Chapter 12
twelve
My feet and back ache as I climb the stairs to Abuelita’s walk-up. My spine slumps after twelve hours in heels, not to mention the veritable mountain of work I’ve carted home with me.
But the worst part of the whole shitty day is still Graham Everett.
Who I hate.
So much that I curse his name every time I think of it. Carajo con ese cabron…
At the top of the steps, the unmistakable scent of ajiaco fills my nose. Abuelita’s Colombian chicken soup can only mean one thing?—
“Who died?” I ask, bursting through the door.
Abuelita stands at the stove with her back to me. She waves one wrinkled hand over her shoulder. “ Nadie ,” she mutters, stirring the large simmering pot with a long wooden spoon.
“In English, Abuelita,” I chide gently. “You need practice— hay que practicar, bien? ”
I expect her usual scowl and more Spanish muttering. Instead, she wipes her hands on her apron and turns to face me with a regretful sigh. “ Bien, muneca .” Sadness fills her dark eyes. “Was work?”
How was work ? “I was very busy today.”
Fighting with Graham Everett. Loathing him. Wanting him. Hooking up with him in a conference room.
I set my bag on one of the empty kitchen chairs. Everything suddenly seems too heavy for me to carry. “You made ajiaco ?”
She nods. The dim light from the hood over the range steeps half of her face in shadows. “ Necesito ,” she says simply.
I watch her ladle the soup into two bowls. She shuffles toward me and sets them on the breakfast table while I pull off my heels and my blazer. “Why do you need it?” I ask, rubbing an ache in my left foot. “Do you feel sick?”
Abuelita scoffs. “I never sick.”
“ I’m .”
She slowly gathers soup onto her spoon. “Is what I said.” Her gray brows knit together as her gaze roams over the bag of folders beside me. “You working hard, muneca .”
She means too hard, but I purposefully misunderstand. “It’s good to work hard. You taught me that.”
Her lips tighten. “Stubborn.”
“Wonder where I learned that ,” I return, shooting her a pointed look. “Now, tell me why you made ajiaco .”
Abuelita considers me for a long moment. “Is no thing, muneca . Only cold, so I make ajiaco . Now, eat.”
I cross my arms over my chest, not buying her deflections. “Abuelita.”
My grandmother rolls her eyes to the heavens and throws her hands up. “Fine. I tell. Your papi come today.”
Dread turns my stomach to lead. My father only makes appearances every six months or so. After years of listening to me berate him, he’s stopped coming over when I’m home.
I’m fine with that arrangement. After what he did to my mother, I prefer not to see him.
Abuelita’s never forgiven her son for abandoning me after bringing me to America. His visits normally infuriate her. Tonight, though, she seems subdued.
“What did he want?” I demand.
“No thing,” she lies into her soup. “I handle him. Not you worry.”
But he is my worry. He always will be, no matter how hard she tries to protect me from his sorry ass.
It’s not like I won’t ever have to deal with him again. He’s technically still married to my mother. As soon as I get her here, we’ll have to serve him divorce papers.
The thought is yet another reminder of why I can’t let Graham get to me.
Men ruin women, the way my father ruined my mother.
“Tell me,” I order, out of patience for horrible men. “I’ll deal with it.”
Abuelita pins me with a glare. “Eat.”
I truly don’t have it in me to argue with her anymore. I have to save my strength for work—and building up new defenses for tomorrow’s “meeting.”