Chapter Six
The morning sunlight seeped into Alma’s bedroom, the rays reflecting off the ocean waves outside her window, but she wasn’t ready to face the day yet, so instead, she snuggled under her fluffy rose-tinted comforter with her fawn-colored pug, Tequila.
Her pup’s name always made her chuckle; she had rescued her at a time when she had just become obsessed with the spirit. And oh, what a journey it had been.
But the sad truth was that Alma had just replaced her previous obsession with Jaime with a newfound passion for tequila—the dog and the liquor.
During the time she had been involved with Jaime, Alma had been focused on wine and had even applied and been accepted to a prestigious program to become a sommelier.
She passed the exam with flying colors and enjoyed working at restaurants and pairing wines with gourmet dishes.
She was on her way to a lucrative career and, though she loved learning everything about grapes, from planting them, to watering them, to harvesting them, to all the different varieties of wines, she didn’t feel a deep connection to them or the work.
A pristine prickly pear paloma piqued her interest in tequila, but it wasn’t until she journeyed to Mexico on a girls’ trip that her high school best friend Zoila had arranged for her so she would finally forget about Jaime that she really discovered the new love in her life to get her over her first.
Tequila.
Alma laughed at the saying “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” but it rang true for her. Getting sloshed in Mexico opened her horizons up to a new career.
But it wasn’t just drinking any type of alcohol.
It was all about tequila—truly indulging in it.
She had taken a wine tour to Valle de Guadalupe and met a vintner who was from Jalisco—the holy land of tequila.
But Jalisco was so much more than a tequila state—it was the birthplace of mariachi music, charrerías, the first sombrero, and was even responsible for the beloved Mexican Hat Dance.
She loved every fragrant smell that made her mouth water, every brightly colored wall that shone through her sunglasses, and every cobbled street her heels got stuck in.
She couldn’t wait to go back, but she had been so busy with her bar that it hadn’t happened yet.
Jalisco was quite simply heaven for Alma.
The gentleman offered to take her and her friends on a tour of his hometown.
Though she questioned his motivations at first, being leery of any overly friendly stranger in a foreign country, she gave him a chance, since she felt safe and was in a group, and embraced adventure.
It took little more than riding a burro through a blue agave patch and watching the workers harvesting the plants for her to get hooked.
Not just on tequila, but on Mexico, in particular Jalisco’s capital, Guadalajara.
Rediscovering the country her parents grew up in changed her life.
Being the daughter of immigrants in America always made her feel like she didn’t belong, but walking through the streets of Guadalajara gave her a sense of pride and an appreciation of where she came from. Her homeland was glorious.
Being there in a place that was on one hand foreign yet simultaneously strangely familiar helped her overcome her grief and anger about Jaime.
As much as she was still deeply hurt, Alma understood that there was a huge world to experience for both of them and that he had probably been right when he gazed into her eyes and told her that they were too young to be together forever.
That didn’t mean that she didn’t still miss him.
But she had found a new obsession. Tequila.
Unfortunately, her former lover and current love collided last night—and she wasn’t prepared for that mixture.
The smooth spirit was the clear winner in the battle for her heart.
Tequila was loyal to her; it would never betray her.
Not that she didn’t have people who she loved and trusted blindly.
Her parents, her brother, her friends. But all those relationships were safer than romantic love.
She could never trust Jaime again.
And she hoped he wouldn’t return again to disrupt her world.
Speaking of that, the critic never showed up. Her brother thought he saw a man who could possibly be a critic lurking during the Jaime reunion disaster, but he couldn’t be certain. All Alma knew for sure was the man hadn’t made himself known to her.
Alma rolled out of bed, let Tequila outside, did her daily beauty routine—which consisted of too many serums, a huge helping of moisturizer, and a copious amount of sunscreen—and got dressed.
Lazy mornings were no time for bustiers and tight jeans, so she chose some soft, sage-colored designer sweats and a loose T-shirt.
She tied her hair back, leashed up her pup, grabbed her purse, and walked down the street to get some coffee and meet Zoila.
She scrolled through her phone, but a post on Instagram stopped her cold.
Mistress of tequila berates her customers.
Her stomach clenched. Oh no. Oh no!
Her eyes scanned the attached article.
