Chapter Eight
Alma didn’t have to be back at the bar until four to prep for the night, so she spent her day working out, tidying up, and answering some emails.
As she hit send on an email to a supplier about a missing tequila bottle, her phone rang. She leaned across her white cotton couch to pluck it from the armrest.
It was Carlos.
Why was he calling? He stopped by yesterday. They were close no doubt, but they normally didn’t see or talk to each other on the daily.
“Hola. What’s up?”
“Not much. You good?”
“No. I’m livid. Did you see the critic’s Instagram post? He saw me yelling at Jaime and left.”
“Can’t say I blame him. You were pretty upset. Rightfully so. Do you want to talk about it?”
Alma rolled her eyes. Last thing she needed was everyone interrogating her about seeing Jaime. She was fine. Perfect, as a matter of fact.
“No. I don’t. And I wasn’t upset. Just shocked. If I’m upset about anything, it’s the critic, not seeing Jaime.”
He huffed. “Sure it is.”
“Carlos, stop. I’m serious.”
“I believe you,” he said with a not-so-subtle hint of sarcasm. “Just checking to be sure.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. I actually saw Zoila a bit ago. Guess what? We’re going to Mexico together.”
“Really? You never travel. Ever.”
“I know. But this is the new me. Seeing Jaime made me realize how much of myself I lost when he left. Since I studied in Mexico, I have been married to my work. And I need a break.”
He sighed. “It’s for work, right?”
“No!” Alma protested. “I mean, maybe a tiny bit of work, but—”
“Aha! I knew it! I know you.” Carlos laughed. “You wouldn’t just go there for fun. You don’t do anything just for fun.”
“Fine. There is this maestra mezcalera in Oaxaca I want to meet.” At his confused pause, she clarified, “A top female mezcal maker. And I wanted to reconnect with some tequila makers in Jalisco. But I’ll still have fun.”
He laughed. “No doubt about that. Especially if you’re going with Zoila. She’s wild.”
She was wild. Alma wanted to be wild. “Yup. She is. Anyway, is that why you called?”
“No. Actually, can you come to the field today?”
“For what?”
He hesitated. “Uh, there are a few teachers and coaches gathering today for the festival. I was hoping you could come too. And the organizer wants to meet you. It would mean a lot to me. At one?”
“Sure, I don’t start work until later.”
“Cool. See you soon.”
She took a quick shower, put on some tinted moisturizer, a touch of mascara, jeans, and a T-shirt. She would do her full makeup routine later when she went to work.
Tequila licked her leg.
“I guess I can take you with me. It is a park, after all.” Alma scooped up Tequila, stuffed her into her car, and headed toward San Rafael down the winding Tiburon Boulevard.
A smile spread over her face fantasizing about her upcoming vacation to Mexico. Flashes of the food she would eat, the drinks she would imbibe, the festivals in which she would partake. She was so grateful that Zoila had convinced her to go. Alma really needed to focus a bit more on taking breaks.
Once she turned on the 101, her heart constricted at leaving her idyllic bubble behind her.
Though she was still heavily involved in her old Mexican community in the Canal, she had worked so hard to make a life for herself in Tiburon, returning home filled her with a mixture of guilt for the ones she had left behind and fear that she was one disastrous business step away from landing back there.
Not that she didn’t love the warmth and culture of her hometown, not that at all.
The people of the Canal were hardworking, loyal, and kind.
But the stark poverty in contrast to the opulence of the rest of Marin never sat right with her.
How could a community with so much give so little to its own residents?
Most of Marin was shockingly segregated, including Marin City and the Canal.
Marin City, which was famously the hometown of the late Tupac Shakur, was 40 percent Black whereas the rest of Marin was only 4 percent.
And the Canal was even more racially divided—90 percent Hispanic versus the entire county at a mere 17 percent.
Both communities had the worst schools in the county, while the elementary school in Ross was one of the best publics in the nation. It wasn’t fair.
As she exited to the Canal, her nerves tingled. Thank God Carlos asked her to do this festival. She could raise some real money for the Canal. Give back even more.
She parked at Pickleweed Park, the only green space in the Canal, which had been promised a multimillion-dollar refurbishing.
Even so, she still adored it as it was. It was next to a bilingual library and a great recreation center that held quinceaneras and birthday parties.
But the big highlight was the sports fields.
Alma wrangled Tequila out of the car and gave her water since she overheated easily. Pugs always had health problems.
She locked her car and enjoyed the cool breeze from the bay.
A familiar revving roared in the distance. Had to be a Porsche. After a few years serving wealthy tourists at the bar, it wasn’t hard to pick out.
Still, a Porsche? In the Canal?
