Chapter 1
Vanessa
Present Day
Let’s get this out of the way: I’m a terrible person.
No, I’m not being self-deprecating in an effort to gain your sympathy; I truly am a terrible person.
If you trust me on this now, whatever happens next will make a whole lot more sense.
That said, I believe in seeking redemption, so after working as a financial planner in Chicago for eight years and accepting a job transfer over unemployment in a limp economy, I’m back in New York, licking my wounds and trying to make amends for my past transgressions.
Judging by my younger sister’s flat expression as she studies the menu in her hands, I have my work cut out for me.
We’re sitting in Grenadine’s Café on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. My treat, so my choice. I may have miscalculated on that front. Admittedly, it’s a bad habit of mine—miscalculating things, that is.
“Is this supposed to be appealing?” Lisa asks, her dark brown eyes narrowing in confusion. “Pea foam and carrot puree? And how the hell does one deconstruct bread?” She sighs, her huff of breath ruffling her curly bangs, and tosses the menu on the table. “Get the hell out of here with this.”
For as long as I can remember, this has been my life: straddling two worlds, the haves and the have-not-enoughs, neither of which fully embraced me. Or I suppose it’s more accurate to say I never fully embraced them.
Jesus. It’s as if the overwrought prose in my brain writes itself.
Get it together, Vanessa. You’re here to atone for your mistakes.
“This isn’t what I usually eat, but the place is close to the new office, and I’m trying to find lunch options so I’ll be ready to entertain clients once we start accepting them.”
She dismisses my explanation with a wave. “Ah, this is research. How convenient…for you.”
Oof. Lisa’s not in the mood for my bullshit.
And I don’t blame her. Still, it’s hard to square the person in front of me with the fifteen-year-old who worshipped the ground I walked on when I left home for college more than a decade ago.
Since then, she’s always been polite whenever our paths cross—which, granted, hasn’t been often—but civility between siblings is an embarrassingly low bar, and her attitude this afternoon suggests she’s no longer interested in meeting even that.
There’s a “bite” to her personality I’m not used to, and it only underscores how far we’ve grown apart.
Promising to return for our orders “in a jiff,” the server sets down our glasses of water and a basket of rolls, then rushes off.
“I’ll let you choose next time,” I say, leaning over to take Lisa’s hand.
She dodges my effort and sits up straight. “Why am I here?”
I roll my shoulders and compose myself. This isn’t going to be easy, but I want to lessen the tension between us once and for all. “I’m sorry.”
The blanket apology gets her attention. She stares at me, and for the first time since we sat down, the furrow between her eyebrows disappears. “For what exactly?”
“For everything, Lisa. For leaving New York and never looking back. For saddling you with the job of looking out for Mami and Papi on the daily. For missing out on some really important moments in your life—prom, high school graduation, the celebration dinner when you got your master’s degree.
Hell, for limiting your opportunities because you felt you had to be the one to stick around and watch over our parents. ”
I didn’t want to miss any of those milestones, but I couldn’t face my family back then.
Not Lisa. And certainly not my mother and father.
So I pretended I was too busy managing other people’s money and made myself scarce at home.
In the end, I only managed to become even more estranged from the people who truly matter.
Her lips thin as she studies me, then she says, “So you’ve decided that my job as a school counselor is directly correlated to the fewer opportunities I had because I stayed in New York to keep an eye on Mom and Dad.
Wow.” She pulls in a so-help-me breath, then blows it out slowly. “You’re a piece of work, sis.”
See? Terrible.
“That sounded different in my head, Lili.” I forge ahead, despite the side-eye she’s giving me for using a nickname I lost the right to use years ago. “In my mind, it was ten times less condescending and a thousand times more graceful.”
She sighs wearily. “Look, I’m not trying to be difficult. I appreciate that you want to reconnect. It’s just…I don’t know you anymore, Vanessa. You want to pick up where we left off, but that’s not going to happen overnight.”
