How Much I Feel Page 9

  The streets are full of stores and restaurants. There's everything from a brand-new CVS pharmacy to a Goodwill thrift store to a Cuban coffee shop to nightclubs. Cubans love their nightlife.

  We pass a park where a group of men is gathered around a table, intensely engaged.

  "What're they doing?" Jason asks.

  "Playing dominoes. It's popular in Cuba—and here."

  Little Havana juxtaposes the past and present, sleek and decrepit, coexisting in a mish-mash of culture and vibrancy. I love every inch of this place that made me. "When my cousins and I were young, our only goal was to leave this neighborhood. Everyone wanted something better, but most of my cousins and friends ended up back here."

  "There's no place like home."

  "That's for sure."

  We drive by high-rise apartment buildings with balconies and down streets full of pastel-colored houses with stucco exteriors and metal security gates. He takes a left turn onto Calle Ocho. "There's a massive block party here in March every year called Carnival Miami. It's so much fun. It stretches from 12th to 27th Avenues."

  "That sounds fun. I love all the music."

  "It's always loud on this street. You'll hear everything from traditional Cuban music to Pit Bull. Did you know he grew up around here?"

  "I didn't."

  "He got his start playing on stages in this neighborhood. See that place over there?" I point to a yellow building with a counter open to the sidewalk. "That's Los Pinareños Fruteria, one of the oldest fruit stands in the country. The lady who works there has been pressing the sugar cane for more than fifty years. They're known for a drink called guarapo. It's pure sugar, so some people call it diabetes in a cup."

  Jason laughs. "I'll pass on that."

  "It's so good. They roll cigars over there. Best cigars you'll ever find."

  "I'll pass on them, too. I know too much about what smoking does to the body."

  "Keep that to yourself around here if you value your life. We're very serious about our cigars."

  "Will do," he says, chuckling.

  I direct him to take a few turns that lead to a two-story pink stucco house. Out front are colorful flowers in the window boxes and an ornate white security gate with gold accents.

  "Home sweet home." I note that my father's Ford pickup truck and my mother's Mercedes coup are in the driveway. A trickle of sensation works its way down my spine as I imagine them catching me here with Jason and his Porsche.

  "This where you grew up?"

  "Uh-huh." I'm relieved when he slows the car but keeps inching forward past the house. "We moved here when I was two. Tony's family lives three blocks that way."

  "What are the trees in the yard?"

  "Coconut palms and mangos. You see them everywhere in South Florida."

  He starts to speed up.

  "Wait. Stop." I point to the chickens and rooster starting across the street, oblivious to the possibility of certain death. "You have to watch out for them around here. They're all over the place."

  "Good to know."

  "You'll see chicken art and statues everywhere in Little Havana."

  I show him the Citrus Grove Elementary School I attended and the dance studio that was like a second home to me through high school, and the Presidente supermarket. "Cuban grocery stores almost always include a butcher, a deli and a café. You can take home a fully cooked meal if you want to. I briefly stocked shelves there when I was so fed up with my parents that I didn't want to work at the restaurant anymore."

  "That must've gone over well."

  "Yeah, not so much. Quitting the restaurant hurt them more than not speaking to them."

  "What'd they do to deserve the silent treatment?"

  "They refused to let me officially date Tony until I was sixteen."

  "Oh right, the waiting period."

  "It was torture! We were in love!" I laugh at my foolishness. "The drama was exceptionally high during those years."

  "I can only imagine," he says with a low chuckle.

  "My parents had old-fashioned values that didn't sync with my teenage mentality. We butted heads a lot, but I always did what they told me to do. As much as I wanted to rebel, I couldn't bring myself to do it."

  "Such a good girl," he says, chuckling. "Was it just you? No siblings?"

  "Just me. My mother had nine miscarriages before I arrived."

  "Oh my goodness!"

  "I know. From what others have told me, it was dreadful for them. They don't talk about it at all, though. That's probably why I didn't go wild and defy them when I really, really wanted to. So there I was, their miracle baby, who became a less-than-miraculous teenager. I look back at it now and cringe at how awful I was to them."

  "We're all awful teenagers."

  "You were, too?"

  "Oh God, yes. I was a nightmare. If my parents had any inkling of the crap I used to do."

  I'm immediately intrigued. "Like what?"

  "I smoked all the pot, drank all the beer, slept with all the girls. And I was a total jerk to my parents."

  I want to claw the eyes out of all those girls I'll never know. That's a normal reaction, right? Yeah, I know. Ridiculous. "You were a typical bad boy."

  "In every way except for one—I got straight As without really trying."

  "Ugh, you were that guy? I hated that guy! He ruined it for the rest of us."

  "That was me," he says, laughing. "A total fuck-up in the rest of my life, but because my grades were perfect, my parents couldn't do much about the rest."

  "That's a good position to be in."

  "I quite enjoyed it."

  "Where'd you go to college?"

  "Full ride to Cornell undergrad and Duke medical school."

  "Wow, that's impressive. I suppose you don't get to be a brain surgeon without having a pretty good brain of your own."

  His lips quiver with amusement. "It does tend to help. School was always easy for me until I got to med school and discovered my lack of study skills would be a major problem. It was like hitting a brick wall going ninety miles an hour."

  "It makes me feel better to know you got your comeuppance."

