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Tris
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."
"You say that now."
He covers my hand with his and looks at me with affection and humor in his gaze. "I heard what you said before about timing and complications and whatnot. But I want you to know . . . When I got to the hospital yesterday and found out they weren't exactly rolling out the red carpet for me, I nearly had a heart attack. I've put years of hard work into my career, sacrificed so much, and the possibility that it could be taken from me because of a vindictive woman . . ."
He shakes his head in disbelief. "But then I got the message that the lovely young woman who greeted me when I arrived was in trouble with my car and needed me to come to the police station. I was so thankful to have an excuse to get the hell out of that hospital. The minute I saw you sitting in that cell, I felt better. The turbulence inside me calmed when we started talking about how we might turn this thing around. You did that for me. After everything that happened with Lauren, I would've thought it impossible to feel anything for another woman, especially so soon after that disaster. But you . . ." He shrugs. "I feel something for you, Tris, and I think you might feel it, too."
I want to deny it. I want to go back to who I was yesterday morning when I didn't know this man existed. I was safe then. Nothing bad can happen if you don't put yourself out there. I can hear my grandmothers reminding me that nothing good can happen, either. Life is a risk, she says. Love is a risk. It's all a risk, and the people who have the courage to take the leap are the ones who're most richly rewarded.
And devastated when it ends. I can't ever forget about that.
I lick lips that went dry as I listened to him and tried to process what he was saying. "I do." I take a deep breath. Courage, Tris. "Feel something."
"And you aren't sure you want that, am I right?"
I nod.
"I'm not sure I want it, either. I need to be one thousand percent focused on my career and fixing the disaster. And yet I find myself enjoying every minute I get to spend with you." He gives my hand a squeeze. "All I want is to spend more time with you."
"They'll take one look at us, and they'll know . . ." I lick my lips again. "That there's something . . ."
"Okay." He looks at me for a long moment that ends when his gaze shifts to my mouth.
I realize he wants to kiss me and that I want him to. I want that very much. But not here and not now. I clear my throat and look away from him, unnerved by the intensity of the connection I feel with him. It's not the same as it was with Al. That connection began with close friendship and grew into something wonderful and comfortable over a period of years. This is something altogether different. It has the potential to be cataclysmic if I allow it to be.
His stomach growls, breaking the tension as we laugh.
"I'm starving."
"So I heard." I glance at Prior's and then at him. "Let's get you fed to within an inch of your life."
"I'm down with that."
We get out of the car and wait for a break in the traffic to cross the street. This place is as familiar to me as anywhere in the world, and as I walk through the doors into the rich scents and usual chaos, it feels like something big has changed. But the change hasn't occurred in the restaurant, which is the same as it's always been. The change is happening within me, and it's all due to the gorgeous man who follows me inside.
As usual, we're doing a bustling lunch business on both sides of the restaurant, but I'm relieved to see that the bar in the middle is mostly empty.
"Beatrice!" My mother lets out a shriek and comes to hug me, as if she hasn't seen me in months when in fact I was here two days ago for brunch, during which everyone toasted me and my new job.
She steps back from me, taking a measuring look at my face. "Why are you here in the middle of the workday? Did something happen?"
"Did you get fired?" my father asks when he joins us.
"I did not get fired." I probably would've gotten fired if my boss knew about what really happened yesterday, but thankfully he doesn't. I hug them both and then gesture to Tobias. "This is Dr Tobias Eaton. He's new to the staff at Chicago General, and I was asked to help him find a place to live and to show him around."
My parents look at him and then at me and then at him again. I swear to God they can see everything that's happened between us from the second we met, or so it seems to me.
"It's very nice to meet you, Dr Eaton." My mother shakes his hand with the reverence she usually reserves for celebrities. "Welcome to our humble establishment."
I want to roll my eyes at her ridiculousness. At just over five feet tall—and the "just over" part is very important to her—she's about six inches shorter than me. In every other way, I'm her all over again.
