Chapter Eighteen
I lay on the bed of our cabin, staring up at the ceiling.
The wooden planks above me are stained with watermarks from past leaks hastily missed during the renovation, and the occasional spider crawls lazily across the rough surface.
The early morning sunlight shines through the window, casting a glow on the walls.
The room is quiet except for the sound of my breaths, which come out in short, shallow puffs.
I can feel the weight of the last night on me, each hour adding a little more until I feel as though I’m sinking into the mattress.
My thoughts swirl in my head, a jumbled mess of worries and regrets.
I know I should get up and do anything to distract myself, but the effort seems too great.
So, I lie here, still and silent, and let the thoughts run their course.
As I stare up at the ceiling, patterns emerge in the wood’s knots.
I trace their lines with my eyes, following them until they blur and I’m lost in thought once more.
My breathing begins to slow, my muscles relaxing as I surrender to the room’s quiet.
The worries and regrets fade away for a moment, and I’m left with a sense of peace.
I think of my father’s words and feels his love wrap around me like a warm blanket.
I imagine his smiling face and the sound of his laughter, and for a moment, I feel as if he is here with me, watching over me.
Eventually, I force myself out of bed. The empty cot across from me is a stark reminder of how things have unraveled. I reach for my laptop on the dresser, crawl back in bed, and open a blank document labeled Business Plan—La Mariposa Expansion.
The cursor blinks, taunting me.
I type a few words: Mission Statement. Then I delete them.
I try again: Goals. Another delete. I lean back in the creaky chair, letting out a frustrated sigh.
Why is this so hard? I’ve been running La Mariposa for years.
I know the business like the back of my hand.
But every time I try to write something, my mind veers to last night—to the way Valentina’s lips touched Silvana’s, to the look of shock and regret on Valentina’s face when she saw me standing there.
I shake my head and force my fingers back to the keyboard.
La Mariposa is more than just a restaurant—it’s a place where culture meets comfort, where the rich history of Cuban cuisine is celebrated in every bite.
I stop typing and read it back. It sounds sterile, like something ripped from a corporate brochure.
It doesn’t capture the heart of what my father built.
I close my eyes, trying to summon his words, his passion. He’d always said the food was just as much about the people as the ingredients. “Every dish tells a story,” he’d say. “Every customer leaves with a memory.”
I try again.
Our goal is to preserve the legacy of La Mariposa, a family-owned Cuban restaurant that has served our community for over two decades.
Through authentic recipes passed down through generations, we strive to create a welcoming space where people can gather, share stories, and savor the flavors of home.
It’s better, but it still feels incomplete.
I scroll to the section labeled Financial Projections. My stomach churns as I consider whether to include the full extent of the restaurant’s debt. My finger hovers over the keyboard. Would Luciano still be interested if he knew the truth?
The thought paralyzes me. I can’t lose this opportunity. I can’t let my father’s legacy crumble because I was too honest for my own good.
Instead, I focus on crafting optimistic projections based on potential revenue from an expanded customer base, improved marketing strategies, and the introduction of catering services.
I pull numbers from the best months we’ve had and project growth trends as if those months were the norm.
It’s not technically a lie—those numbers exist—but I know it’s not the whole truth either.
Projected Growth, I type. With the expansion, La Mariposa is expected to increase its customer base by 40%, generating an estimated 25% profit margin within the first year.
I pause, staring at the sentence. It’s bold but plausible—at least on paper.
I finish the plan an hour later, my fingers trembling as I hover over the Send button on the email to Luciano.
My heart pounds as I click it, watching the email disappear into cyberspace.
It’s done. Now all I can do is wait. The knock at the door jolts me, breaking my moment of reflection. “Isa, are you awake?”
I slither out of bed and saunter toward the door as if any energy I had was already depleted for the day.
Standing at the doorway is Sofia, with mascara streaks down her face. Her appearance almost startles me, but I try not to make it obvious. She immediately runs into my arms and begins to sob uncontrollably. Does she know about my fight with Valentina? Is it that big of a deal?
“Hey. Is everything okay?” I hold her tightly, not realizing how badly I need this hug.
