6. Chapter Six
Chapter 6
Leslie
I tossed my leather messenger bag on top of my suitcase in the hatchback of my rental car. The car’s make was my favorite kind: cheap and small. I drove so seldom luxury would be wasted on me. However, they’d handed me keys to a clown car barely big enough to hold my luggage. I pressed firmly on the trunk’s hatch until I heard a confidence-inducing click, then shot it a mean stare for good measure.
One could never be too careful.
The retelling of my parents’ luggage tragedy was seared into my brain. They were newlyweds, on their way back to the City from Aunt Dot’s house in Pennsylvania. Each thought the other had closed the trunk, and their poor communication left a trail of underwear, pants, and bras scattered across Interstate 78. That experience made my mother maniacal about closing car doors and trunks. One of the many questionable habits she passed along to me that now had me doing an about-face for a final trunk check.
Gassed up and ready to go, I navigated down the West Side Highway to the Holland Tunnel and was zipping across New Jersey in no time. My rusty driving skills left me hunched over the wheel, gripping it for dear life. I typically stayed that way until the nasty stares from fellow motorists shamed me to relax. Cars would pull alongside and startle when spying me, expecting to find a gray-haired old lady. Risto once joked about me being terrified of driving, yet not thinking twice about rubbing elbows with organized crime bosses.
Risto.
I gulped hard at the idea of seeing him. That delicious man was mostly why I’d been scarce at Aunt Dot’s. After meeting him during my high school summer visits, we dated for years. I thought we had a future together, but Risto and I could never get on the same page. He was all food all the time, and his total obsession made me suffocate like a fish gasping for air. I’d used every excuse in the book to avoid hanging with him at the restaurant. Risto became convinced I didn’t love him, and I was unable to persuade him otherwise.
He’d called me a hypocrite. I was an extrovert with a star personality who lived in Manhattan yet complained about the crowds at Boricua. Unlike the restaurant, random New Yorkers didn’t comment on my appearance or expect me to sit down and eat every two seconds. The whole vibe felt like a garlic-scented jail cell. He wanted me to love his career as much as he did. But I didn’t like it any more than he’d enjoy chasing stories around New York City. Despite my misery, I would never have left him. There was too much goodness between us to let our career paths get in the way.
But Risto saw things differently.
He broke up with me over four years ago, but neither of us moved on. Besides Kaelen Reed, I rarely dated. From the sounds of it, Risto hadn’t either. Or at least, my family made him sound perpetually available. That almost stung worse because it meant he’d rather be alone than be with me. Our scorching chemistry between the sheets, snuffed out.
A pleasure memory rippled up my spine, making me grip the wheel tighter.
Focus on the road.
Why did he still impact me this way?
Because you know how good he feels.
Felt. It was in the past.
You sure?
Yes. Definitely.
The idea of “us” was a silly childhood fantasy. I lived in Manhattan. He was a pillar of his cozy community, a restaurant owner and talented chef, turning heads. I was a city girl through and through, chasing stories and building a fierce reputation. A star-crossed lovers’ plotline was hard to justify.
Frankly, it pissed me off that I couldn’t get over the guy.
I cracked my neck and concentrated on the road, hitting the accelerator a little too aggressively for my driving ability.
Driving was cool, though. Coming and going as I pleased, free from bus and subway schedules. It was how everyone not from New York City got around, but to me, it was a revelation. I could get used to it, for sure. I wouldn’t even need lessons like Mom did when she moved to Albuquerque. She once confused the brake pedal with the gas and nearly crashed through a restaurant window. My teasing hadn’t gone over well.
While I loved my mom, having her several time zones away suited me just fine. Bad enough her words reverberated in my skull, critiquing what I did, wore, and ate. Her years of nagging mirrored back, unbidden. I did the job so thoroughly I should invoice her for my efforts. I would’ve flung myself in the Hudson River had it not been for my summer breaks at Dot’s.
I missed my aunt desperately and was happy for the opportunity to take care of her for once.
Which meant cooking.
Dot was a wizard in the kitchen, and I’d be a lousy substitute post-surgery. I made a mental note to swing by the store to pick up ingredients for the few dishes that I knew how to cook: omelets, chef’s salad, and a poor imitation of her rice and beans. Oh, and grilled cheese sandwiches. It had been so long since I had eaten one, and I was looking forward to the cheesy goodness I never allowed myself at home. Mostly because of the debilitating guilt that accompanied each bite.
