Chapter 5 #2
“I’m fine, Flora.” I touch the injured side of my face lightly, brushing away the lingering heat from Caleb’s touch. “Just a little altercation outside.”
“A little altercation?” Her green eyes widen behind her glasses as she takes in the full extent of my injuries. “You look like you wrestled with a mountain lion! And won, but barely!”
“It was Joshua’s ex-girlfriend. She went a little… unhinged,” I explain, grateful for the distraction from thoughts of Caleb’s teeth on my skin.
“That poor boy and his terrible taste in women.” Flora clucks her tongue sympathetically, moving closer to examine my bandages. “These bandages—?”
I shift uncomfortably. “Caleb helped me clean up the cuts.”
“Caleb did this?” Flora’s eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline as she studies the neat butterfly bandages and careful antiseptic work. “Well, I’ll be. I must say, he was very gallant, helping you with those bandages. Such a gentleman.”
If only she knew what kind of ‘gentleman,’ biting earlobes in office kitchenettes.
“He was just being helpful,” I lie, my fingers unconsciously touching the spot where his teeth had grazed.
“Well, whatever happened out there, I’m just glad you’re safe.” Flora pats my arm gently. “Now, let’s find you some concealer for those bruises. You can’t go around looking like you’ve been in a prizefight!”
As Flora fusses over me, all I can think about is the way Caleb looked at me, the promise in his voice when he said I’d regret crossing him. Part of me is wary of what he’s cooking up in that head of his.
The other part is looking forward to seeing his comeback.
* * *
The next couple of days are a flurry of police station visits, working on the campaign, and making sure the scratches don’t get infected. Fortunately, they weren’t that deep, so by the time Sunday rolls over and I’m standing in my bathroom mirror, they seem slightly better.
I study my reflection, fingers gently probing the healing scratches on my cheek. They’ve faded to thin, pink lines over the past few days, barely noticeable under concealer. The deeper cut near my hairline is still tender, but it’s healing nicely.
My phone buzzes on the marble countertop, and I glance at the screen. Marco.
I consider letting it go to voicemail—Sunday calls from my oldest brother usually mean family obligations I’d rather avoid—but ignoring Marco never works. He’ll just keep calling until I answer.
“Hey,” I say, setting the phone on speaker as I continue examining my face.
“Hermanita.” His voice fills the small bathroom, warm but firm. “You’re coming to dinner tonight.”
“I can’t. I have—” I say, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, as I walk out of the bathroom into my bedroom.
“You have nothing.” The certainty in his tone makes me pause. “You’ve missed four Sundays in a row, Eve. Mamá keeps asking where you are.”
I sink onto my bed, suddenly exhausted. “Marco, you know how she gets. Every conversation turns into a lecture about—”
“She misses you.”
Three words. That’s all it takes to crack my resolve.
“She misses the daughter who does what she’s told,” I correct, staring at my carpeted bedroom floor, my heart hollow, my voice quiet. “Not the one who refuses to apologize for having standards and dreams.”
“We all miss you.” His voice softens. “Even the boys keep asking when Tía Eve is coming over. Miguel’s kids made you drawings that are still stuck to the refrigerator.”
Guilt twists in my stomach. I adore my nephews, but facing my family means facing their disappointment, their confusion over my choices.
“I don’t know, Marco. Every time I’m there, I feel like—”
“Like what?”
“Like I don’t belong anymore.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. “I can’t do anything right. I can’t please her. I never have.”
Silence stretches between us, and I can picture him in his restaurant kitchen, probably prepping for tomorrow’s service while his wife Elena handles the kids at home.
“You belong because you’re family,” he says finally. “That doesn’t change just because you make different choices than the rest of us.”
“Tell that to Mamá.”
“I will. But you need to be there, too.”
“Marco…”
“Eve, Mamá doesn’t see the fire in you. She has never understood it. Not the way Papá did. She just wants to see you settled.”
“So do I! But not like this!” I throw myself back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my eyes burning with unshed tears. “She wants me to sacrifice everything I am, crush every part of myself to become the person she wants me to be. I can’t do that. I won’t do that!”
My older brother sighs. “I’ll deal with Mamá. Just come tonight. Seven o’clock. And bring something. You know how she gets when people show up empty-handed.”
