’m going on that date,” I announced, lowering my hand. “And if you want to lock me out, call me a whore, ruin my life…” I shrugged. “I don’t care anymore.”
“I dare you,” she hissed. That’s all she could do anymore. Dare me.
She’d always been my biggest bully, hadn’t she?
All I could do in return was step up to the challenge.
I tugged on the knot at my back, releasing the apron wrapped around my waist. I was taking my lunch break for the first time in my life.
She and Tina could manage the rush.
“Belmira. You don’t know him,” Ma pleaded. She raced after me as I moved for my coat hanging in the closet in the hallway. I fed my arms through the sleeves, not meeting her eyes. “Everything I’ve done has been to protect you.”
She wasn’t protecting me. She never had. She was protecting her own interests.
Ignoring her, I tore my arm free from her grasp when she tried to stop me. She wasn’t used to me fighting back because I never did.
I’d always accepted the fall of her hands. I’d let her hurt me with her words. I’d let her terrorize me to make herself feel better.
But not anymore. Never again.
I didn’t know Nick any more than I knew Felix, but I didn’t know myself, either.
I just knew her. Only her. And there were some bets on yourself you had to take.
The cold air absorbed me when I stepped outside, and I pulled in the first full breath I’d taken since that night, the salt grinding under my shoes. I didn’t know where I was going or where I might end up, but the destination didn’t matter as long as I kept moving.
Because as it turned out, there was no such thing as a safe bet.
Especially when it came in the form of an established, too good-looking man who said and did all the right things.
A lesson I’d come to fully understand three months too late.