Flight Season: A Novel Read online

  I stumble along behind him until we get to the canned goods.

  “Here’s the thing about Costco,” he tells me, grabbing one of my cans of black beans. “The proportions are all off, cuz this place is so big.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “This,” he says, pointing at the can, “would last you and your mom about three weeks if you ate black beans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Are you planning on that?”

  I shake my head, feeling like a complete imbecile.

  “And once you open this huge-ass can, there’s no going back. You gotta eat them or they’ll go bad.”

  I nod.

  “So I’m putting them back.” He takes the second and puts them both on the shelf. “You can get a normal-sized can of these for eighty-nine cents at Winn-Dixie.”

  I nod again, feeling like a child, like TJ might be about to reach out and pat me on the head.

  He steps away from the cart and assesses the contents. “I’m thinking about two-eighty,” he says. “Do you have that much?”

  I’m staring at my phone and my eyes are going watery because I don’t and I’m embarrassed and I hate that TJ is treating me like an idiot, but I also have this weird urge to hug him, because I’m so incredibly lost in here. And TJ knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s so competent. Why does he have to be so infuriatingly sexy and so incredibly competent at the same time?

  I let out a tiny squeak, like an abandoned hatchling. I’m lost, adrift in Costco.

  “Hey,” he says quietly. “Hey.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, against my bare skin. “Look at me.”

  So I do. I look up at him. He’s staring directly into my damp eyes, so close that I can smell the salt on his skin.

  “It’s just money,” he whispers. “You’re okay. It’s just money.”

  I nod, feeling the tears gather in my eyes, not wanting to look away, though. Because he feels so solid and I feel like I’m fading away, and watching him watching me, feeling his hand warm against my shoulder, I’m here. I’m okay.

  It’s just money.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TJ

  IT’S JUST MONEY.

  To be precise, it’s the money I was saving to get my stupid broken-down Durango fixed. And, of course, Travis called yesterday to let me know that he found a part, but I don’t have the money for it, because I bought Vivi and her mom two cases of generic sparkling water, among other completely unnecessary items. So now we have to wait until another used part comes along, and who knows how long that will take?

  What is happening? Two days ago I bought a coworker three hundred dollars’ worth of groceries. And now I’m down in the restaurant at six A.M. on a Monday morning, making her a café com leite.

  I pour hot milk into two to-go mugs and add two shots of espresso to each. I add two large scoops of sugar to hers and stir. I know Vivi likes her coffee with tons of sugar, because I have to sit there every morning in the passenger seat as she drives through Starbucks and drops four bucks on a cup of coffee. And then I have to wait as she methodically tears open four packets of sugar in the raw, pours each in, and stirs.

  For, like, ten minutes.

  The girl is completely clueless. And she’s driving me nuts.

  I can’t figure her out. She’s obviously crazy smart, but she’s also utterly helpless, like a little kid, who’s never had to pay a bill before or buy goddamned groceries. How can she be flat broke and still drive through Starbucks for her coffee? In a Tesla, for chrissake.

  And the other thing? She’s so kind. She’s so nice to Ángel, and so patient. She’s nice to everyone, and I’ve been a total ass to her, all because I can’t get over how she acted that night at the restaurant. She was a complete train wreck, no doubt. But I mean, everybody has bad nights, right?

  Everybody makes mistakes.

  Uncle Jay had put the new stage and karaoke machine in the weekend before Thanksgiving. He advertised the hell out of it on all the tourist sites, so the entire Thanksgiving week, the restaurant was a madhouse.

  Tourists came to stuff themselves with food, and then they stuck around to get wasted and sing karaoke.

  By Saturday I was over it. I was over the spilled drinks, the lost phones I had to track down owners for, the sticky bathroom floors, the guys deciding to take a piss by the shrubs on the back patio.

  As soon as Vivi stumbled in with the blonde and the two frat boys, I knew it was gonna get ugly. Demetrio denied them drinks—told them they’d had enough. Plus, their IDs were for shit. But they kept sneaking into a dark corner behind the stage and sharing swigs from a flask. Thinking no one saw what they were doing.

  They were all over each other too. Groping and sloppy kissing in the middle of the dance floor.

  Uncle Jay should have kicked them out, but he didn’t. And that wasn’t my job. I had a ton of other things to do around there. I had no intention of volunteering to be a bouncer, too.

  That night, at the end of an incredibly long and exhausting holiday week, all I wanted was to go home and fall into bed. It was almost two A.M.—almost last call. The end was in sight. Trying to get a head start on closing, I went upstairs with a mop and bucket to clean the bathroom.

  Upstairs was the restaurant only, and it had been long shut down. When I threw open the bathroom door, mop and bucket in hand, Vivi startled me. She stood hunched over the sink, sobbing.

  “Hey!” I said. “Are you okay? Do you need some help?”

  She looked up into the mirror and she saw me standing right behind her. Her face was a mess—mascara running down her cheeks, eyes red, neck blotchy with patches of pink. We made eye contact for a brief moment, and then she swung around fast and pushed past me. She knocked against my bucket of soapy water, and half of it sloshed out onto the floor.