“I get it. I do. All I’m asking is that you let me in. Even if it’s only a teeny bit. Now that I’m here, I’d like to spend time with you. Remember what Mami used to tell us? ‘You two need to have each other’s backs. It’s you two against the world.’ ”
A hint of a smile battles her standoffish demeanor, and for the first time since we sat down at the table, a sense of hope takes root in my chest. Lisa’s smile tells me the door to her heart is still open. Not wide open, mind you, but if a crack is all she’ll give me, I’ll gladly take it.
“We used to make fun of her when she told us that,” she says, her expression suddenly wistful, as if she’s remembering us giggling and sneakily rolling our eyes when Mami lectured us on the importance of sisterhood.
“We sure did.”
In those days, Lisa and I were know-it-alls. Now I’m perfectly comfortable acknowledging I don’t know shit about anything. Well, that’s not entirely true. I know a lot about what makes men tick. As for everything else? Zip.
Lisa twists her lips, then angles her head. “Tell me about Chicago. Why’d you leave? What happened?”
My boss, David Warner, happened, I think to myself.
For six months, I was happily dating a man who never asked me for more.
Figuring we were on the same page about the obvious limits of our relationship, I foolishly overshared parts of me I’d never shared with anyone.
Stuff about my goals and dreams, my strengths and weaknesses.
My strained relationship with my family, and my fears about returning home someday.
And then I continued to disregard everything I know about men and did the unthinkable: I rejected his attempts to take us to, as he put it, “the next level.” Worse, I told him I couldn’t see myself being serious with anyone, let alone my boss.
In a tale as old as time, he lashed out when I rejected him, accusing me of using him to climb the corporate ladder.
As if my disinterest in a lasting commitment couldn’t possibly be genuine and had to be part of an elaborate ploy.
He wouldn’t be duped, he said, so he recommended me for the team that would help build the New York office.
A relocation would be good for my career, he suggested—in the middle of a staff meeting. Wow, message received.
David Warner taught me another lesson: Give men what they claim to want, and they’ll still find a way to screw you over.
Frankly, I wanted to shove that transfer up his ass.
But I didn’t have that luxury. Not when my parents are struggling to keep their business afloat until they can sell it.
Not when my sister’s working sixty hours a week and helping my parents at the store on weekends.
How selfish would I be to put my needs before theirs?
Especially after I cast them aside so easily years ago.
No, the only answer was to grin and bear it.
“An opportunity to return to the city presented itself,” I tell Lisa. “A promotion of sorts.”
I’m not sharing the particulars with my sister. They’re unimportant.
“So you’re here for the foreseeable future?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Then I’d like you to help us off-load the store,” she says, picking at the sourdough carcass that passes for bread at Grenadine’s.
“Mami and Papi are procrastinating, but they need to slow down. Like, yesterday. They’re exhausted.
And they haven’t taken a vacation in God knows how long. It’s time.”
La Flor Superette is my parents’ bodega in East Harlem.
Well, that’s the name on the official paperwork, but to the neighborhood, it’s the corner store.
One of hundreds in the city. As for La Flor, though, my parents’ blood, sweat, and tears are built into its foundation.
Their life’s work is situated at the intersection of 106th Street and Second Avenue.
Getting them to give it up won’t be easy.
“Whatever you need, I’ll do it. I’d like to talk to them about their retirement funds too. I can help them make some strategic decisions. Do you happen to know if—”
“Vanessa?” a high-pitched voice behind me says, interrupting my inevitable barrage of bulldozing questions. “Is that you?”
I twist around in my seat and see one of my college roommates—and former clients. Yes, I’m using the latter term loosely here, but still. Shit.
“Charlotte,” I singsong, recovering quickly and jumping to my feet. Unfortunately, she’s not alone. The woman beside her could be her twin, though. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Get over here, woman.” She steps forward and pulls me into a light hug. “It’s totally bizarre that I’m seeing you after all these years. And today of all days.”
“Oh, is it a special occasion?”
She swings her blond bob around and raises a thick, legal-sized accordion envelope in the air. “Receipts. The divorce is officially final.”
“Oh no, you and Ian split up?”
I remember him well: Last name Thompson. White guy. A senior economics major from California. Straightlaced and serious. Biggest pet peeve: untidy people. Hence, the name of the assignment: Operation Messy. That one was fun.