  He laughs. "I did in a big way. I nearly flunked out after my first semester. I was a disaster until one of my classmates took me under her wing and made a real student out of me."

  "Is that all she did with you?"

  "Oh, we fucked like rabbits between marathon study sessions."

  I laugh so hard I end up with tears in my eyes. "The way you say things…" I wonder what it would be like to fuck like rabbits with him. The thought makes my face flush with heat and embarrassment as a tight knot of desire settles between my legs. I cross them, hoping to quell the sensation, but that only makes it worse.

  He flashes a sexy grin that has my skin prickling with awareness of him. "I'm told I have a way with words. But seriously, she saved my ass. We were together through med school until we got residencies at programs on opposite sides of the country and went our separate ways. Long-distance relationships are hard enough but throw in two residencies, and it became impossible. We're still friends, though. She reached out to me after the disaster in New York."

  "That was nice of her."

  Nodding, he changes the radio and lands on a Cuban station.

  I sing along to the song in Spanish, adding some hand gestures from my dance training.

  "Are you fluent in Spanish?"

  "Si. You can't grow up here and not speak the language."

  "I took years of Spanish, but I suck at comprehension."

  "Glad to know you suck at something."

  "I suck at a lot of things." He waggles his brows suggestively. "And other things, I'm really, really good at."

  Dear God, I want to know about those things. I want to experience those things. I want to—

  Stop it. Be professional and stop lusting after your colleague. Do your job.

  I have a sudden moment of inspiration. "Turn the car around and go back."


  "Go back where?"

  "I'll show you when we get there."

  "You're the boss." He finds a place to turn around, and we retrace our path to the park where the men are still playing dominoes.

  "Park there." I point to a rare open spot on the street. "Come with me." Jason follows me to the gathering of men. "Excuse me." I recognize some of them from Giordino's, especially Mr. Perez, who brings his wife, Eva, on Saturday nights. They range in age from sixty to ninety, and all of them know who I am and who I lost. Such is my life after working at the restaurant since I was old enough to roll silverware into napkins.

  In Spanish, I tell them, "My friend Jason is new in town and doesn't know how to play dominoes. Would you mind if he watched?"

  "Not at all," one of the men replies, moving over to make room for Jason on the picnic bench. "Have a seat."

  Jason sends me a questioning look.

  I give him a nudge forward. "Roll with me."

  He walks around the table to take the open seat.

  Speaking in English and Spanish, the men start giving him pointers, rules and advice, arguing about the best strategies and generally confusing the hell out of him. Mr. Perez translates for Jason.

  Despite his initial reluctance, Jason gets sucked in, asking questions and fully participating as I suspected he would. The game is loud and spirited, dominoes clicking against the table with rapid movements that have Jason struggling to keep up. I guess that doesn't happen very often to him, and the faces he makes are comical.

  I pull out my phone and start taking photos, moving around the table for better lighting and angles.

  He throws his head back and laughs at something one of the men says about another's idiocy, giving me the money shot.

  Many minutes later, he resurfaces from the game, looking around until he finds me with the phone. I'm aware of the exact second he figures out what I'm doing and why.

  He flashes a warm, private smile that lights me up from within. Every part of me is aware of him and how he makes me feel just by smiling at me. Despite being surrounded by people, the connection between us seems intimate somehow.

  "We'd love to share the photos I took on Dr. Northrup's Instagram account. Would any of you object to being in the photos?"

  "You're a doctor?" one of the men asked.

  "I am."

  "What kind?"

  "A pediatric neurosurgeon."

  They're impressed. The men tease him about doctors they've seen on TV and begin to ask about their medical issues, one of them asking Jason to look at a mole on his arm.

  "You should get that looked at," he says.

  "See?" the man says to one of his friends in Spanish. "I told you it was bad!"

  "No objections to posting the photos?" I ask again, needing to be sure.

  "Nope," Mr. Perez says as the others shake their heads.

  Jason stands to leave. "Gentlemen, this has been very educational. Would you mind if I stopped by to play with you again sometime?"

  "Any time you want. We're here most days."

  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. “Yo pienso que es agradable, mija.”

  "Si, 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 you seem like a nice guy."

  "Will he tell everyone you brought me here?"

  "I 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 listening to the men explain the game's rules. 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. I 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 a class on using it for marketing purposes in grad school.

  "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, GIORDANO'S is carved and painted in gold leaf that my mother reapplies every New Year's Day. She also personally tends to the window boxes that change with the seasons. Right now, purple petunias and pansies are featured.

  "It looks nice," Jason says.

  "They're quite proud of it."

  "You should be, too."

  "Oh, I am, for sure. My parents and grandmothers have 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. My Nona says she wouldn't know what to do with herself if she retired."

  "They must 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.

  Parking on the street is usually tricky, except for right now. Jason skillfully parallel parks and kills the engine. "I can handle whatever they're dishing out."

  I'm not sure I can handle it. As Jason reaches for the door handle, I hesitate.

  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 broke into a million pieces after I lost him. 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 that might be easier than risking the safety net I've built aroun
d 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.”

  “My 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, and there’s always lots of touching and whatnot. Newcomers to be surprised by the affection. My grandmothers and my parents love to complain about everything, but 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. The left side is Cuban. The 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. But I want you to know that when I got to the hospital yesterday and found out they weren’t 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 a vindictive woman could take that from me…”