"Please, call me Tobias, Mrs Prior."
"Then you must call me Natalie, and my husband is Andrew." She loops her hands through his arm and tries to walk him toward the Cuban side of the house.
"We're eating at the counter, Mum."
My father looks at me and shakes his head at the shameless way she tries to take him to her side of the restaurant. He's six foot two, with broad shoulders, dark hair and a handsome face that brings in the female clientele who blatantly flirt with him.
My mother encourages it because, as she says, it's good for business and because she knows he's hopelessly devoted to her.
"Where're Abuela and Nona?" It's almost unheard of that they're not working the hostess stations during business hours.
"At the hairdresser. They'll be back soon."
"They went together?" That, too, is nearly unheard of.
"Nona told Abuela that her hair is blue and that she needed to go to Nona's girl to get it fixed. They had a big fight about it until Nona wore her down."
"Nona wore her down? Is Abuela sick? Did you take her to the doctor?"
"She's fine. I told her Nona was right. Her hair is blue, and her lady is too old to be doing hair. The woman has cataracts the size of dinner plates that she refuses to do anything about. It's no wonder she can't get the color right."
Next to me, Tobias shakes with silent laughter.
"This is my life," I tell him.
"It's awesome."
"Come, sit." Dad gestures for us to take seats at the bar. He pours an ice water with a lemon wedge for me. "What can I get for you, Tobias?"
"Soda water with a lime would be great."
"Coming right up." He gives Tobias a large black leather-bound menu and pours his drink while my mother hovers nearby so she won't miss anything.
"We thought we'd hear from you last night after your first day," Dad says.
"I'm so sorry. I meant to call, but I got home late, and by the time I got my clothes ready for today, it was after eleven."
His brows furrow. "Why're they making you work so late?"
"It was Tobias' first day, too, and they wanted me to show him around. Mr. Andrews told me I'd be asked to work occasional nights when he hired me."
"But your first day." Mum clucks with disapproval that doesn't surprise me. If they had their way, I never would've gone to college or done anything other than work at the family business. I know they're proud of all I've accomplished, but disappointed at the same time that I chose a different path from the one they planned for me.
"What looks good to you, Tobias?" Dad asks.
"All of it. What do you recommend?"
"How about a sampler with a little of everything?"
"Including Cuban?" I ask him, raising a brow.
"Of course." He feigns offense that I'd even ask. I roll my eyes at him, letting him know I don't buy his act. I wouldn't put it past him to bring only Italian food, the way my mother would bring only Cuban. Like their mothers, they're nothing if not territorial that way.
"A sampler sounds perfect," Tobias says. "Thank you."
Dad goes into the kitchen to give orders to both chefs, and yes, we have executive chefs for both sides of the house, while Tobias takes in the signed photos of my parents with various celebrities that line the walls. Everyone from Frank Sinatra to Taylor Swift has come through our doors at one time or another. The restaurant is listed as a "must-see" on most of the Chicago area tour sites, and we see a steady stream of tourists along with our local regulars.
"Eva Perez said you were playing dominoes in the park this morning," Mum says with a nonchalance that's totally fake. She's gone behind the bar to wipe the gleaming surface that doesn't need wiping.
Honestly. I can't make this shit up. This really is my life. "We stopped by because Tobias wants to get to know his new town, and I thought he'd enjoy learning to play."
"She said you took photos."
"Yes, for his social media."
"Christina said you asked about him working at the free clinic."
I sigh to myself, because God forbid she should hear me sigh at something she says.
"Allow me to explain," Tobias says.
I want to throw myself in front of that, but before I can stop him, he's telling her the full story of what happened in New York as well as how I'm helping him restore his reputation and get approved by the board at Chicago general.
My mother hangs on his every word, her mouth hanging open in shock when he gets to the part about how Lauren betrayed him. About halfway through the retelling, my father returns and is equally interested. I'm not sure if I'm watching a slow-moving disaster or a smart move on his part.
