How Much I Feel - Marie Force Page 0,41

she called Tony, the slang term for mi hijo, or “my child.”

She immediately realizes what she did and sends me an imploring look, as if she’s asking me to forgive her. I do. Of course I do, but hearing that term for the first time in five years hits me like a shot to the heart.

Jason doesn’t notice, which is just as well. He’s too busy trying bites of everything. His moans of pleasure zing through me like live wires attached to all my most important parts as I try to get a few bites down.

Needing something to do, I get out my phone, go around the bar and take photos of him sampling—and obviously enjoying—traditional Cuban and Italian food.

“This is the best meal I’ve ever had in my entire life,” he declares when he’s put a sizable dent in both platters.

My parents beam with happiness. He couldn’t pay them a higher compliment. They love nothing more than feeding people to the point of explosion.

“How about dessert?” Dad asks.

Before we can reply, the front door swings open with a crash as my grandmothers come in, fighting like angry cats, per usual.

Abuela is fussing with her hair, which looks lovely as always. “It’s too short. I told her not to cut it so short, but she didn’t listen. Leave it to you, coño, to take me to a hairdresser who doesn’t speak English or Español.”

“She speaks perfect English and Spanish, and unlike your blind-as-a-bat lady, she can actually see what she’s doing!”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you told her—”

Everything stops when Abuela notices me sitting at the bar.

With a man.

Nona glances our way to see what Abuela is looking at, and that quickly, their argument is forgotten.

They have much better things to do than fight about hair when I’m sitting at the bar. With a man.

“Incoming,” I mutter to Jason.

CHAPTER 11

CARMEN

Descending upon us like locusts, they hug and kiss me like they haven’t seen me in weeks, bringing clouds of Chanel and Dior perfume with them. They’re the scents of home to me. Abuela is petite and delicate, her snow-white hair perfectly coifed after her trip to the salon, during which the blue hues were thankfully washed out. Though she’s nearly seventy-five, her face is unlined and her makeup is flawless. I’ve never once seen her looking anything other than stunning, even first thing in the morning.

Nona towers over her and is twice as wide, and much to Abuela’s dismay, Nona’s hair has remained stubbornly dark with only a few gray hairs to indicate she will soon be seventy-six. Nona doesn’t give a rat’s ass about makeup or what she’s wearing or any of the things Abuela obsesses over. They couldn’t be more opposite if they tried to be, and they put a hell of an effort into being as different from each other as they can possibly be.

They have one huge, all-consuming thing in common, however . . .

Me.

I jump in before they can start asking questions. “Nona, Abuela, this is Dr. Jason Northrup, one of my new colleagues at Miami-Dade. Jason, these lovely ladies are my grandmothers, Marlene and Livia, but almost everyone calls them Abuela and Nona.”

He stands and shakes both their hands, looking them in the eye when he tells them it’s so nice to meet them both.

I’m unreasonably proud of him.

“A doctor,” Nona says. “How lovely. What kind of doctor are you?”

“A pediatric neurosurgeon.”

Abuela gasps. “A neurosurgeon! Like Patrick—”

“—Dempsey.” Nona completes Abuela’s sentence as usual. Abuela can never remember names. Faces, yes, but she’s awful with names. That’s why she calls our customers Mami and Papi. It’s easier than remembering their names.

“Yes, just like him,” I reply, “only Jason is an actual brain surgeon.”

Abuela directs a shrewd glance my way. “Jason is, is he?”

I realized my mistake the second I made it, but it’s too late to take it back.

“I’m so happy you’re already making such amiguitos at work, Carmen.” What she lacks in memory, she doesn’t make up for in tact. Amiguitos means good friends in a sort of flirtatious sense, and she put the extra oomph behind it to make her point. Like I wouldn’t have gotten her meaning otherwise.

Abuela is bowled over by his handsome face as much as his curriculum vitae, not to mention he’s here with me. She’s going to dine out on this for weeks. Her granddaughter brought a neurosurgeon into the restaurant, a real live neurosurgeon.

“My boss asked me to show Dr. Northrup around since he’s new