“There’s always room for dessert, mi amor. Oh, that was a good one. I’m going to write that down.”
In a few months, I would probably receive a package containing a book about a small-town hero attempting to rescue his family's pastry shop from the grumpy billionaire real estate developer who looked suspiciously like me with a name like Liza or Alyssa. Liza or Alyssa's cold heart would thaw, and within twenty-five chapters, she would be married, baking muffins all day, and popping out babies like Skittles. My mom has written over thirty books and hasn't penned one where the heroine can't have children and finds a hero who loves her anyway, but she wasn't writing real life.
In real life, the hero would get tired of the lack of children, followed by the health problems, the lack of sex, the depression, and the constant fights, before he finally traded the heroine in for a new heroine who looked suspiciously like the old heroine, but younger and fertile.
“How’s Papi?” I asked to change the subject.
“He’s your father. He flew to San Juan last night.”
"Again?" I asked. My father has been flying to Puerto Rico at least once a month since the hurricane. He was pretty hands-on with a lot of aspects of the recovery, but now he mostly provided legal aid.
"Yeah, I think he thinks he can fix everything single-handedly like a superhero."
“How are you doing?”
"I'm fine. I have my words to keep me company, and I'm so proud to be married to a man like your father. He has a big heart, and sometimes I have to share it." She tried to hide it, but I heard the sadness in her voice. My parents were exactly like a couple from a romance novel. In fact, the heroes from my mom's breakout series, The Montenegro Brothers, are four different versions of my dad, though she would never admit it.
“Why don’t you go with him anymore?”
"I did at first, but when I'm home, I can't write. I just look around…" She paused, and her voice choked with tears. She cleared her throat and continued. "And I feel too guilty to write. How can I sit around and write love stories? So many people are still suffering, and there's still so much to be done.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
“I’m going to let you go, querida, but please think about what I said. I don’t want to see you struggle if you don’t have to.”
“Okay, Mami. I’ll think about it,” I lied, knowing I had no intention of touching that money.
I was exhausted when I picked up the phone, but after a forty-five-minute conversation with my mother, I was wide awake. After cleaning my apartment, I decided to make myself breakfast. I craved waffles piled high with whipped cream and bacon, but instead, I settled for a bowl of unsweetened almond yogurt with chopped berries. Don't get me wrong, I love my diet. Since my diagnosis, learning to avoid foods that trigger a spike in my insulin levels has been a game-changer, but something about my conversation with my mother made me want to drown myself in carbs, all of them.
Sasha:Hey! Text me when you wake up.
Me: Hey.
Sasha: Wow. Ok, early bird. Free concert in Central Park. VIP passes. Wanna go?
Me: Who is it?
Sasha: Does it matter?
Me: lol. No. What time?
Sasha: Meet us at 3, and we can grab some food.
Me: (thumbs-up emoji)
Sasha: Ok. I’m going back to sleep. See you later. ’Caela says hi.
Me: Tell her I said hey. See you later, Sash.
A few hours later,I locked my door, excited to have something to erase the last, decidedly shitty, twenty-four hours of my life when I was startled by a deep voice over my shoulder.
“Hey, neighbor.”
I recognized the voice immediately, and almost wished I still had my bat. I turned around to face the drunken asshole that said I'd make a shitty mother and ruined my audition. He sat on his stoop, and it looked like he was waiting for something.
“I don’t have time for this.” I walked toward the gate. He hurried down the stoop and blocked my way. I glared at him.
"Hey, sorry." He stepped out of my way. "I wanted to talk to you."
