More Like Enemigas

Chapter One

Come in. We’re Open.

I turn the sign to face the street, alerting anyone passing by that La Mariposa restaurant is here and ready to welcome guests.

I twist the lock and turn on the neon “OPEN” sign.

The light buzzes slightly before shutting off completely.

I tap it a few times, but the bulb continues to flicker.

Useless junk. I grab it and shake it furiously, capturing the attention of the prep cook, José, who is undoubtedly side-eyeing me while he takes out the premade sandwiches.

The sign finally beams a solid blue hue.

I pair the Bluetooth speaker with my phone to play the only playlist my mother approved.

It’s a cringy combination of songs from Celia Cruz, Elvis Crespo, and some other artists that were most certainly the hits during her youth.

If I have to listen to “Suavemente” one more time, I may just drown myself in the fish tank by the door.

It would be a lovely welcome. Maybe it’ll even bring more customers to the restaurant.

“Hi, welcome to La Mariposa! Oh, the dead woman in the tank? It’s for ambiance. Enjoy the croquetas!” I guess having the news talk about a local Hispanic woman who drowned in her late father’s restaurant is not the PR I need. Not all press is good press.

I’ve been listening to this playlist long enough to drown it out, but every so often, I can still hear the faint sounds of Celia Cruz crescendoing into my eardrums.

“Not today, Celia,” I groan as I put large glass bottles filled with water on each table.

I pull my dark curly hair back into a ponytail.

A few pieces fall in the front and frame my face.

I tie my apron a little bit tighter around my crisp, white button-down shirt and get to work straightening the forks next to a few plates, then refolding a few napkins until they look identical to the others, and, finally, switching out a cup I swear has hard water stains. Everything looks perfect. As usual.

I walk over to the tall counter at the back.

This is where the orders are taken and where I typically spend a ten-hour shift handling the customers and paperwork and occasionally heading to the kitchen to help prep.

That is, if I haven’t already stayed overnight the night before to give the kitchen staff a head start by peeling all the vegetables, chopping the potatoes, and relabeling all of the containers.

Some would say I’m a bit of a perfectionist. Is it so wrong to want things to look a certain way?

Several staff members have complained that I never leave them any work to do.

One quit because they didn’t see a purpose for them to work here when I did everything for them, but I couldn’t help it.

If I leave them to their own accord, they’ll probably peel the vegetables with the wrong peeler.

Or cut the potatoes lengthwise. Or worse, mislabel something and cause chaos during the lunch rush.

The last thing I need is someone ordering a cheese croqueta and getting ham.

No, it’s just better if I do it. I get peace of mind knowing it’ll be correct, and it’ll spare me endless complaints from my mother that something wasn’t up to her standards.

Mariposa not being happy about something? Imagine that.

My phone buzzes on the counter next to me. I hesitate, wondering what it’s about. Sighing, I pick it up and scan the message. It’s from a girl I’ve gone on a few dates with.

Genesis: Hey Isa, thanks for dinner last night.

I had a great time, but I don’t think this is going to work out.

You seem really focused on your business, which is great, but I don’t know if there’s space for someone else in your life.

I admire your dedication, but I need more time together. Wish you the best though.

I stare at the screen for a moment. Why does this always happen?

Every single time, the same script, just a different face.

It’s either I’m too busy, too obsessed with work, or too unavailable.

The truth is, they’re right. I always find myself more comfortable here, at the restaurant, than I ever do with someone else.

Even when I’m on a date, I’m thinking about what needs to get done.

I come up with excuses—“just a few emails,” “need to check on inventory”—anything to avoid getting too close.

Maybe I just don’t want to be close to anyone. Or maybe I’m scared of what happens when I do.

I let out a breath and lock my phone, dropping it back on the counter, where it belongs. The weight of the message lingers, but I push it away.

“Morning, Isa.”

I look up from my phone to see Faye sauntering in with an orange-colored iced coffee in their hand.

“Uh, what is that thing?”

Faye looks down at the science experiment the barista concocted and laughs.

