Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Miami is loud and colorful and undeniably fun, but just because I’m half Latina doesn’t mean I want things to be loud all the time. We lived in Little Havana, a mostly Cuban community full of art galleries and coffee shops and cigar stores on every street corner. It’s a bustling area, almost the polar opposite of Boston’s conservative Beacon Hill neighborhood.
My new city, while not as IN YOUR FACE as Miami, has its own unique character, from its brownstones and tree-lined streets to Boston Common and Newbury Street. Plus, despite contrary opinion, I find the accents downright charming.
“Here we are. Have fun with your parents,” Hunter says.
“Have fun at your game.”
I’m pleased to notice that he waits until I reach the front stoop before pulling away from the curb. Real gentlemen are hard to find these days.
My mother shrieks happily when I walk through the door. She’s the loudest person on the planet. My friends insist that she’s a clone of Sofia Vergara from Modern Family, and they’re not far off the mark. Although Mom’s not Colombian like the character, she’s drop-dead gorgeous with a voice that could shatter every plate in a china store.
Blabbering on in Spanish, she hugs me tight enough to restrict my airflow, then drags me down the hall toward the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“On his way home from the hospital. He just finished surgery, so expect Grumpy Papa tonight.”
I’m used to Grumpy Papa. Some surgeons ride a high after they operate, but Dad is always exhausted after a long surgery, and he gets cranky when he’s tired. Like a toddler. But he deserves to be cut some slack, because—hello—he just saved somebody’s life. Brain surgeons are allowed a free bitchiness pass, as far as I’m concerned.
“Are you hungry?” Mom demands, then answers her own question. “Of course you are! Sit down so I can feed you, mami. How is school going?”
“Good.” I fill her in on my classes and the project with Hunter, while she unloads Tupperware containers from the fridge.
If my visit hadn’t been last minute, I have no doubt she would’ve cooked me a feast. Instead, I’m relegated to the leftovers from whatever feast she cooked for Dad yesterday. And it’s spectacular. Soon the cedar work island is laden with dishes, most of them Cuban, with a few of Dad’s American favorites sprinkled in.
My mouth waters as each new item emerges from the microwave. There’s shredded beef seasoned to perfection with veggies and olives and served on brown rice. Cuban chicken stew with raisins to give it a bit of sweetness. Stuffed peppers. Fried beans. The roasted potatoes and garlic carrots that Dad likes.
“Oh my goodness, Mom,” I declare while inhaling her food. “I’ve missed your cooking so much.” Pieces of rice fly out of my mouth as I talk.
“Demi,” she chides.
“Hmmmm?” I mumble through a mouthful of spicy beef.
She flips her glossy brown hair over one shoulder. “Of all the traits you could’ve inherited from your father, his poor table manners is what it had to be?”
“What? You should take it as a compliment that we both enjoy your cooking.”
“Maybe you can enjoy it with your mouth full,” she suggests. “And leave some carrots for your father.” She slaps my hand when I try to stick my fork in the carrot container.
Speaking of my father, he appears in the doorway without warning. I hadn’t heard him come in. Granted, that’s probably because I’m chewing so loudly.
“Hi baby,” he says happily. Enormous arms encircle me from behind as he places a kiss on the top of my head
“Hey Daddy.” I swallow some more rice.
He greets my mother, which is always a fun sight to see. Standing at six foot five, Dad is a bald black guy with arms like tree trunks, palms like oven mitts, and long but surprisingly delicate fingers. Or I guess not surprisingly, seeing as how nimble digits are required when poking around in somebody’s skull. And then there’s Mom, who’s all of five feet, with huge boobs and shiny hair and the Latin temper she passed on to me. They’re the cutest couple ever, and I adore my little family. Being an only child means I don’t have to share anything with a sibling, including my parents’ attention.
Dad joins me at the counter and digs into the leftovers. Mom, who has trouble staying still, eventually sits down too and nibbles on an olive while Dad tells us about his surgery. The patient was a construction worker whose skull nearly got crushed by a falling steel beam. He wasn’t wearing his hardhat, and now he might have permanent brain damage. It’s heartbreaking. Which is one of the reasons I’d never want to be a surgeon—that and I don’t have the hands for it. My fingers get trembly when I’m nervous, and I can’t imagine a more anxiety-inducing situation than sawing into a human being’s skull.