“Never again,” I say. I wait for more to come bubbling out, but that seems like that’s it. I open my mouth, begging for more of an explanation to present itself. Nothing. It feels like I’m reaching to undo time. Emma, understandably, does not look impressed.
“‘Never again’ what?” Her voice doesn’t break at all. She’s solid, the exact opposite of me.
“I don’t know. I never want to feel this way again.”
“Great, a selfish sentiment to explain a selfish act.” She sighs, almost exactly like her mom did, wipes at her eyes. “Are we done here? Is that it?”
“No,” I say quickly. I feel like throwing up. I feel like entropy, like the toothpaste has been squeezed out of the tube and I’m trying to get it back in. “I mean, I never want to make you feel the way you probably felt last night. The way you must be feeling now. I never again want to...” I trail off lamely when I should be rattling off a list of my grievances. The whole silver-lining thing is not looking good.
“Look, Carlos, I appreciate you coming over here to try to ease your conscience, but you made your choice last night. You chose the kitchen.” She stands up a little straighter, looking over my shoulder. Inside the house, I can hear cupboards clattering, glass bottles rattling on granite countertops, people whooping.
“I just lost track of time,” I say, in a whimper.
Emma either doesn’t hear me or the comment means nothing to her. “My mom chose the kitchen instead of me. My dad chose the kitchen instead of me. You’re asking me to let someone else do that to me.” Now, finally, she does cross her arms. She definitely seems like she rehearsed some of this, like she gave this speech thought instead of hoping for silver linings, magically unearned happy endings. Her cheeks are flushed with booze and anger, but she knows what she wants to say. I’ve been sitting here for hours and am still struggling to figure out what my lines should be.
How I wish Felix were around to whisper advice in my ear. “I’m not asking you to,” I say. “I know how that sounds. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But last night was not a choice for me. It was just—” I gesture lamely “—a mistake. It’s been a crazy couple of months and I’m trying to juggle certain things and maybe my head isn’t taking everything well. But I’m trying to figure this new life out, trying to get over Felix, and I made a mistake.”
“Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t blame this on your grief. It’s not fair to your brother. You being on Needle Eye? Sure. You spending time with me and the kitchen because it helped you feel better? Yeah, I get that. But last night was not that.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice breaking, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. “You’re right. But it was still a mistake. A stupid mistake I won’t ever make again. You are not less than the kitchen for me.”
Emma keeps her arms crossed. If she were wearing glasses I think she might push them up to her head, but she’s not wearing them at all. I can picture them folded on her nightstand, in between her glass of water and the lamp she uses to read before going to bed. The tears that have been gathering in my eyes spill now, and I’m not sure if it’s out of hope or resignation.
Emma opens her mouth to say something and then changes her mind and looks down at her feet. She combs a loose tress of hair back behind her ear, though the motion doesn’t accomplish much. Her arms uncross, fall limp at her sides. “Whatever the reason, Carlos, you chose the kitchen. And that’s fine. That’s fucking great, actually. You’re dedicated. You’re passionate. All great things for a chef. And I hope the kitchen helps you with your grief.
“But you made me feel so fucking lonely.” She wipes at her eyes again, tears that I’m responsible for. A quiet moment passes, and I know there’s still sounds coming from inside the house, but I can barely hear them. It’s just me and her. “In the end it doesn’t matter,” Emma says. “You want to stay here, and I’m leaving for school soon. This wasn’t going to last anyway.”
I want to argue, want to prove how much she means to me. This is a mistake we can overcome. But all I can do is stand here feeling so empty I’m surprised I’m not just floating away in the breeze. I should tell her I was fired, tell her we don’t have to sneak around anymore. I should tell her it was Felix who convinced me the kitchen was more important, tell her exactly what I’ve been dealing with.
Or I could stand at her door looking at her midsection because I can’t handle eye contact, because I know all of those things don’t matter and what she said does.
Behind Emma, fireflies light up, the moon shines in full, Felix says nothing.
“You’re not second fiddle to the kitchen for me,” I say finally, and the way the words leave my mouth it’s like they’re giving up on my behalf, like they don’t even believe in themselves. “You have no idea how much you mean to me.” Emma crosses her arms in front of her chest, kicks at a pebble at her feet. There’s not another single sound on the entire island. No magic, no ghosts, nothing at all.
Finally, Emma opens her mouth, and it take a long time for the sound to come out. “Take care, Carlos,” she says. Then she walks past me, shutting the door behind her.
CHAPTER 30
BOMBA
1 bolillo
1 generous scoop red or green chilaquiles
4 ounces cochinita pibil
1 breaded chicken breast (milanesa)
1 habanero, seeded and sliced
1 tablespoon Cotija cheese
1 tablespoon Mexican crema
METHOD:
This time, I stick to the roads. I can’t handle seeing any more magic drained out of this place. I’d kick at pebbles, but it would remind me too much of Emma, and so I just stare at them as I amble by.
What now? There’s nothing here for me anymore. There is no cake left, nothing to have or to eat. I could hang around the island and hope for Emma’s forgiveness; I could show the persistence that led Chef to hire me. Except Emma didn’t seem angry or even disappointed. She seemed like she’d simply moved on. She seemed like she was hurt, but it was as if she’d only nicked herself while chopping vegetables. It was a bit of pain that would pass. She seemed ready to leave the island and forget about me.
Even if I wanted to, I can’t return to the life Dad had planned out for me a) because I withdrew my name from the University of Chicago, and going back to Mexico will not undo that, will not just reinstate Dad’s plan, and b) how the hell could I, having tasted this life?
So, what now?
I can’t even think of where to go right this instant. All the spots I love on the island would just be painful reminders of what I’ve so quickly lost. It’d be like holding my hand over a fire. I loop around the island a couple of times, from the dock to the boardwalk to downtown, turning around right before I reach Provecho on one end, Emma’s street on the other.
An hour or so into this tired circuit, a stray dog starts following me. It’s got dark brown fur and is wearing one of those dog-sweaters, which is off-white and threadbare.
“Rough,” the dog says, dog-like but not.