Jason shakes hands with each of the men, which impresses them. For some reason, it matters to me that they like him. “I’ll be back.”
“We’ll be here,” Mr. Perez says. “Someone’s got to keep an eye on the place.” He looks at me and winks. “Me agrada tu amigo, mija.”
“Sí, gracias.” I keep my response low-key, hoping it won’t be all over the neighborhood that I brought a man home.
“That was fun.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
“What did he say to you in Spanish?”
“That he likes you.”
“Will he tell everyone you brought me here?”
“I really hope not.”
“Would that be so awful?”
“It would make things complicated, and I’m not sure either of us is in a good place for complicated right now.”
“True.” He sounds disappointed, and I’m not sure how to take that. I’m thankful he doesn’t pursue it any further.
When we’re back in the car, I open Instagram and log out of my account. “We need to start an account for you. What do you want your username to be?”
“Whatever you suggest.”
“How about MiamiDoc?”
He pulls a face full of distaste. “That’s kinda douchey.”
“It’s taken by another douchey doctor. What if we do JNorthMiamiDoc? We want to make the connection between you and your career.”
“If we must.”
“We must.” I set up the account using Priscilla@0624, the date we met, as the password. For his profile photo, I use one of the pictures I took of him looking contemplative while he listened to the men explain the rules of the game. I post photos of Jason with the men, using the caption, “Getting to know my new city. Thanks to my new friends in Little Havana for showing me how to play dominoes. Can’t wait to go back to play again. #newhome #miami #littlehavana #doctor #pediatricneurosurgeon.”
Then I create a story that encourages people to follow him as he discovers his new city. I do all this in a matter of minutes. Not only do I love Instagram personally, but I took an entire class in grad school about using it for marketing purposes.
“When do I get to see this restaurant I’ve heard so much about?” Jason asks.
“Oh, um, take a left at the light.”
He follows my directions until we arrive at the restaurant on West Flagler Street.
“There she is in all her glory.” The stucco building is painted a pale yellow with green shutters and window boxes. Both the Cuban and Italian flags fly from either side of the doorway. Above the door, GIORDINO’S is carved and painted in gold leaf that my mother touches up on the first of January every year. She also personally sees to the window boxes that change with the seasons. Right now they’re filled with purple petunias and pansies.
“It looks really nice,” Jason says.
“They’re quite proud of it.”
“You should be, too.”
“Oh, I am, for sure. They’ve worked so hard to make it what it is.”
“Do they expect you to take it over someday?”
“They do, which is why I’m determined to have a career separate from the restaurant while I can.”
“You don’t want it?”
“It’s not that so much as I don’t like the idea of having no choice about it.”
“None of your cousins are interested?”
“They might be, but my parents are the owners, so it would be weird for them to skip over me in favor of my cousins, or so my father says.”
“I can see that. You could always hire a manager, you know.”
“I’ve thought of that. I hope I won’t have to think about that for many years yet. My grandmothers will seriously live forever, and my parents are in their mid-fifties. They all scoff at the idea of retiring. Nona says she wouldn’t know what to do with herself if she retired.”
“They must really love it if they have no desire to leave it.”
“They do love it.”
“Do they serve lunch?”
“Yes . . .”
“I’m kinda hungry.”
“Jason . . .” My entire system goes haywire at the thought of walking into the lion’s den with him.
There are never parking spaces available on the street, except for right now. He skillfully parallel parks and kills the engine. “I can take whatever they’re dishing out.”
I’m not sure I can take it. As he reaches for the door handle, I’m frozen in place.
He glances over at me. “It’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”
I laugh. “How can you possibly know that when you’ve never met them?”
“I’ve met you. They raised you, right?”
“Yes . . .”
“Then they must be great people, because you’re amazing.”
I hold his gaze for a long, charged moment before I look down, overwhelmed by his words and the way I feel around him—dizzy, off my game, aroused, intrigued, afraid. The last time I gave my heart to a man, it was broken into a million pieces. I just don’t know if I have it in me to go there again. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone, but sometimes I think that might be easier than risking the safety net I’ve built around myself since I lost Tony.
“Tell me what I need to know about them.”
CHAPTER 10
CARMEN
I’m not at all prepared to take him in there. They know me so well. They’ll take one look at me with him and know I’m attracted to him.
I swallow hard, as nervous flutters in my abdomen make me feel like a teenager in the throes of first lust. That’s exactly how this feels, as if the ground beneath me has suddenly disappeared, sending me spiraling into the unknown.
“If you don’t want me to meet them, that’s fine, too. It’s completely up to you.”
I do want them to meet him, so I dig deep for the courage it’ll take for me to bring him in there, knowing full well what they’ll make of it. “When you meet my grandmothers, be sure to make eye contact. That’s important to them. And it’s often loud and boisterous in the restaurant. You might think something awful must be happening, but it’s just business as usual. If someone wrinkles their nose at you, they’re just asking you to elaborate on whatever you just said. They’re not saying you stink.”
He laughs at that. “Good to know.”
“Abuela, my Cuban grandmother, will invade your personal space. She’s not trying to be intimidating. That’s just how she rolls. They’re apt to kiss you, so be prepared for that, and there’s always lots of touching and whatnot. People who aren’t used to it tend to be surprised by that. My grandmothers and my parents love to complain about everything, but in reality they hate drama of any kind. They’re all talk and no action when it comes to controversial topics. What may sound like a knock-down, drag-out fight to you is just a conversation to them. Left side is Cuban. Right side is Italian. There’s a bar in the middle, and we’ll sit there to avoid showing favoritism to either side.”
His eyes light up with amusement. “I can’t wait to meet them.”