Page 4 of Tastes Like Summer

“Sorry, Mami. I’ll eat my breakfast.” Emi looks up at me with wide, dark, apologetic eyes.

She takes a generous bite of eggs and shoves it in her mouth, trying her hardest not to make a face. Honestly, I don’t blame her. Unless we’re talking about arepas, I’ve never been much of a breakfast person.

“Thank you, baby.” At least one daughter is drama free this morning.

I wish I could say our rocky start to the morning gets better, but it seems like hoping for the best is nothing more than wishful thinking, these days. Between Camila purposefully delaying leaving the house in protest, having to go back because Emi left her lunch at home, and the wrong turn I take somewhere, we officially make it to camp twenty minutes after drop-off time is over. As I drive up, the parking lot is empty and there are no counselors greeting parents and campers.

“Shit,” I mumble under my breath.

“Bad word alert! You owe the swear jar a dollar.” Emi calls from the back seat between peals of laughter.

I grimace, disappointed in myself. The jar was started originally for Rodrigo’s sake, who refused to understand that cursing in front of his daughters wasn’t the best example to set. The only way I was able to curb his urge was to hit him where it hurt—his wallet. And now I’m the one setting the bad example.

I sigh. “You’re right. Sorry, guys.”

“Where is everyone? Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Camila asks, skeptical.

“Of course.” Irritated, I park closest to the front gate. I look in my rearview mirror as I back up and exhale in relief when I see another car rushing into the lot. Another late parent. For some reason, it makes me feel better. Like I’m not the only one on this struggle bus.

“Are you sure, Mom?”

“Sorry, did the Sugar Maple Day Camp sign not make it clear?” I snap, and immediately regret it. “Yes, we’re in the right place.”

It takes a minute, but I eventually get them both out with their backpacks, double-checking once again they have everything. “You’re both good? Lunchbox? Swimsuit and towels? And Emi, do you have your phone on you?”

“Yes, Mami.”

“When do I get a phone? I’m older. I should’ve gotten one first.” Camila huffs and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

I sigh, not wanting to have this conversation again. Patience. “You’re still too young. The only reason Emi has one is to monitor her blood sugar. Because of her CGM. Remember? I explained it to you both? Emi’s Continuous Glucose Monitor is linked to her phone so she and/or her teachers and camp counselors can reference it just in case.”

The monitor is also linked to my phone, but I don’t want to remind her of it. The whole thing verges a bit too much on Big Brother is watching you, and I don’t want to make Emi feel uncomfortable. But if it weren’t for the monitor and her insulin pump, I probably wouldn’t be able to let her out of my sight. Thank god for modern medicine.

“You can play with my phone later, Cami,” Emi whispers to her older sister. I pretend like I didn’t hear her (partly because it’s not the time to get into it; partly because I find it kind of sweet).

“Okay, now that that’s settled, let’s go. I’m going to have to walk in with you to find the head counselor.”

“What?” Camila gasps. Both girls look up at me, horrified expressions on their faces. “Why? You can’t come in with us like we’re babies.”

Um, aren’t you my babies?

“Cami, I need to talk to the camp counselors and directors about Emi. They already know you have diabetes, and they said they’re able to take care of you if something happens, but I’d still like to go talk to their nurse.”

Emi looks down at her feet, blushing. My heart pangs in my chest.

“You know⁠—”

“It’s Emi and Cami!” a girl’s voice bursts from behind us.

My daughters’ faces light up, turning in her direction. When they see it’s their friend from the wedding, they take off like rockets toward her.

“Well, well, well.” I turn to find Weirdo Chef—Michael—walking towards us, his daughter on one hand and her pink sparkly backpack in the other. Looking smug and—it sucks to admit this—wildly attractive, he stops right in front of us. “How the tables.” A wide grin spreads across his face. “You’re late. Who’s the bad parent now?”

“Uh, if you’re calling me a bad parent for being late, then so are you. Seeing as, you know, you’re late, too?”

He shrugs, laughing once. In the morning sun, his hair is closer to a dark blond, silver-threaded on the sides. As he smiles, lines form near his eyes, closer to green than they were the other night, crinkling in an annoyingly adorable way. And right beneath his scruff, I catch two dimples flashing.

“Touché,” he says. “Still, it’s nice to see you not be Mrs. Perfect now.”