Chapter 20
Miriam
“There are these things called restaurants that cook food. Traveling with fish in your purse is insane.”
“It was in my suitcase, not my purse.” A storage bag of the red snapper I cleaned, scaled, and marinated in another bag for safekeeping.
I cut my eyes at the passenger princess sitting on the counter. The kitchen in our rental at the mountain resort is a galley with pea-green cabinets. Marcela is taking up what little counter space we have with her big mouth and her bigger ass.
“Do you want to help with dinner or run your mouth all night?” I scold with a spatula in hand.
The only time she lifted a finger was to uncork the wine bottle. Did she offer me a glass? Of course not. She gets to sit pretty in a full face of makeup, a wrinkle-free pantsuit, and heels.
I pour the fish stew over rice into a bowl with a side of plantains and make one for my sister. She’s free to clown me about the hour drive to Ellicottville with red snapper in my bag, but guess who saved us from spending forty dollars each on a salad?
I question who raised my sister to desire overpriced food with a sprinkle of salt and pepper. We come from a long line of aunties who cook for every occasion.
Quinceanera? Cooking.
Wedding? Cooking.
Funeral? Cooking.
Family reunion? Cooking.
Baby birth? Cooking.
Someone’s in town? Cooking.
I picked up the tradition spending summers in Panama after our mother moved back. She would flip if she heard Marcela scoff at homecooked meals. She certainly did when I video called her to snitch.
Así que tú tienes plata? Compra tu marido y dame nietos.
Patricia Rojas will never not ask about the grandchildren my sister refuses to have. At some point I’ll be in the hot seat, but I’ve been dodging bullets thanks to school.
My job situation is still up in the air. I haven’t given Kieran a response. On paper, the position and salary are great, but something doesn’t feel right. I don’t know what or why, but I don’t want to make the wrong decision.
“Tu sabes lo que estás haciendo en la cocina,” Marcela says after a spoonful of fish and peppers. She shakes her freshly pressed hair with a nod.
“Thank you.”
If I close my eyes, we’re in our mother’s kitchen with the windows open to welcome the saltwater breeze from the ocean. It’s twenty degrees outside, a far cry from Panama’s dry season.
“Are we going out? You promised,” my sister reminds me at my groan.
“And you promised me a low-key weekend with sister bonding.” I grab my bowl for a second helping.
“We’re doing that.”
“I’m in a diaper!” Ice clinks as it shifts around in its plastic bag inside said diaper. At least I had the sense to pack my fleece onesie with a flap on the butt.
I agreed to come to Ellicottville for the weekend under false pretenses.
When I said, “Sure, why not?” to a cozy condo with views of the mountain, it did not include me going up one.
I’m not saying Panamanians don’t ski, but this one doesn’t.
I never agreed to any snow sports, but I got tricked under the guise of a scenic tour and hot chocolate.
I got both—after I rolled down a slope like an uncoordinated tumbleweed.
That slope I was on? It’s the one they use for beginner lessons. I was the only adult in a class of twelve- and fourteen-year-olds. One of them told me I should’ve stayed at home.
Duh!
I’ve never been more grateful for my booty, a snow suit, and a helmet. The first was padding to prevent injury. The other two masked my identity.
Where was Marcela? Snowboarding down one of the steepest runs.
Only one of us channeled Queen Latifah in The Last Holiday if she didn’t stick the landing. That person was me. My instructor was kind enough to escort me to safety. The kids were alright, but I was not.
“The bar seats have cushions.” Marcela waves her phone in confirmation while doing her best not to laugh at the ice jiggling between my booty. My cold reality, all because she wanted to ski.
“No.”
“One hour. The drink menu is good.”
Dang it.
“One cocktail,” I protest.
“One hour.” She holds up a finger. “All drinks on me. I’ll throw in dessert.”
“You were paying anyway.” I shake out a wedgie.
Marcela lied again.
The bar chairs do not have cushions. There is nary a fabric in sight, unless you count the cloth napkins I’m piling under my jeans.
The drinks are good, though. I blew through the first and am now on number two.
Sam, the bartender, makes a balanced raspberry mule, which made the trek out of my pajamas and into the cold worth it. For now.
Easy Daisy is a small bar at the end of Ellicottville’s main street.
Blink and you’ll miss it between gift shops and restaurants that charge the GDP of small countries for the same lettuce I can buy at the store.
The crowd here is small. A few of us are at the bar, facing a wall of illuminated bricks and shelves of liquor.
Others are gathered around bistro tables with chairs that also lack cushions.
I won’t admit it out loud and face Marcela’s “I told you so,” but this is nice. Relaxing.
“Don’t look, but there’s a guy checking you out.”
And now my guts are touching my butt.
“What? Ow!” I squeak at her grip on my thigh.
“Don’t look!” Her eyes lift above my sweater. “He’s cute, and he’s coming over.”
“No. This was not part of the going-out deal,” I hiss. “Drinks. Dessert. That’s it.”
Her smirk brushes the rim of her martini glass. “There’s one more D to consider. Unclench your hands and breathe. You got this.”
“I didn’t want any—”
“Mind if I join you?”
I clench my butthole at the cool edge in his voice. Panic triggers the reminder of today’s floor routine down the mountain as pain sprouts up my swollen cheeks, which are in need of a bed and not a hard barstool. My inhale is sharp, and it goes down the wrong pipe.
Marcela bunches her lips as she gently pats my back. I drain the last sips of my mule and swivel toward the man standing behind me.
He’s in a dark gray sweater and jeans. Medium height with a round face, small lips, and wisps of chocolate brown hair underneath a knitted winter hat with a pom on top. It’s similar to the one I’m wearing that presses down my curls.
My sister knees me after the sixth second of silence.
