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CHAPTER13
Having decided notto sleep at Jenny’s apartment, Lauren started for the new bakery location in Little Havana rather than going home. She could’ve lied to herself and said she had a lot of work to do, but she acknowledged her restlessness instead.
Flipping on the lights in the construction zone, Lauren took a deep breath. The scent of saw dust still clung to the air. Her dad had probably just been there.
The counter he was handcrafting out of wood was significantly closer to complete. In a few weeks they’d be ready to crown it with the poured cement top. The manifestation of new and old working together.
Pulling the small cooler on wheels behind her, Lauren carefully traversed the front of the shop littered with tools and materials. Beyond the thick plastic curtain, the kitchen awaited her like a friend.
Her phone buzzed in the back pocket of her jeans as soon as she turned on the lights in the industrial kitchen. Her human friend Melissa wanted to hang out. Lauren replied with a selfie of herself in the kitchen, and a text that she should come over. She planned to be there for a couple of hours at least.
Lauren stood at the large, sterling silver work table in the center of the kitchen. From her little zip-up cooler, she started unpacking glass containers. The components of her experiments.
Most critically, she opened the music app on her phone. From a tiny speaker, she streamed her favorite old Cuban music. The dance songs and ballads that were already ancient when her mother was a kid.
As she rolled out puff pastry dough, Lauren’s mind disconnected from her body. Baking was her ritual. Her moment of zen. Her meditation.
Some of her best memories were spent with her grandfather in a kitchen. Helping him make all sorts of sweet confections. Even if he only ever sold the traditional fare, he loved to try new things.
After cutting the dough into squares, Lauren opened one of the small glass jars in her cooler. Half-filled with a bright yellow jam she’d made herself, Lauren couldn’t wait to see what the star fruit pastelito would taste like. She’d already mixed the slightly acidic fruit with strawberry and kiwi, and was hoping pineapple would be the perfect dance partner.
As Lauren worked, she couldn’t shake off the discomfort pulling at her back like she was wearing a backpack full of rocks. It wasn’t just the softball collision with Sylvie the day before, even though that had left her a little more sore than she expected.
Instead of letting the thoughts form, Lauren covered the sweet pastries she’d prepared with plastic wrap and set them in the fridge.
She turned to the next container in her bag and smirked. What would Sylvie have to say about the vegan papa rellena she’d been working on?
Lauren could almost hear her. All five-foot-three of her bubbling with rage. Her honey eyes rich and bright. Her hands on her hips.
What do you think you’re doing Lauren? Heavy on the R. A stuffed potato ball is as easy as it gets. Ground beef at the center. Beef. From a COW. Covered in mashed potatoes and coated in breadcrumbs. Is that really so hard? No! You CANNOT make it meatless! That’s sacrilegious! Wait, did you say MUSHROOMS? No. That’s just too much.
Lauren chuckled to herself. Sylvie was nothing if not passionate. Misguided, over-the-top, and insanely dramatic, but also passionate.
Part of her wished she could run some of her new ideas by her before debuting them at the Whitney Food and Wine Festival. If her harshest critic thought they were at least edible, the rest of the world would love them. It would also be nice to talk to someone who cared as much about croquetas and pastelitos as she did.
As she scooped the mushroom mixture that would replace the meat in her creation, Lauren was transported to another time.
Fifteen years earlier, for a brief, shining moment in time, she and Sylvie didn’t hate each other. It happened like many an armistice in history. Two great, lumbering empires trained their arsenals on a common enemy and away from each other.
Hilda Rubio transferred to Our Lady of Solitude High School their senior year and destabilized the power structure. The details of the conflict were hazy to Lauren, although she guessed that Sylvie remembered every slight she endured. She probably had a notebook with date, time, and context of the affront.
Smiling as she formed the little potato balls in her palm, Lauren remembered their conversation in the locker room. She’d been suspicious at first. Assumed that she had an agenda, but Sylvie had never been accused of subtlety. She liked direct attacks not subterfuge.
They’d started talking then, and not just about how to destroy the interloper Hilda Rubio. During the ceasefire, they’d connected on so many levels. Lauren had never had so much in common with anyone else before. She’d barely gotten a thought out before Sylvie understood it. It was like they didn’t have to speak to know what the other was thinking.
Lauren’s crush on Sylvie hit her like a truck. Sudden and fatal.
She wasn’t alone in her feelings. The ghost of a tingle on her lips all these years later confirmed that Sylvie had felt the same way. But then, instead of reaching for each other, old wounds and pride closed the door. They returned to the Cold War that occasionally warmed up a few times a year.
A knock at the back door startled Lauren out of her thoughts. Fifteen-year-old regret lingered in her stomach, making it heavy and sour.
“Who is it?” Lauren called through the fire door.
“How many women are you expecting at your back door girl?”
Smiling, Lauren opened the door. Melissa, her long auburn hair tossed to one side, glided into the kitchen.
“I brought red and white.” Melissa held up two bottles of wine. “I hope you have glasses.” She kissed her on the cheek.