Sure, there were some exotic car dealerships and mechanics nearby, but that vehicle was an odd choice at this park.
A bright-orange Porsche pulled in next to her.
Santi was in the driver’s seat.
And Jaime was sitting next to him.
Fuck my life.
Jaime opened the door. He was wearing a thin Efraín álvarez LA Galaxy soccer jersey and soccer shorts that showed off his muscular body. That chest, those arms, uh, those thighs!
Alma tried to process his presence again. Did he follow her here? Was he stalking her?
Seeing him twice in two days was too much. She walked right up to Jaime. Damn, why did he smell like cedar and sex?
“What on earth are you doing here? Are you stalking me? Did you put an AirTag on me last night or something?”
Jaime threw up his hands. “What? No. I’m not a stalker or psychopath, Alma. I was invited here for a game.”
Like a lotería riddle, this cruel joke suddenly became clear to her.
Soccer. Goddamn fútbol.
Fucking Carlos. She was going to kill her brother.
She exhaled. “By my fucking brother? Say he didn’t.”
Just as Jaime opened his mouth, her brother’s beat-up old Honda pulled into the parking lot.
He parked and swiftly got out of the car. “Dammit. I wanted to get here first, but I’m too late. Alma, I can explain.”
Alma seethed. “Late? You set me up. My own brother. How could you do this?”
Carlos tugged her arm and pulled her away from Jaime to the side of an old brick building housing the public restrooms. Tequila waddled behind, snorting.
“Alma, sorry. I had to invite him.”
Alma gritted her teeth. “You better explain yourself right fucking now or I’m going to lose it.”
“It’s my soccer program. We are going bankrupt. The parents can’t afford the uniforms or the tournament fees. I know you agreed to help out with the Cinco festival, and I appreciate that, but it’s not enough.”
“So what? You called my ex? After you saw how I reacted last night? How could you do that? How did you even get his number? Did you know he was coming last night?”
“No. Of course I didn’t. I had no idea he was in town, but after I saw him, it hit me. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up. And I got his number from the business card that you tossed in the trash.”
That stupid card. She should’ve shredded it, but if Carlos had wanted that badly to contact Jaime, he would’ve found a way no matter what. “I can’t believe you would do this to me! Your own flesh and blood.”
“Dammit, Alma, it’s not about you, don’t you see?
You live in Tiburon in your oceanfront condo with your oceanfront bar and your oceanfront life.
Sure, you pop in and out of events like it’s cool and donate money, but you don’t live here anymore.
You don’t suffer like we do. Like our community does.
” He gestured wildly with his arms. “It has only gotten worse since the pandemic.”
Her chest heaved. “Don’t shame me for working my ass off and enjoying my success. You chose to stay in the Canal. You could leave.”
“That’s true. I did choose to stay here, and I’m happy with my decision. And I’m proud of you and you have every right to leave. I’m sorry. I don’t want to shame you. I know you still care. But we really need the help.”
She understood. But still. Jaime?
Carlos didn’t stop yapping. “Jaime not only has money but he is also willing to help promote the festival too. And that’s not all.”
There was more? Alma rolled her eyes. “What else, dímelo?”
Carlos paused and looked away from her. “His brothers are going to come up to help also.”
Alma’s eyes bulged. “What?”
“They are planning a huge fundraising event. We need this, Alma; our community needs this. Cinco is two weeks away. You can put up with Jaime for fourteen days, can’t you? For the Canal?”
Waves of confusion crashed down on Alma. Why was she expected to have to deal with her ex for two weeks for the good of her community? Could she ever enjoy the life she had worked so hard for without the stinging guilt?
She wasn’t going to do it. She glared at Carlos, and then reluctantly followed him back to where Jaime was.
A cute little boy no more than four ran up to Alma’s dog.
“What’s her name?”
“Tequila.”
Jaime laughed, but she ignored him.
Alma smiled at the boy. “Do you want to pet her?”
The boy nodded his head. He pet her dog, who grunted loudly.
When he was done, the little boy pointed at Santi’s car. “Is this the man who is going to let me play soccer?” he asked Carlos in Spanish.
Tears welled in Alma’s eyes.
How selfish was she? Carlos was right. She had left her community behind to assimilate into Tiburon.
She had once been a child who lived here who didn’t have enough money for after-school activities.
Oh, how she’d wanted to try gymnastics, but her parents couldn’t afford the lessons.
And Carlos would probably be a professional soccer player if he’d had more opportunities when he was younger.
It was too late for him, but it wasn’t too late for the sweet boy in front of her.
She turned to Jaime and nodded.
Then Alma knelt down beside the little boy. “Yes, yes he is.”