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Tris

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 Tobias Eaton, one of my new colleagues at Chicago General. Tobias, these lovely ladies are my grandmothers, Edith and Johanna, 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 Tobias is an actual brain surgeon."

Abuela directs a shrewd glance my way. "Tobias 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, Beatrice." 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 Eaton around since he's new to the area and needed help getting acclimated."

"You've come to the right place, Dr Eaton," Nona says. "We can teach you everything you need to know about the Chicago area."

"That's very kind of you, ma'am. Tris is doing an excellent job of showing me around."

"Is she now?" Abuela's laser-beam gaze delves inside me to root around for the real story.

I put up my mental block and give her nothing. "We should get going." I hope I'll be able to extricate him from their clutches.

Before we can make a move, my friend Christina comes in, wearing pink scrubs with cartoon babies all over them. She has my build, height and coloring, but her hair is longer and curlier than mine and she's taller than me. She smoothly navigates the grandmothers to kiss my cheek. "Heard you were here."

"How is that possible?" Tobias asks under his breath.

"It's better not to ask. Dr. Tobias Eaton, my friend Christina Giordino. Chris, Dr Eaton."

"Tobias," he says.

My grandmothers begrudgingly step aside so Tobias and Christina can shake hands.

"Good to meet you." Christina gives me a side-eyed glance that conveys an entire conversation that would go something like this if we were alone:

Her: Are you for real right now? This guy is freaking hot.

Me: Is he? I hadn't noticed.

Her: Whatever. My ass you didn't notice.

"I hear you might be looking for a volunteer gig."

"You heard correctly, and it's nice to meet you, too."

"I come bearing good news. The clinic would love to have your services tomorrow if you're available."

He glances at me.

"He's available on one condition."

"What's that?"

"We can take photographs of him at work."

"No patient faces online without signed releases."

"Done."

Christina smiles at Tobias. "You're hired."

"That's great. Thank you so much."

"We're very happy to have you."

"I thought you said you're a neurosurgeon," Abuela says. "What're you doing working in Christina's free clinic?"

"Community outreach," I quickly reply for him. "The hospital requires it."

"That's a wonderful gesture," Nona says.

He's won her over forever by giving his time to the needy. My dad gripes about how much food she donates to the numerous causes she's involved with, but even he respects how much of themselves she and Abuela give to others.

"You want lunch, sweetheart?" Dad asks Christina.

"A house salad with chicken to go would be great, Andrew."

"Coming right up."

"What time and where tomorrow?" Tobias asks Christina.

"Is nine okay?"

"Works for me."

"I'll bring you so I can take photos," I tell him.

"Sounds good. Thanks to both of you."

"Thank you. My boss couldn't say yes fast enough when I told her about your offer. I would've had an answer for you sooner, but she was in meetings all morning with the finance people, which usually puts her in a foul mood."

"Does the clinic need money again, honey?" Nona asks.

"I'm not sure what's going on, but I'll let you know."

"We can do another spaghetti dinner," Nona says. "Just say the word."

"Thank you." Christina kisses Nona's cheek and then Abuela's. She's like a grandmother to Christina. That's one thing to adore about my grandmothers' unique relationship. They love each other like their own.

My dad has packed up all the leftovers for Tobias, and judging by the size of the bag he presents, I assume he's added enough for a few additional meals, too.

"Thank you, Daddy."

"Anything for you, love."

Tobias reaches for his wallet.

"You'll insult us if you try to pay." Dad affects a comically stern tone. "It's our pleasure to welcome our daughter's colleague to Chicago and our humble establishment."

Tobias leans across the bar to shake my father's hand. "Thank you so much for your hospitality, Andrew. It's been such a pleasure to meet you all."

"Likewise," Abuela says. "I hope we'll see you back here very soon. In fact, you should come for Sunday brunch." The calculating look she gives me lets me know she's trying to help me, whether I want her help or not.

"I'd love to."

"Wonderful. Beatrice will give you the details, and we'll see you Sunday." She crooks her finger to get him to come down to her so she can kiss his cheek.

Then Nona hugs and kisses him while my mother waits for her turn.

I nudge him to get him moving for the door before they think of something else they need to tell him or ask him.

"Call me later, Beatrice," Mum calls to me as the door closes behind us.

"So. That's my family."