“It’s all a mess,” she mumbles into my shoulder. “This is all a mess, Isa. I don’t know what to do.”
I shush her softly as I rub her back slowly.
“Okay, back up. Sit down, and let’s talk.”
Sofia runs inside and throws herself on the bed exactly like a princess in a cartoon would have done it.
“Sof, it’s only nine a.m. How did you manage to have a crisis already before I got an iced coffee?”
I sit down at the edge of the bed and wait for her to finish sobbing into my pillow.
“It’s Luciano,” she says into the pillow.
“What about him? Did he break up with you? Is he gay? Did he run away with Daniel?”
“No!”
“Okay, okay. So what happened, then?”
She sits up abruptly, her makeup even more smeared than before.
“Jesus, Sof,” I say as I try to fix her smudged lipstick.
“He lost the wedding rings,” she cries as she throws herself back onto the pillow.
The wedding rings? The ones that Valentina stole? Did she not give them back?
“Like your wedding bands?”
“Yes, Isa. What else? The rings we’re supposed to wear, signifying we’re married! The rings we got at Tiffany together. The rings we engraved our names into. We’re getting married tomorrow!”
“Okay, sorry! Are you sure? Did he say he lost them?”
“Yes! I went to look at them in the ring box, and they were gone. So I asked him about them and he’s playing dumb. Like he has no idea where they could even be. We got into a huge fight about it.”
She sits up, wiping her face from falling tears, making her makeup look even worse.
“A fight? Why? It’s not like he lost them on purpose, right?”
I’m starting to believe Valentina did lose the rings in the lake.
How stupid was I to believe she found them?
It was a fucking lake in the middle of the night.
Unless she has some secret superpower where she can see underwater in the dark, there’s no way she could have found those rings.
I don’t doubt that Sofia and Luciano’s $30,000 wedding bands are at the bottom of the lake at Camp Hollow Pines.
“We fought because I told him that it was obvious he didn’t think they were important if he could lose them so easily. They’re expensive rings, Isa. You know how Tiffany rings are.”
“Right, right,” I mumble.
“If he can’t take care of this one task, how can I expect him to take care of other things in the future? This was his one responsibility. I’ve done everything!”
“I thought you had a wedding planner and assistant?”
“Okay, they did everything, but I’ve been making all the decisions! I just feel like he doesn’t care. What are we going to do now? We can’t get married without wedding rings! And I won’t pick up random rings from some random jeweler in town. Could you imagine?”
“Sof.” I sigh. “I think you’re putting too much importance on the rings and their value.”
I stand up and start pacing the room, thinking of the right words to say to the cousin I have just reconnected with after ten years without offending her.
“It doesn’t matter if the rings are from Tiffany’s or if you made them yourself during metal shop class in middle school. They won’t define your marriage. They won’t make or break your relationship. They’re just stupid rings.”
She stares down at the comforter, taking in my words.
“So what if he lost them? Maybe that was a sign that you cared too much about status, anyways. Remember young Sofia? The one who shopped at Limited Too with Valentina and me? The one who got her ears pierced at Claire’s? The one who thought Juicy Couture was the equivalent of Fendi?”
“Oh God”—she laughs so hard she snorts—“don’t remind me.”
“What happened to that girl? The one who didn’t care what people thought about her? The one who would roll her eyes if someone was crying about a bunch of lost rings?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs, tracing circles on the blanket with her finger. “I guess it’s easy to get caught up in the lifestyle. I feel like I lost myself.”
I lean against the bedpost and cross my arms.
“You’re still there, Sof. You know how I know?”
She sniffles. “How?”
“Because you could have had your wedding anywhere. Literally anywhere in the entire world. You could have had an amazing wedding in Manhattan that would have ended up in the New York Times for some reason. Or a destination wedding in Italy. Instead, you chose to have it at your dinky summer camp.”
She laughs, and it feels like a small victory. I feel a little lighter.
“Even with all the money you have, you still wanted to have your wedding somewhere that has meant something to you for your entire life. Is it a little over the top? Yes, definitely. But it’s still camp.
Your childhood memories are here, and you wanted to share that with everyone. That’s how I know you’re still you.”
“You’re right, Isa,” she says softly.