About two hours after starting my drive, I pulled up next to Dot’s car in her double-wide driveway. She had downsized to a new development since I’d last visited, so I still imagined her living in her old place. The five-bedroom home she once shared with my uncle Arty. After he passed away, it became too much to manage. So she sold it and bought what looked to be a charming home not far from Risto’s restaurant. Scratch that. With Dot’s recent investment, Boricua was now partially hers too. The cash infusion helped the restaurant expand to better handle its growing popularity. Between hostess duties, teaching yoga, and her food-coaching work, keeping Dot off her feet wouldn’t be easy.
I slammed my car door, the intense sun searing the chill off my air-conditioned skin. I tilted my sunglasses to take in Dot’s two-story house, which had a sandy stone exterior and a cute front porch. Like her old home had shrunk in the dryer. Leaving my luggage for later, I rounded the car and ascended the front porch steps, entering without knocking.
“I’m here! Hello?” The cool central air welcomed me as I closed the door. “Auntie?”
All was quiet. I crossed her great room, which directly connected to a gourmet kitchen via a two-seater island made of rosy marbled quartz. It had to be quartz and not granite, the counter surface she preferred because of its non-porous food safety benefits over granite. Her obsession with it made me dig into it for an article I’d never finished writing. If I wasn’t passionate about a topic, it showed on the page, and food safety left me flat.
“You got your dream kitchen at last,” I whispered.
Moving through it, I saw Aunt Dot through the glass sliding doors to her deck. She sat in a lounge chair, talking aloud. But to whom?
I stepped out and shielded my eyes from the sun with my hand. “There you are.”
She jumped up. “You’re here! I didn’t hear you pull up.”
Dot grabbed me into a vice squeeze, her hands linking around my back to hug a smile onto my face. I buried my face in her shoulder to inhale her floral perfume. Memories flooded back, all happy, but too many for any of them to step forward. I’d been here nanoseconds and already floated on a cloud of love.
She pulled back, gripping me on both shoulders. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”
Next, she plastered kisses on both cheeks, leaving what I knew to be perfect red lipstick smacks behind. She blended them into my cheeks with her thumbs.
“There, good as new,” she said, looking satisfied.
“Hey, Leslie.” Risto’s resonant voice vibrated to my core. And in that instant, my pep talks in the car evaporated.
I whipped around to find him standing on the deck of the house next door.
I shot daggers at my aunt. “Neighbors? Seriously? Why didn’t you warn me?”
“You wouldn’t have come.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“What do you care, anyway?” Dot asked. “You haven’t visited in ages, and he’s my business partner. It’s easier this way.”
Auntie’s terrier, Pepper, wiggled between my legs. I crouched to pet him, fluffing his fur with both hands while avoiding eye contact with my ex.
“Hey, Risto. Been awhile.” I hid behind my wall of curls. After blow-drying them straight for so long, I’d forgotten how handy the volume was. They were the only shield between me and the man who made my pulse race like I was on deadline. I peeked up to find his longing eyes seeking mine from Auntie’s porch steps.
Holy shit. Get a grip.
But that was futile when it came to Risto. An oversized teddy bear, Risto’s largeness felt like home. I used to snuggle in, my head resting on his chest while he played with my hair. Our cocoon of safety kept the world at bay. Until it didn’t. Yet it was useless to deny the sexual tension zinging between us. The bedroom had never been our problem.
Risto swallowed hard. “I better head back to the restaurant. See you there for lunch?”
Dot said “absolutely” at the same time I glared in her direction. The moment Risto disappeared through his sliding door, I slapped Auntie’s shoulder.
“We can’t eat there for lunch!” I yelled.
“You love his cooking. Don’t deny it. And he’s been a wreck all morning. They tossed him from the kitchen earlier because he kept burning onions.”
“You’re lying. He never burns anything.”
She shrugged.
“They ejected the owner and head chef?”
“Jose called and begged me to distract him at home for a few hours so they could prep for lunch. I called and told him he might have left the stove on at his house.”
I shook my head. “You probably have a key to his place.”
“Of course I do, but he was so wound up, he never asked.” She touched my cheek. “There’s love between you two. Always has been.”
Anything that left my lips now would get me into trouble, so I said nothing. The hardest, and wisest, of all choices.
“Let’s get you settled, then head over to the restaurant.”
I grabbed my suitcase out of the car, but Dot insisted on carrying my overflow duffel. I marched behind her up to the second floor, struggling to keep up with her ample frame. Dot’s energetic movements made me realize I should probably hit the gym more than never. Exercising had long been an agonizing chore, considering my perennial tiredness. It didn’t matter how much I slept. My leaden legs wanted no part of working out. However, the ragged breath huffing out of my lungs from lugging my suitcase up a single flight of stairs spoke volumes. I forced my lips closed so Dot wouldn’t notice.
