Fuck.
I rake my hands through my hair. I can’t tell Athena this. She idolizes Papá. She’s desperate to take over the business when he eventually keels over and dies. But if this came out—indiscretion, scandal—she’d burn it all to the ground.
And Mamá. My heart pinches. Does she know? Doesn’t the wife always know?
Maybe I’ll hand Athena the matches and watch it all burn.
CHAPTER3
Eloise
The school term has started, which means virgin strawberry and basil daiquiris at my favorite Mexican restaurant, Guac ‘n Roll,while I read over my notes from class.
I’ve never minded spending time alone.
I get stared at when I eat out by myself, especially for dinner, and since I rarely let anyone see the scars on my face, I figure it must be because I’m alone. I’ve always felt sorry for people who stare at me with pity for sitting by myself. I’ve known people who can’t be by themselves for any length of time, and to me that’s sad—not the being by yourself part, but the being unable to be by yourself
I might be on my second plate of sweet patatas bravas, and I already put in an order for the halloumi al pastor tacos. I want to sink into the tapas-style menu and devour everything the server places on the bar in front of me.
I’ve never met a potato I didn’t like. My eyes roll back in my head at the explosion of spicy flavor on my tongue. I can die happy now that the last things I’ve eaten are Guac ‘n Roll’s crispy potatoes.
The volume in the restaurant picks up by a few bazillion decibels and I rub the bridge of my nose. Ugh. It’s getting a little too loud in here.
A crowd of people that I’m almost sure is a sports team of some kind hangs out at the table behind me. They don’t strike me as football players, but it’s my first semester of my first year, so what the hell do I know? I don’t recognize either of the girls sitting with them, but again, that means nothing. I generally keep to myself.
It’s not that I don’t want to make friends, but I’m not really sure how to. The accident that took Mom from me happened when I was sixteen. I missed so much of school that everyone decided it would be best for me to repeat the year.
Which was fine, I needed the time to catch up, but it meant that all my friends moved on without me. I tried to stay in touch, but when they went off to college, and I stayed in high school, it was hard.
So, here I am, a nineteen-year-old freshman with limited social skills and who knows very few people in her year. When someone introduces themselves to me, it doesn’t take long to get from “Oh, hey I love your fantastic pink hair,” to being the girl with the dead mom and the fucked up face who doesn’treallybelong in this year.
It would help if I moved onto campus instead of staying at home. But with Dad gone all the time, it’s the perfect, quiet, well-stocked place to hunker down and absorb all the details that fly over my head during classes.
Am I overreacting in thinking that I’m already falling behind only a few weeks into the semester? Perhaps. I mean, it’s early days, and I’m already settled into a great routine at college. From what I can tell, most of the other freshmen are either scrambling to find their feet or partying.
I didn’t think a nursing degree would be easy by any means, but heavens to Betsy, it’s already a lot.
Alot.
I slide my second sweet potato graveyard across to the guy behind the bar, except it’s not really a bar. Behind the counter is the kitchen. I’ve already vowed to sit somewhere else next time I come in because the staff have been a distraction. It’s enthralling, watching them plate up such vibrant and amazing dishes. Competent knife skills are hot, who knew?
Not to mention, I love watching people. Especially the little old grandma in the corner pressing flour tortillas between her palms. She looks like she’s a hundred years old has seen things. The sparkle in her eye and her wicked grin suggests she’s not one to be messed with.
The guy behind the counter exchanges my empty plate for a taco stand and a huge dish of the green sauce I practically drank with my potatoes. He gives me a knowing smile, like he’s aware he’s converted another patron to be addicted to the secret sauce.
If I’m not careful, I’m going to spend my entire savings in this place. My hand drifts to my hair, tugging it to hide the deep ridges and rough skin of the scar covering my left cheek. This scar, the accident, and Mom’s death are the only reasons I have savings of any kind to speak of.
She made good money as a surgeon, but she and Dad didn’t have the best financial situation. And I’m not naive enough to think I’d be able to afford to comfortably go to college if it wasn’t for the fact we got awarded money from the courts for the accident. I almost snort. It doesn’t feel like getting hit by a drunk driver was anaccident.
In the grand scheme of things, I’d much rather hand the money back to the judge and get Mom back in return. But no matter how hard I pray every night before bed, that doesn’t seem to be an option.
So, I guess I’ll take my “free” ride at college and work my ass off to make her proud. Even if she’s not here to see it. I hope she’s watching over me with a smile on her face, but I’m not God’s biggest fan right now either, so I’m not quite sure where I stand on the afterlife anymore.
I’m already on my second taco, shoveling halloumi in my face like it might dull the ragged feelings poking out inside my chest. My arm pulses in time to my heartbeat. I’ve been to so many therapists, PTs, surgeons, and no one can tell me why there’s still pain in my arm sometimes other than the fact they all think it’s in my head.
After three surgeries on my arm alone, I’m on a first name basis with most of my medical team—not the doctors though, ’cause, well, they’redoctors.Anddoctorsseem to like reminding everyone at every turn that they went to school for a million years and know better than everyone else. Is arrogance a specific class they take at some point during college?
I swallow down a mouthful of squeaky cheese with another gulp of this delicious daiquiri. I don’t hate surgeons. Heck, I wanted to be one, like Mom. But with my injuries I wasn’t sure I would regain enough movement or control over my arm to be able to operate, and with the fall out of the accident… my grades weren’t where they needed to be for med school.
