His cell buzzed.
Ramón answered on the first ring. “Apá. ¿Qué tal?”
“Good, Ramón. Good. I called to check on the Barrio deal. How’s it going?”
Ramón smirked. It was like Papá could read his mind.
“Great. I’ve finalized the numbers for the offer. I’m ready to bid tomorrow.”
“Ah, good.” Papá hesitated. “You know, I could always check those figures, and—”
“Apá, isn’t it time you retired? I’m the CEO now. You should be relaxing, kicking back with a beer on the beach tomorrow, not heading to a meeting.”
Papá sighed as if he wasn’t quite convinced. “I know, but I am chairman of the board.”
Ramón sighed. There was no use arguing with Papá. “I’m confident we have this in the bag.” And he was—extremely confident.
Papá exhaled. “I believe in you, mijo. I can’t wait to close this deal. I’ve wanted a holding in Barrio for years, but it was never the right time...”
His wistful tone needed no explanation. There was a damn good reason why the Montez Group had never secured a property in Barrio Logan.
It was clear.
They weren’t wanted.
Papá had been accused of being a sellout, which was just plain ridiculous. His father was a proud Chicano man who always gave back to his community. So what if he catered to the tastes of non-Hispanics? Sure, the restaurants served mild salsa, and the tortillas weren’t made from scratch. Still, Papá had created jobs for Latinos and given to countless charities. And that was what mattered.
But Ramón understood the sting of not always being accepted by his community. He’d grown up rich and privileged and hadn’t faced the struggles that many others had. He felt Mexican in his soul butwasn’t always perceived as a real Latino. His cousins used to call his brothers and him coconuts—brown on the outside, white on the inside. Ramón’s heart soared when mariachi music played but sank every time he spoke in Spanish to fellow Mexicans and was answered back in English. He had to constantly prove to his company and to his culture how Mexican he was. And he hated being called not just a gentrifier, but even worse: a gentefier.
But, as painful as it was to admit, he was one.
“Don’t worry about it, Apá. I got this.”
“I’m proud of you, Ramón. You remind me of myself at your age—young, passionate, full of ambition. But you have to remember to take a break sometimes. You know my work cost me my marriage to your mother.”
Yup, Ramón was well aware of his parents’ horrible marriage. His mother reminded him constantly. Though lately, she was too busy with her new love interest, a boy toy Ramón’s age, to bother with her sons.
Ramón zoned out at his computer screen, which had a screensaver of Cabo San Lucas. The turquoise water rimmed around the natural rock arch. “After this deal closes, let’s take a vacation.”
“I’d like that.” Papá paused. “I have one more favor to ask of you.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Would you stop by the party in Old Town? There will be reporters there and the mayor. I think since we are going to try to acquire in Barrio, we need to be present at cultural events to show we support our community.”
“The Día de los Muertos party? ¿En serio?” The Day of the Dead party in Old Town was hands down the best fiesta for the holiday in San Diego, if not the state. Family fun, bro bashes, and cultural classes were all part of the event. There was something about the quaint, historic neighborhood that added genuine authenticity to the holiday. San Diego, which neighbored Mexico, was a true borderbeach town. With twenty percent of San Diego’s 1.5 million population Hispanic, politicians were usually found circulating at these bicultural celebrations. Old Town was literally the oldest settled town in California—a place that could be the set for the next Zorro adaptation. Now it was a tourist mecca that consisted of sarsaparilla shops and tasty taquerías.
“Yes, I am. I’d go myself, but you are the face of the company, Mr.People en Español’s sexiest eligible bachelor.”
Ramón groaned. That title had been nothing but trouble. All the gold diggers had placed a target on his back. Those women didn’t like him for who he was, but instead for what he was worth. He’d never wanted to be the face of the company; he was proud of his work but craved anonymity. He’d gladly give that role to his youngest brother, Jaime, who was a model, influencer, and director of the company’s social media platforms.
“Not sure that matters, because if I went, I would have to wear face paint.”
Papá laughed. “Just go for a few hours, check in with some reporters and the mayor, take a few pictures, and leave. You never know—you could meet a nice young woman there. When I was your age, I always made time for the ladies.”
Ramón exhaled. Papá’s wild youth was no secret. As a little boy, Ramón loved listening to Papá’s stories about hitchhiking through Mexico and surfing along the Baja coast. But Ramón’s favorite story was about the spring break love affair his father had had with a señorita in San Felipe. It was there that Papá had first tried fish tacos.
Ramón had no trouble meeting women, usually through dating apps, if he ever managed to take a day off work, which was rare. He had no time to even think about starting a serious relationship with someone. And after his parents’ nasty divorce, marriage no longer held any appeal for him.