“It’s a pumpkin spice latte.”

“It’s still summer.” I chuckle, knowing full well it’s the end of summer, meaning it’s basically fall.

“Listen, it’s September. Kids are back in school, and I’m ready for pumpkin-flavored everything,” Faye says.

They take a long, exaggerated sip of their drink and sigh deeply. “Tastes like heaven.”

I roll my eyes and smile.

“Hey, cute bag. Is that new?” Faye walks behind the counter and grabs their apron.

I watch as they fix their eyeliner in the small mirror they pull out of their bag. They play with their pixie cut, ensuring that each strand is neatly placed on the top of their head. I look down at my black Coach bag hanging off one of the shelves behind the counter.

“Thanks! Yeah, it is.” I grab my bag and slowly push it out of sight. “Could you prepare the pastelitos?”

“Oh, you mean the ones you already prepared last night?” They laugh and fill the display case with the guava and cream cheese pastries I left out on the counter.

Faye is one of my recent hires, and adding her to the staff is truly the best decision I have made for the business.

They are younger than me, around twenty, meaning they’re still full of hope and ambition.

They’re much taller too; some would even describe them as “lanky.” Every day, they show up in their straight-leg ‘90s vintage jeans, a teeny band tee they cropped just enough to barely expose a sliver of their pale stomach when they reach up, and their reliable pair of black Doc Martens. I used to detest their attire—not because I cared, but because my mother had a ton of complaints about how it didn’t fit the restaurant.

Her constant comments seeped into my head, even though I secretly admire how Faye never seems to care.

But, like clockwork, every day, my mother would come in and complain that Faye’s style was too “grunge.” It didn’t go with the image she has continuously tried to put out for the world since I was little.

One of refinement. One that didn’t make us look like a typical poor Cuban family with a tiny restaurant where we barely make ends meet.

Since they are one of the most reliable employees I have had the pleasure of working with, I managed to convince my mother to drop the issue.

They are never late, always work hard, and, most importantly, never judge me for my perfectionism. I like them.

“Thanks for always being so understanding,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

Faye continues strategically placing the pastries so they lean slightly on each other. It just looks prettier than if you put them together randomly. They get it.

“I know I can be such a pain in the ass as a boss,” I groan.

“You? A pain in the ass?” Faye replies sarcastically.

“Shut up. I know I like things done a certain way and to look a certain way, and I know that it bothers some people—”

I pause momentarily to see José side-eyeing me again while peeling a stack of potatoes.

“—okay, nearly every employee here, but you’ve always put up with it. Even when I change how you stack the cups or fold the napkins, I just really appreciate it.”

“Hey, listen. I get it. This was your father’s restaurant. It may not be a Michelin-star experience, but it’s important to you. I see how important the details are to you and your mom—I mean, mostly her.” Faye laughs.

“Much to my dismay,” I admit.

“But let’s be honest. This is a way better gig than when I worked at that dental office next door.

The sound of the drilling alone was going to be my demise.

No, really, I would have ended up on the news in a freak accident with the drill stuck inside my ear or something.

So, really, don’t worry about me. I went to culinary school for a reason. To be around food. And here I am.”

They make a pastelito dance in front of my face and laugh before placing it with the rest of them.

Nestled in Union City, New Jersey, La Mariposa sits on a quiet, unassuming block, surrounded by tall, brick buildings that have been there for decades.

The kind of place where fire escapes line the windows and faded murals tell the stories of the neighborhood.

The leaves are just starting to change, painting the sidewalks in golds and oranges, a reminder that autumn is creeping in.

It’s got that ‘90s Brooklyn vibe, but without the hustle of Manhattan. Instead, there’s a sense of familiarity here; it’s a place where everyone knows your name and you can’t walk down the street without running into someone from your childhood.

Union City isn’t glamorous, but it’s home.

It’s full of families like ours, immigrants who built their lives from scratch, just like my father did with this café.

It’s small, but it’s ours, and it’s been a part of this neighborhood for as long as I can remember.