Chapter 11
The black kitten refuses to stop purring in my lap on the way home, so we quickly decide to name him Purrito.
Juan is blowing his nose elaborately, but I have a strong suspicion he’s putting on more of a show than experiencing actual allergic symptoms. He shoots death glares at this tiny creature that I imagine barely weighs a few pounds.
Purrito could not be less bothered by the cat hater in the back of the car, though.
He takes his time grooming his little paws, spreading his teeny toes wide to nibble at his toe beans.
Felix’s cat trivia is not nearly as robust as his knowledge about lizards, so he doesn’t have much more to contribute than maybe you should give him some milk. We figure it’s probably best to just take the kitten straight to a vet clinic for a checkup.
The vet thinks he’s about eleven weeks old and even though he’s a bit on the skinny side and covered in fleas, he’s perfectly healthy.
I settle the bill with the receptionist while the vet feeds Purrito treats that he gobbles up like caviar.
Felix scratches the kitten between his relatively huge ears with two big fingers and Mia just oohs and ahhs her way through the whole thing.
Juan opted out of any additional exposure to cat fluff and just took himself home instead.
After parking back at the restaurant, Mia and I find Beatriz sitting on an upside-down mayo bucket smoking a cigarette.
The ground around her feet is littered with cigarette butts.
There are traces of her signature fire-red lipstick all over the orange filter tips.
Disgusted, I take in the mess she still hasn’t cleaned up, despite being prompted countless times.
Considering the level of dedication she brings to her shifts, you would think her job description was serving attitude instead of serving guests.
What’s that? Beatriz asks, nodding toward Purrito while she blows out a long, thin trail of smoke that’s probably meant to look sexy and seductive. I’ve obviously seen Audrey Hepburn do something similar in Breakfast at Tiffany’s many times, but it looked a lot more alluring in Audrey’s case.
This is our newest addition, Mia answers with pride in her voice. We found him stuck between some rocks and set him free.
Beatriz snorts, smoke blasting out of her nostrils, then taps some ashes to the ground. Isn’t it super unsanitary to let an animal just roam around a restaurant like that? You should probably take him to a shelter.
It takes everything in me not to snap at her, but Mia beats me to the punch.
I don’t think you’re the right person to be lecturing us on what’s sanitary, she says, pointing out the cigarette butts all over the ground. Beatriz opens her mouth to respond, but we choose to ignore her and head inside.
Do you think we could hire a new server yet? Mia whispers quietly enough that Beatriz won’t hear. I can not wait to get her out of here.
I bite my lip. She’s under permanent contract, I reply. I think we have enough valid reasons to terminate her contract, but there’s nothing concrete enough that it would let us fire her on the spot. And we honestly can’t afford her severance pay right now.
Abuela’s in the kitchen preparing tonight’s tapas.
Our trainee chef Karel is giving her a hand.
He flew in from back home in the Netherlands, eager to do an internship abroad.
Because we’re on such a tight budget and Abuela really needed the extra help, I published an ad on some Dutch job sites.
Turns out a summer job in Ibiza is a pretty popular concept, but Karel had such glowing recommendations from his instructors that I decided to go with him.
Karel is a shy, blonde nineteen-year-old kid who blushes anytime anyone with boobs speaks to him.
He’s about six foot five and so skinny, but he can reach all the high-up spices and other ingredients that Abuela needs him to grab.
He’s an excellent study and, despite his patchy Spanish, he doesn’t seem to have too much trouble understanding Abuela.
He drizzles some balsamic vinegar over the salad he’s preparing.
When he looks up, his grey eyes land on Purrito, and he strides over to greet us in two huge steps.
With a massive grin on his face, he tickles the kitten’s chin, looking at us full of excitement.
He’s so preoccupied with meeting the kitten that he doesn’t even turn bright red when we explain how we even acquired Purrito in the first place.
What a sweet pea, Abuela says, drying her hands on a tea towel. Can I hold him?
She looks at me inquisitively and I hand over Purrito, who amps up his purr volume to Harley-engine levels for his cuddle session with Abuela. Blissfully, he closes his eyes and leans into her when she scratches his chin.
The kitchen door opens again as Beatriz walks back in. At the sight of Abuela and the little creature all wrapped up in their own world, she rolls her eyes, grabs the quinoa salads ready to be served, and disappears through the swinging doors.
What are you doing with the rest of your day off, Evita? Abuela asks, holding Purrito in her arms like a newborn baby. Try to have some fun, okay? This little one is going to be just fine here with us.
I grin when I realize Purrito is about to be the newest beneficiary of Abuela’s favourite love language. This underweight fluff ball is sure to hit a more ideal spot on the weight chart in no time.
I spread out my bright yellow beach towel on the warm sand and almost feel embarrassed to take off my sundress in the presence of all these toned Instagram models documenting their day with their phones at the ready.
Feeling self-conscious, I smooth my hands over the dimples in my thighs, then shrug.
I might have cellulite and some extra squish around the middle, but it’s a price I’m happy to pay in exchange for Abuela’s delicious food.
To avoid looking like a pre-cooked lobster when I leave the beach later today, I rub SPF 50 all over my body before I lay down on my stomach and open my book.
I soon discover I don’t have nearly enough locks installed on my door to comfortably read my way through this thriller, so I snap the book shut as a shudder zaps through my body.
Imagine your half-sister turns out to be a serial killer. Yikes.
I flip over to my back and prop myself up on my elbows so I can comfortably people watch through my sunglasses.
While the dominant demographic on the beach is clearly super fit models, I can still spot some families here and there, too.
Children are playing catch with inflatable beach balls and using little fishing nets to catch fish in the shallow water.
Two men are out for a run in the burning sun.
What kind of dinkus goes out for a run at this time of day?
Sure, I see people bopping along the beach first thing in the morning all the time, but at four in the afternoon?
The sun is well past its highest point, but it’s still really hot out.
As the men move closer and closer, one of them is starting to look pretty familiar.
Dark hair... No shirt... Tattoo on his right arm.
He’s wearing a wristband that he uses to wipe the sweat from his brow.
His pecs twitch up and down as he flicks his arms along his body.
He’s wrapped up in a heated discussion with the man running next to him and shakes his head when the other one speaks, gesturing at my grandparents’ restaurant.
His gaze quickly scans the crowd of beachgoers.
Just when I think he didn’t spot me, he stops abruptly, whipping up loose sand around his feet.
His chest is heaving as his eyes take in the sight of my body dressed in a blue, strapless bikini.
Raking his hand through his hair that’s damp with sweat, it looks like he’s wondering whether to come over to me.
My heart is hammering in my chest as I’m trapped under his gaze.
Why am I so attracted to this man? Why am I so attracted to someone who chooses money and status over humanity and empathy? Someone who takes advantage of struggling business owners? A vulture watching from a distance, just waiting for the first one to die?
He takes a hesitant step in my direction, but I grab my book from my towel, open it up, and pretend to read how the main character discovers the ivory tiles in the dollhouse that her sister built for her daughter were actually made of human teeth.