AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The next few days drag. The pain in my chest doesn’t lessen. Despite knowing it’d be long-distance, I miss Hudson. I miss talking to him and his messages and his smile. I’ve been tempted to write to him, but what would that fix? We’re still dealing with the same issues, and I’m still angry at his instant disregard for what I want simply because a new plan fits what he wants.
Knowing I’ll have to face him in a couple of weeks makes me nauseous. Hope would kill me if I bail on her bachelorette party, but I wonder if I can get away with it.
I reach for my phone in between spoonfuls of cookie dough ice cream. The few messages he’s sent stare back at me.
We need to talk.
He’s sorry.
He misses me.
Am I sure I don’t want the job?
Call him.
He loves me.
That last message makes my chest shake with a repressed cry. I throw the phone across the sofa and hide my face in the cushion. I’m glad I have a weekend to rest and stay in.
I still need to call Michelle to thank her and decline the offer to apply for the job as soon as I have the energy or three cups of coffee. Being with my students this week has just cemented what I feel. They’re my family and what I wake up in the morning inspired to do. Those kids have become more than students through the years, and I can’t—won’t—leave them on impulse.
But at what point do I put my relationship with Hudson first?
I stand and grab some coffee. It may be noon, but it’s coffee time all day long in my book. The bachelorette planning will keep me distracted for the rest of the afternoon. Everything needs to be perfect, including me, if I’m going to face him.
Hours later, someone knocks on my door. I ignore it as long as possible until the knocking turns into incessant pounding and doorbell ringing, creating the most obnoxious playlist.
I swing the door open and lift my brows when I see my grandma. Oh, boy.
″Let me in.” She doesn’t wait for a response, instead pushing past me with a heavy bag. “It’s freezing cold.” My grandmother has been living in the United States for years, but her thick accent is still in place, and I love it.
″Hi, Abuela, how are you? Great? Oh, wonderful.” I murmur to myself sarcastically.
″If you’re going to speak, say it loud enough for me to hear.” She lifts her eyebrows. She’s feisty today.
″What’s wrong? Boy problems. I don’t know why. Hudson is a great man who cares about you.” She sits at the counter and begins taking things out of the bag. Containers with food. Her coffee maker.
According to my grandma, an American coffee maker does not make real coffee. It has to be made in an Italian press, grabbing the first colada (brew) and mixing it with two tablespoons of sugar until the rest of the coffee finishes brewing to create espumita (foam). And ta-da, you have Cuban coffee that will keep you awake and going for hours. It’s the best, to be honest.
″Talk to me, mija.” My grandma softens her voice and smiles. “Pastelito?” She hands me a cheese and guava pastry, and I practically moan. We may not have Cuban pastries in town, but my grandma makes the best.
I take a big bite, messy scraps of crispy dough falling on the counter unceremoniously. I chew slowly to buy myself time.
″We broke up. It’s the same as before. He wants me to give up my dreams just so we can live in the same city. I’m so confused, torn about choosing him or my career.” My eyes water and I take another bite of the pastelito.
″You know how much I love ballet. I’m so proud of you.” I nod at her words, her hand gently holding mine. My grandmother danced ballet in Cuba before she had to leave the country. She never danced again, but her passion lives in her and through me. She taught me the basics when I could hardly walk. From there, she guided me as I reached different stages of my career.
″Love is also important. Do you love Hudson?” Her brown eyes gaze at me meaningfully.
″I do.”
″Is there a way to make it work?”
I shrug. Do I move to New York even if it’s not what I want, just so I can be with him?
″I’m afraid I’ll end up resenting him,” I speak the fearful truth and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. Abuela hands me a napkin. “Thanks,” I mumble.
″Cafecito time.” She claps her hands with a smile and stands, opening the Italian press and preparing the coffee maker.