“What should I bring?” I close my eyes, already knowing I’ve lost the argument.
“That spicy green bean salad you make. The one with the almonds and the pomegranate seeds. It’s her favorite, and maybe if you butter her up with food, you two can actually have a conversation without bloodshed.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Manipulation through culinary excellence. I like it.”
“Whatever works. See you tonight, hermanita.”
After he hangs up, I close my eyes, gathering the courage to face my family. Finally, I get to my feet.
“Alright. You can do this, Eve. She’s your mother, not the lochness monster.”
I pad over to the kitchen, barefoot.
My apartment is all clean lines and expensive touches—grand windows overlooking the Hudson, a leather sectional that cost more than most people’s cars, and artwork that I actually bought instead of inherited.
Everything in its place, everything carefully curated to reflect the life I’ve built for myself.
This is the life I always wanted for myself.
My mother never saw the need for her daughters to get anything more than a basic education. Our dreams and goals were irrelevant in front of hers, which were simple and straightforward: secure a good man, get married, and have as many babies as possible.
Unlike my younger sister Gabriella, who is now married with baby number two on the way, I never cared to have a ring on my finger or wear a wedding dress. I wanted to have a job. I wanted to make money that was my own. I wanted to travel.
I wanted freedom.
My father always indulged my dreams, and for a while, while he was still alive, so did my mother.
But when he passed away in a workplace accident, my mother changed her mind.
Suddenly my dreams became burdens, and I became a difficult child for wanting to study on the weekends rather than learn how to cook food.
I became disobedient because I wanted to take a coding boot camp over summer vacation rather than date the boys she was introducing me to.
My mother and I have a hard time seeing eye to eye, but I still miss her. I miss my brothers and my nephews and nieces.
Heart in my throat, I open the fridge and start taking out the ingredients for the salad.
Two hours later, I’m standing in my kitchen, with green beans scattered across my marble countertop like tiny green soldiers.
The pomegranate seeds glisten like jewels as I fold them into the salad, the scent of toasted almonds filling the air.
I seal the salad in a glass container and grab my coat.
The drive to Sunset Park takes forty minutes in Sunday evening traffic, and with each mile that passes, the expensive high-rises give way to row houses and corner bodegas.
This is the Brooklyn I grew up in—loud, chaotic, full of life spilling out onto stoops and fire escapes.
As I turn onto my childhood street, I pass the small park where I used to swing until my hands were raw, dreaming of escape and adventure.
The basketball court where my brothers taught me to play, insisting I needed to be tough enough to handle myself.
The bodega on the corner, where Mr. Chen used to give me free candy when I helped translate for my mother, still has the same faded awning. Some things never change.
My mother’s house sits in the middle of the block, a narrow three-story row house with a small front yard that she has never let overgrow.
The red brick facade is exactly the same as when I was little, down to the white trim around the windows that she repaints every spring.
Iron bars protect the ground-floor windows—a necessity in this neighborhood, though crime has dropped significantly since I was a kid.
After my father died, everyone expected my mother to sell this house. Too many memories, too many bedrooms for a widow with seven children. But she dug in her heels, determined to raise us in the same house where she’d been happy.
Cars line both sides of the street. Miguel’s beat-up Honda, Antonio’s work truck with “Lopez Construction” painted on the side, Daniel’s motorcycle that makes my mother nervous every time he rides it. My youngest brother Rafael’s car is here, too, which means he drove down from Columbia for dinner.
The warm glow of lights spills from every window, and even from the sidewalk, I can hear music and laughter drifting out into the evening air. Manu Chao plays from someone’s radio, mixing with the sounds of children running around and Antonio’s booming laugh.
I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, salad container growing heavy in my hands.
Through the front window, I can see my sister-in-law Mila setting the table while two small figures—Miguel’s daughters—dart around her legs.
My nephew Danny, Marco’s youngest, is visible in the kitchen doorway, probably sneaking tastes of whatever’s cooking.
Home. This should feel like home.
Instead, it feels like stepping into a world I’ve outgrown, where my choices are questioned and my dreams are seen as betrayal.
I take a deep breath of the cold February air and climb the front steps. The moment I ring the doorbell, chaos erupts inside. Footsteps thunder toward the door, and I hear my nephew’s voice yelling, “Tía Eve! Tía Eve is here!”