"What kind of woman does that to someone?" Mum is filled with outrage on his behalf.
Her outrage is a relief to me. I don't want her to dislike him because of what happened. And besides, it's probably best that he told them himself since they'd be googling him two seconds after we leave. The four of them are in love with their iPhones and their emojis.
"This is a very important assignment you've been given, Dulcita."
Tobias glances at me, eyebrow raised. "Dulcita?"
"Sweetie," my mother tells him. "It's what I've always called her."
"She is very sweet."
I'm mortified, and he knows it, but he laughs anyway. And here I thought I liked him. When I look up, my mother is giving me a curious look, as if she just put together a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle in the span of a second. That's my mother for you. Nothing gets by her.
"Where are you from originally, Tobias?" Mum asks.
"Outside of Milwaukee."
"Where do your people come from?"
Tobias glances at me.
"Nationality." My family is always interested in where other people are from.
"Oh, um, English, Irish and Dutch, or so I was told."
"Do you have siblings?"
"No just me."
"And what do your parents do?"
"Mum! This is lunch, not an inquisition." I feel like I should put a stop to this, even though she's posing questions I'd like to ask.
"It's fine, Dulcita." Tobias winks at me as I scowl at him. He's not allowed to call me that, but he doesn't seem to care. "My mom is a doctor and my dad is an attorney."
"Oh my." My mother has always been impressed by people with fancy educations, although as my dad frequently tells her, fancy educations don't necessarily equal fancy people. He likes to give her examples of people we know who have all the education in the world but don't know enough to come in out of the rain, as he puts it. "They must be very proud of you."
"They were until things blew up in New York."
"That wasn't your fault."
He shrugs, seeming a little defeated. "People don't believe I didn't know who she was. She didn't change her name when she got married, so how was I supposed to connect her to the board chair? And it never occurred to me that I should google this fabulous new woman I met who seemed so genuine. That's on me."
"It's not your fault." Mum reaches across the bar to place her hand over his. "It's her fault. She set out to use you without a care in the world about the damage it would do to you, probably figuring you were a typical self-involved rock star surgeon who wouldn't care if she used you to break up her family. I'm very sorry that happened to you."
"Thank you."
He's wallowing in the maternal vibes my mother is putting out. She mothers everyone, like a woman who was meant to have ten children, not just one. And like so many others before him, Tobias is powerless to resist her. Al adored her and told her all his problems to the point that I had to plead with him not to share everything that went on between us with my mother!
Let me tell you—it wasn't easy being a rebellious teen when all my friends were telling me how amazing my mother was and that I ought to be nicer to her. Talk about frustrating.
The pager on my dad's belt vibrates to let him know food is ready in the kitchen. He goes to get it and returns with two platters that he puts down in front of us. "Cuban on the left. Italian on the right."
"It's never the opposite here," I tell Tobias. "Ever."
"Good to know. I wouldn't want to mess that up."
"Don't worry," Mum says, "we won't let you make that mistake."
"Give me a tour of what we've got here."
I point to the basket of confections that Dad brought along with our food. "Croquetas, pastelitos and bocaditos. On the platter, there's arroz con pollo, which is rice and chicken, and arroz con frijoles negros, or rice and black beans. That's ropa vieja, shredded beef in tomato sauce. Ropa vieja actually translates to 'old clothes,' but don't let that stop you from trying it. It's one of my favorites. We've also got tostones, which are plantains, and yuca hervida con mojo, or boiled yuca. On the Italian side, there's manicotti, which is what we're known for, as well as eggplant parm, fritto misto and a sausage and broccoli rabe frittata."
"I hope you provide to-go containers, because this is enough for three meals."
"We'll pack it up for you, mijo," Mum says. "Don't you worry."
I'm stricken by her use of the word mijo. That's what she called Al, 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.
Tobias 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 Tobias.