"I have so many questions."

As we walk toward his car, I laugh as hard as I've laughed in years.

Tobias

She has no idea how incredibly lovely she is, which only makes her more so. Seeing her with her family has added an intriguing layer to my impression of her and filled me with curiosity about the family dynamics.

"Abuela is your mother's mother, right?" I ask when we're back in the car.

"Yes, she left Cuba when she was about ten. Nona's family came from New York, originally, when she was two, so too young to remember much about it. Abuela, on the other hand, remembers everything about leaving Cuba. It was very traumatic for her and her entire family, especially after they lost her father."

"What happened to him?"

"My great-grandfather infiltrated Batista's administration as part of the revolutionary effort to overthrow his corrupt government. Batista was the president in the chaotic time before Castro came to power. When my great-grandfather was found out, he was executed."

"Oh my God."

"Sadly, this happened a month before Batista was forced to flee the country. One of my great-grandfather's friends came to the house and told Abuela's mother they had to get out immediately. He got them on a flight leaving for Chicago that afternoon. Her mother escaped with five children and nothing more than the clothes on their backs. They went from being wealthy, prominent citizens of their town to living in a new country where they didn't speak the language, with few resources available to them."

"What a shock that must've been."

"From what I've heard, my great-grandmother never truly recovered from losing her husband, home and country all in the same day. Abuela and her older sister helped to raise their younger siblings while their mother worked long hours at a dry cleaner to put food on the table in the cramped apartment where they all lived. The saving grace, if you can call it that, was the community of exiled Cubans who ended up here."

"It must've helped to have others from Cuba close by."

"It was a mixed bag for them. There were so many competing interests at the time. Some people revered them for what their husband and father had done, and others were less appreciative. Fun fact—I was named after my great-grandmother Beatrice."

"What an amazing story."

"When the travel restrictions were eased a few years back, my parents took Abuela and her older sister back to their home town. My parents said it was like the place time forgot. They're still driving cars from the fifties and have hardly any of the modern conveniences we take for granted here. They were supposed to be there for a week but came back after only two days. Abuela and her sister couldn't bear to be there. The memories were too painful."

"That's so sad."

"She said the trip provided closure for them. That's all she's ever said about it. Since then, she's asked us to speak to her in English more than Spanish so she can continue to improve her English. It's like she's finally accepted she's never going home."

"You'd never know she's experienced such heartache."

"She hides it well. Despite all she's endured, she's still one of the most optimistic, joyful people I've ever known."

"I'll confess to not knowing much about Cuban history, beyond what we hear in the news about people trying to escape to the US by boat."

"We only hear about that when it goes badly and people die. The history of the revolution is fascinating. We studied it in school."

"Whereas we studied the Cuban Missile Crisis in high school, but otherwise, I don't remember learning much else. You said your Nona is from New York?"

"Right. Her family moved to Chicago from Brooklyn when she was a teenager, so she's a New Yorker at heart. She gets back there as often as she can, especially now that two of my cousins live there. We joke that she gives them twenty-four-hour notice that she's coming to town, and they have to spend the entire time cleaning their apartment to make it ready for her."

I laugh at the image she paints of two young New Yorkers scrambling to prepare for their beloved but exacting grandmother's arrival. "Thank you for sharing them with me. That was the most enjoyable and delicious meal I've had in a long time." I glance at the restaurant. "Are they talking about us in there?"

"Oh hell yes," she says, laughing. "I made a critical error when I called you Tobias in front of them."

"How so?"

"You must've missed the calculating look that Abuela gave me. I swear that woman can see inside me sometimes. Me calling you by your first name indicates familiarity, and she homed right in on that."

"Our generation is far less formal than theirs."

"True, but she sees far more than I want her to. She always has. My mother is the same way."

I turn toward her, more intrigued by her with every minute I spend with her. "What do you suppose they saw today?"

Tris rolls her lip between her teeth as she studies me intently.

I begin to worry that I have sauce on my face or spinach in my teeth, but I can't look away from her to check.

"They saw that I'm interested in a man for the first time since I lost Al."

Her confession touches the deepest part of me, and I lean toward her, needing to kiss those sweet lips.

She casts a wary glance at the restaurant. "Not here."

I bite back a groan. "Where do you want to go?"