“Hi. Miriam.” I thrust my hand out but pull it back when I remember my jagged cuticles are about to do show-and-tell. Note to self: Add nail maintenance to the monthly routine.
He flashes a smile. “Hart. Nice to meet you. May I?”
I don’t own the establishment or the chair. “Sure, okay.”
He takes the seat next to me. “What brings you to Ellicottville?”
“What makes you think I don’t live here?”
“Oh, sorry. Do you live here?”
“No,” I shrug. “Just curious as to why you assumed I’m not a resident. Do I not look like a local?” The total population here is the same as my high school.
“You’re prettier,” he says.
Don’t blush. “Thank you.” My eyes dance from my glass to the bar and back. How do people do this?
“Would you like another?”
“Huh?”
He points to the empty glass I’m holding. “Would you like another drink?”
“Oh,” I chuckle and bump my eyeglasses with my thumb. “No thanks. I already had two.”
More silence.
I chance a question that won’t make me seem more awkward than I am. “Do you live here?”
Hart shakes his head. “Corning. I came over to ski.”
“Don’t remind me about the slopes.” I wince. “I had a spill today.” That’s an exaggeration. I never even stayed upright on my skis. “Me and skiing don’t get along.”
“Maybe I could teach you if you’re still around tomorrow?”
“Trust me, I’m helpless.” My laughter fades at his eyes pinned to mine. They’re blue. Not cobalt or sapphire. Still pretty, with a hint of gray.
I peek at Marcela for a lifeline and get a wink.
“This is my sister, Marcela.”
“Hi.” She offers a quick wave.
“Hey.” He all but ignores her.
Well then.
What’s the goal here? We ski. I fall. He takes me to the hospital and asks for my number.
Do we exchange contact information now? I don’t like how he barely acknowledged my sister. Am I interested in a first date? Where would it be? Tomorrow? In Corning?
How does Antonio do this with multiple people?
I’m already exhausted.
“Um.” I twist my glass. “I’d rather not risk more embarrassment to my family than I already have.”
His brows draw together before realization dawns. He snaps his fingers. “That was you today! I saw someone rolling down the kiddie run.”
I lift a hand. “Guilty.”
He offers an apologetic smile. “We all start somewhere. How about snow tubing, or hot chocolate if you want to stay indoors?”
I jump as my phone rings in my purse. At least, I think it’s my phone. The ringtone is off.
Hart’s face matches my frown. “Are you carrying a modem around?”
“Of course not,” I say, digging through my bag. “I’m not connected to a WAN. Aha!” I pull my phone out and laugh at Antonio’s name on the screen. “Excuse me one second.” I answer. “Did you change my ringtone to a dial-up internet sound?”
“Only for my calls,” Antonio says without a hint of guilt.
“When did you do that?”
“On Wednesday, after I rescued you from that fake date.”
“It was not a date!” I laugh and turn to Hart. “A potential colleague asked me to dinner to discuss a position. Now that I say it out loud, it does sound a little weird.”
“Told you,” Antonio adds.
I scoff. “Hush. I can decline any non-work-related dinners. Lunches too.”
Antonio sucks his teeth. “Like that will stop James St. Patrick. I bet you he wears bow ties.”
“He does look like Ghost,” I giggle.
“I don’t lie. But that’s not why I called. Do you still like that mint green color?”
That’s random. “Why?”
“I’m making you a friendship bracelet.”
“A what?” I snort. Marcela grimaces.
“You heard me,” he says.
“Antonio is making me a friendship bracelet,” I tell my sister.
“Hey, friend!” Antonio shouts through the phone, earning a smirk. I put him on speakerphone. “You want one too? We got an assembly line going.”
Marcela lets out a short laugh. “You two are a mess. I’m good.”
“Suit yourself,” Antonio says. “So, do you still like mint green, Doe?”
“Yes, but why are you making friendship bracelets on an assembly line at nine thirty at night?”
“I’m watching Aeris while her pops does night construction. He plays on the team. Speaking of which, say hi to Miriam.”
“Hi, Miriam!” voices say in unison.
The visual of professional rugby players crowded around beads and accessories is one I wish I could see in person. Antonio describes Steel House as a place of debauchery. Not a Michael’s.
“Hey, Maid Miriam!” Bread’s voice is loud and clear. “Stop hogging the hearts, Baby Q.”
“Aye, split those,” Antonio cuts in.
“Mint green is fine. Thank you for thinking of me.” I smile.
His voice lowers. “Always do.”
A collective “Aww!” follows, flaming my cheeks.
“Shut up!” Antonio pauses. “Don’t repeat that, Aeris. I’ll let you go, Doe. Enjoy your weekend with your sister.”
“Will do, bye.”
There’s a chorus of “Bye, Miriam!” before the line goes dead.
Antonio is something else. Silly but also thoughtful.
He texts a picture of his handiwork. On his wrist are three bracelets. The first spells “Mechanical engineer” with a mix of yellow and orange. The second uses the mint green color and says my name with a heart, followed by “BFF.” The last one has his nickname for me: “DOE,” in call caps.
Does your team laugh at you calling me a deer?
Antonio
That’s not what it means.
I frown.
Three dots dance across my screen. I draw in a sharp breath at his response.
Antonio
DOE = Design of Experiments. Isn’t it an engineering term to describe the systematic approach to problem-solving?
How do you know that?
Antonio
I try to keep up.
I reread the words on my screen until a throat clears. I forgot Hart was still here.
“I take it we’re not making plans?” At my sad attempt at a smile, he shakes his head, sighs, and leaves.
I wasn’t interested, especially after Antonio’s call.
Who spends Saturday night babysitting a teammate’s daughter, or making friendship bracelets with other players?
Apparently, he does.
Antonio has layers that are hard not to love the more he peels them back.
He’s full of surprises.