“Morning, Britain,” Damian greets me.
“So umm, what’s this?” I ask
“What’s what?” He sounds amused.
“You know what. Why is my rental car a Porsche 911, and why didyouorder it?”
“It’s my treat, Britain. Okay?”
“No, not okay. A treat is when you buy someone a cupcake. What? Were they out of Lamborghinis or something?”
He laughs. “No, they weren’t out. I just remember you telling me about how your mom’s boss used to have a Porsche 911 and you thought it was the nicest car in the world, and well, I’m trying to bridge the gap here, okay? I know I’ve done some crap things, and I’m trying to make up for it.”
“Hmm…oookay?” My words are laced with suspicion.
“Look,” he sighs, “I really appreciate you being open to the girls meeting Summer, and I thought, I was trying to do something nice for you in return.”Ahh, so there’s the real reason.
“Mmkay, well, in the future you don’t need to return that kind of favor, okay?” I pause, “but, I do appreciate itandI’m really excited to drive it, now that I know it’s not a prank.”
“Ha!” He bursts out in a laugh. “Not a prank, darling. Promise.”
“Umm, think you could text me the score and/or highlights of Caroline’s game this weekend?”
“You got it. Just a heads up, I can’t make it to her game on May 6th, but my dad’s going to be there, so we’ll have to rope him into a group chat for the highlight reel.”
“Sounds good. I should probably get going. And, uh, thanks again.”
“No, thankyou,” he says.Wow, he must really love Summer.
“Uh huh, bye.”
“Bye,” and the call ends.
Time to figure out how I’m going to fit two suitcases in this thing.
Rose’s street is quintessential Berkley. The houses are mostly small Spanish style bungalows, with a few modern boxes in between. Of the casitas, most are painted in bold colors and adorned with traditional, brightly colored Spanish tiles. Nearly all of the houses are elevated from the street and have gardens with colorful flowers and shrubs that spill out and over, trailing down the sides of terracotta steps. I’d only been here a couple of times growing up, Rose mostly came to visit us.
I’d texted her my ETA, so when I pull down the alley, she’s outside her garage, waving me down joyfully. It brings a smile to my lips. Even with the windows rolled up, I can hear her exclaiming, “Miha! Miha!”
I pull the car into the drive and make my way over to her.
“Ooh, look who’s fancy now, with her porsch-ah,” she says mockingly to me in her heavy accent.
“Hi, Rose,” I say, embracing her tightly.
“Miha, it’s been too long.” And when I pull back, she has tears in her warm eyes. Rose hasn’t changed much over the years, except for the deep laugh lines that frame her bright smile. She still rocks long hair that she braids into one long plait and her fingers are covered in turquoise jewelry, dressed ever the bohemian in a long flowing skirt and peasant-style blouse. Rose isn’t my mom’s sister, or even my dad’s. She’s just a really good friend of my mom’s. Well, she was. But as long as I’ve known her, she’s always been Aunt Rose, or tía.
“Come in, come in.” She ushers me to the back door that leads straight to the kitchen. I inhale; it smells exactly the same way it did all those years ago, like fresh corn tortillas and cinnamon. It looks exactly the same, too. Her kitchen is old, so old, it’s nearly come back around to style again. Her cabinets are a sage green, with glazed tile counters. The floor is laid with large hexagonal terracotta tiles that look like they could be a century old, with another century's worth of life still in them. Her range is old, and French, and hanging from the center of the kitchen ceiling are tons of copper pots and pans, all with the perfect amount of patina. She leads me to the small bay window to her worn oak table, surrounded by mismatched bistro chairs. On the table is a tortilla warmer and a hand-painted bowl filled with butter.
“Oh my gawsh, did you make homemade tortillas this morning?” I ask Rose, my mouth salivating already.
“Of course I did, miha! You think I forget you only ate flour tortillas the whole year you were eight?” We both laugh. Who could forget that? I think my mom was scared I’d end up with scurvy because I was such a hermit, and never ate vegetables or fruit.
Rose ushers me to sit at the bench in the bay window while she grabs me a plate.
“I’ll be right back, help yourself,” she says, then winks.
“Thank you, tía.”