Though I was excited to partake in a night of tequila tasting, it wasn’t to be. Miss Alma Garcia was in a foul mood and was yelling at a man in the bar. I left without so much as a sip.
The critic was there?
Kill me now!
Alma had been so busy fuming at Jaime that she hadn’t even noticed this guy. What a fool! This one bad review could tank her bar! She may never get a chance to impress him again!
Another reason to hate Jaime. Except that wasn’t quite fair. He couldn’t have possibly known that she was expecting a critic, though he shouldn’t have surprised her.
A text came through.
Zoila: Sorry! I’m late.
Alma: No worries. I’m having a shitty morning.
Zoila: Oh no! What’s up?
Alma: I’ll tell you when you get here. What do you want? I’ll order for us both.
Zoila: A vanilla latte and a breakfast burrito. Ty.
Zoila was always late, but getting in and out of Tiburon was no easy feat. Especially on a sunny Saturday, which beckoned all the tourists who would take ferries in from San Francisco or catch one to visit Angel Island. At least tonight would be hopping at the bar.
Alma put her phone in her purse and strolled by the bay.
Caffé Acri was located adjacent to Alma’s tequilería. Alma studied the glass case filled with freshly baked pastries.
Joy, the barista, greeted her with a big smile.
“Hey, Alma! What can I get you today?”
“Hi, Joy. I’ll have a hot mocha, a vanilla latte, a breakfast burrito, and the Italian sausage omelet.
” Her eyes lingered over the sweet treats.
“And can you add in a chocolate croissant please? Thank you.” Her normal cappuccino and grain bowl weren’t going to cut it today. She needed some comfort food.
“Coming right up.”
What she really needed was a drink, but one of the rules she had for herself now that she was in the liquor industry was that she would never day drink unless she had an event.
Or a crisis.
Seeing Jaime last night qualified as a crisis, didn’t it?
Nope, it didn’t.
But having a bad post from a critic definitely did.
She had to have some boundaries. Boundaries she wished she’d had when she was dating Jaime. But she had been so young and stupid then.
She exhaled—she needed to give herself grace. She closed her eyes, an image of herself weeping on the sofa after he’d dumped her popping into her mind. Her stomach churned—she had been so pathetic.
But now, pathetic was the last word she would ever use to describe herself.
Once she received their food and beverages, she led Tequila out to a bench overlooking the ocean.
The usual Marin County crowd gathered outside the café.
A group of female cyclists proudly strutted around after securing their rides to the rack, a young mother fed her toddler a muffin, and a few tech bros huddled in a corner.
People living, loving, experiencing.
A calmness swept over her. She doused her omelet in a few of the Tapatío hot sauce packets she always kept in her purse and took a warm, gooey bite.
Pure peace, bliss, and contentment in her life.
Living in a charming waterfront downtown that was walkable to her work and cool restaurants and shops was a dream.
So why did she feel so restless? Was it just because Jaime surprised her?
What the fuck did he really want from her, anyway?
He couldn’t possibly want her back.
It didn’t matter what he wanted. She didn’t want him back.
Hopefully, she would never find out why he showed up.
She gobbled down another bite of the omelet and finally turned her attention back to her phone. Where was Zoila?
Zoila’s message popped up on her screen.
Zoila: Here! Parking.
Alma: I’m outside on a bench.
A few minutes later, Zoila strolled over, looking as cool as ever.
With her dyed purple hair cut in a short dramatic bob, heavy eyeliner, tight black T-shirt, long black pencil skirt, and leather knee-high Docs that covered up her fishnet stockings, Zoila’s Mexican goth girl look was always on point.
They embraced, Tequila licked Zoila’s face, which surprisingly didn’t disturb her makeup, and then Zoila sat down next to Alma, who was taking a swig of her mocha.
Zoila’s eyes narrowed at Alma.
“Bitch, spill. Did you see Jaime last night? He posted a video on TikTok that he was at Sam’s with Santi. Did they stop by your bar?”
Ugh. Why, Jaime? Why? It was bad enough that he had broken her safe refuge away from him, but did he have to post that he was in her town next to her bar so that all her friends knew that their paths could cross?
“Do you follow him?”
Zoila shook her head. “No, silly. I don’t. But it came up on my FYP.”