“I put you in the guest room. The bathroom is down the hall, and it’s all yours. I have my own, and there’s another one on the first floor. Shall we eat? I’m starved.”
The moment the words left her lips, her face froze in shock. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”
I shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m used to it by now.”
Being the sole trim person in a family of larger bodies meant a lot of teasing came my way. Mostly comments about me needing a sandwich or looking like I’d starved myself while marooned on a tropical island. The small portions I served myself at mealtimes became a battle, with relatives insisting I eat more. The unwanted attention made me more likely to skip a meal than sit down and chow. A choice they’d never understand.
Dot shook her head. “No, it’s not alright. As someone routinely shamed for my large body size, it’s wrong of me to do the same to you. I’m sorry.”
“Really, it’s not a problem.”
“It is, and I’ll tell you why.” Dot went first down the stairs and grabbed her handbag near the door. “ It’s taken me a long time to accept who I am, and my group work has been focused on helping people with larger bodies navigate the hostile world we face every day and get to a place where we can love ourselves. But I know you have your own set of challenges…”
Like what? nearly flew out of my mouth, but that would have only prolonged the conversation. I let it go, and we endured a silent drive to the restaurant.
Dot rarely ate anywhere besides her baby, Boricua. And who would blame her? One step through the back door, and the scent of garlic, oregano, peppers, and onions flushed my senses alert. Whiffing the air nearly made me die of happiness. Like I’d already nibbled on crispy roast pork, tender chicken, and golden sweet fried plantains. Savored black beans and white rice cooked just right. It was surprisingly easy to ruin white rice, but no one in my Puerto Rican circles had mastered the embarrassing skill. Except me.
A stomach growl vibrated deep within me, but the boisterous kitchen yells and pot clanks drowned it out. Risto’s back was to us as he talked to one of his chefs on the far side of the kitchen. They hovered over a mammoth tray of eight pork shoulder roasts wrapped in plastic. From the looks of it, the meat was still marinating and wouldn’t be cooked for several more days. Once done, a crispy layer of skin would cover succulent meat, blooming with flavor perfection.
Dot nodded to her staff while walking us through to the dining room. The navy interior was new. Tasteful gold sconces dotted the walls, casting arcs of light over painted canvases from local Puerto Rican artists. Each splashed its own brand of framed creativity in bright colors, from idyllic rural scenes to abstract faces screaming in agony. Between them, tall, paned windows stood sentry as the only reminders that we were in a former residence and not in a white-tableclothed dining mecca.
By now, the restaurant was halfway through the lunch rush. After checking that the servers had their tables under control, we sat at a round high-top table for two near the bar. A heated soccer match between Brazil and Argentina played on the screen over the bar. The action captivated the bartender’s attention while he dried glasses with a dishtowel before stacking each on the shelf behind him.
Dot leaned in to whisper, “Felipe must be on pins and needles. Brazil is ahead. Notice not a soul dare talk to him right now.”
Funny thing about eating in your own restaurant. No one brings you a menu. Least of all your co-owner. But here, wearing his black chef’s coat, Risto came trotting over to our table, looking more tempting than the food.
“What can I get you?” he asked Aunt Dot.
“Bring some arroz con gandules with that lovely pernil you must have just taken out of the roaster.”
My eyes met his, which held a special sadness reserved for me.
“I’ll have my usual,” I said, looking at my lap.
I caught him shooting a questioning glance at Auntie, who threw up her hands.
“It’s what she wants. But you know…” Dot said, arching her eyebrows in some silent language only they understood.
Risto nodded and left without saying a word.
What was that about?
Our server brought us water and cutlery. Risto returned barely five minutes later with our order. Golden seasoned rice with green peas alongside succulent slices of roast pork. A separate plate held glistening plantains, sliced on the bias and caramelized to perfection. Dot’s eyes closed to savor the aroma, scooping vapor to her face with a cupped hand.
“Nothing better,” she said.
A brawny arm entered my field of vision to set a salad plate in front of me. Arugula, field greens, mushroom slices, and a lemon wedge. Risto knew better than to put carrots on my plate. After decades of my mother complaining about the high sugar content, I’d banned them from my diet completely.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s lovely.”
Risto said, “Enjoy,” and was gone in an instant. Almost like he couldn’t bear to be in my vicinity for one second longer than necessary.
Living next door to him was going to be torture.