"Let's take a ride out to the beach."

I pull into traffic while she directs me to the southbound freeway toward North Avenue Beach. While I drive, she fiddles with the radio until she lands on a station playing classic rock.

She turns up the volume on "Hot Blooded," and when she catches me watching her, she smiles. "I grew up on classic rock. It was all my dad wanted to listen to at home and in the car."

"I'm a classic-rock kinda guy myself. What's your favorite band?" If we talk about music, I won't think about how I almost kissed her, right? Will she let me kiss her when we get to the beach? God, I hope so. I'm dying to kiss her.

"It's a toss-up between Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles."

"Two of my top three."

"What's the third?" she asks.

"The Stones. I saw them last year in New York. It was a dream come true."

"I can't believe the way Mick prances around the stage in his seventies."

"I know, and even after having heart surgery, he's still at it. Have you seen them?"

"Not yet, but I'd love to."

I file away that information for future reference. "Who else have you seen?"

"The Eagles came to Chicago last year. They were so good. Glenn Frey's son Deacon is touring with them now, and he was awesome."

"I heard about that. Who else are you dying to see?"

We talk about music and bands and shows we've seen as we navigate heavy traffic on the way to the beach. It's a welcome distraction after what she confessed to me. I want to kiss her and hold her and spend more time with her. If you'd have told me I'd be having those thoughts so soon after the disaster with Lauren, I would've laughed. But that was before I knew Beatrice Prior existed in this world.

While I drive, she works on her phone, posting the photos she took of me at the restaurant, enjoying authentic Cuban and Italian food at Prior's. Traffic is slow, which is how I manage to catch her frowning as her fingers fly over the screen. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Her tense posture and expression say otherwise. "Tell me."

"Just some asshole comments on the photos from earlier."

My heart sinks. "What kind of comments?"

"Bringing up the shit from New York, but don't worry about it. I deleted the comments and blocked the accounts."

I'm disheartened to hear that the bullshit followed me south, but what did I expect? "In the digital age, you can run, but you cannot hide."

"Don't sweat it. We'll keep adding to the narrative, and over time we'll make them forget all about what happened in New York."

I wish I was as convinced as she is that people will forget such a juicy scandal.

Tris takes a call from Christina that she puts on speaker. "Hey, what's up?"

"I had a thought about your project," Christina says.

I assume that means me.

"What's that?"

"Remember my friend Marlene from high school?"

"Oh, she works for NBC 6 now, right?"

"Yep. I could hit her up about doing a feature story on the pediatric neurosurgeon who offered to work pro bono at the clinic so he could get to know his new city."

Tris glances at me, and even though courting attention is contrary to my nature, I'm well aware it's going to be necessary if I have any prayer of repairing my reputation. I nod, giving her my reluctant approval.

"That'd be awesome, Chris. Have her call me if she's interested?"

"Will do."

"Thank you for this."

"Thank you for pimping out your doctor to us."

We both laugh at her use of the word pimp to describe Tris' role.

"My pleasure," Tris says. "Let me know what Marlene says."

"Will do. Later."

"If we can pull off TV coverage," Tris says to me, "that'd be amazing."

"Yeah." I grip the wheel tighter, my gaze fixed on the road.

"You don't think so?"

"I do. Of course I do. It's just . . . In my normal life, courting that kind of attention for a volunteer gig would be unheard of."

"I have no doubt your humility will come through in an interview, or I'd never agree to let you do it. People will love you for stepping up for the less fortunate in the community you hope to call home. It's a great story."

"It's a better story when it's someone else on the camera."

"You'll be a star."

"Great," he says, grimacing. "Will they dig up the crap in New York?"

"I'll come clean about what happened, and do my best to keep the focus on what you're doing here."

"Is it always going to follow me? Will it be the opening line in my obit?"

"You've got a lot of years left to do amazing things that'll push that further down on the list."

She makes me feel optimistic when I've had no reason to for weeks.

"If you get to do the interview, you should talk about your tumor research and how close you are to a major breakthrough. That's the kind of thing that'll resonate with regular people. Everyone knows someone who's battling a serious illness. Being reminded there're dedicated doctors out there working on these challenges is comforting."

I hang on her every word, soaking up her insight and wisdom. "You make me believe we might just pull this off."

"Stick with me, kid."