  It took everything I had not to call her a name, not to yell at her as she stumbled down the stairs.

  For chrissake, I was just trying to help.

  “Bom dia.” My dad interrupts the memory, which is fine with me. I’d rather not go back to that night.

  “Oi, Pai,” I say. “Need some help?” He has several boxes of sea salt stacked in his arms.

  “Sim,” he says, nodding once.

  I take two boxes from the top of the stack and follow him into the storage room.

  “O que é isso?” he asks, glancing at the two coffee mugs.

  “For the girl who drives me,” I say. “You know, to the hospital.”

  His lips curve into a smirk. “Bom,” he says. And then, thank God, he lets it go.

  Dad pushes aside two sets of glittery wings from the Saturday samba dancers to make room for the boxes we are carrying. I can’t help but notice that he sighs and shakes his head as he does it.

  “Pai,” I say, before I lose my nerve. “Can I ask you something?”

  He nods again. My dad is a man of few words. He sits down on a stack of boxes and rests his head in his hand. I hadn’t really noticed, but my dad is looking older these days. He’s got more gray in his hair than I remembered, and it’s like he’s shrinking or something.

  “Do you ever miss it? I mean, the old place?”

  “Sempre,” he says simply. “Every day.”

  “Why did you let him do it, Pai?”

  “Let him?” my dad asks.

  We still talk about the whole thing like it was a miracle.

  Dad and Uncle Jay had been running the little place on Hypolita Street since before I was born, barely getting by, but with a steady customer base that knew good food when they came across it. Most of them were locals, but—like everyone in Old City, St. Augustine—we relied on the tourists, too. When the lease ran out, the owner decided to sell the place to an ice cream chain (as if St. Augustine needs another ice cream shop). We thought it was all over. Real estate in Old City is impossibly expensive, and we’d never be able to afford our own place.

  But then, one Thursday afternoon, a regular named Paul Simpson took my uncle Jay by the arm, walked him out of our
little place, and pointed to the big house across the street. That place was nothing like our little hole-in-the wall. It was a two-story Spanish Colonial, dripping with charm, a balcony overlooking the cobbled street, and a big, beautiful rear courtyard. It was classic Old City, St. Augustine. And it had been on the market for more than two years.

  “It’s yours if you want it,” he said. “I bought it. We’ll be partners.”

  Paul’s retired, from I don’t know what, but whatever he did earned him a shit ton of money. Because Paul was willing to pay 1.2 million dollars to keep drinking his morning café com leite with pão de queijo da minha tia-avó, and to keep having his Thursday churrasco nights with three other rich retired guys who also live down on Crescent Beach.

  For real. This stuff happens. My great-aunt’s cheese bread is really good and all, but I don’t think it’s worth buying a crazy-expensive house for.

  I guess Paul would disagree.

  Uncle Jay said we were “living the American Dream.” “Work hard,” he told us, “and opportunity comes to you.”

  So we all worked our asses off through the down season, sanding the wood floors, building the place out with fancy lighting and old distressed wood tables. Mom and Mariana filled the rooms with artesanato from all around Brazil, and Uncle Jay ordered the best of the best churrasco grill from São Paulo.

  As it turns out, living the American Dream requires going into deep debt—and for our family, this was a first. We had never before carried debt. Not one cent.

  But now we are living like true Americans, and this restaurant is like a leech, sucking the life out of us. Things were slow at first, since our regulars (who remain loyal to this day) could only fill about a quarter of the huge space, but after Uncle Jay set up the bar and the karaoke machine, business picked up fast.

  Suddenly Sabor do Brasil wasn’t known for my dad’s tender picanha or my great-aunt’s savory cheese bread. Instead it was the place where all the tourists came for a fun party.

  And we have all been killing ourselves to feed the beast—filling the tables with birthdays and bachelorette parties, creating an ever-more-fun and “exotic” Brazilian experience for our guests.

  Yeah, we are slowly climbing our way out of debt, but none of it feels quite right. And now here I am, making coffee for the same disaster of a girl who danced topless on the stage and then launched herself into the pavement. The same girl who has no idea how to shop at Costco, who’s so clueless that she thinks she can make an ATM deposit and then go out and spend the money right away, who incessantly talks about random bird facts, speaks Spanish like a native, wraps that long wavy hair of hers into a messy pile on top of her head and still manages to look a kind of innocent-pretty in scrubs and no makeup …

  What the hell am I doing? This has to stop.

  I force myself to remember her face the first time I met her, reflected in the mirror of the restaurant’s upstairs bathroom.

  After I finished cleaning the bathroom, I headed downstairs, mop and bucket in hand.

  I don’t remember what song was playing. It doesn’t really matter. I do remember seeing Vivi unhook her bra, swing it over her head, and toss it across the room. Her shirt was already off, and Carlitos was launching himself across the bar, trying to get to the stage to stop her.

  He was too late. She took off into a sprint and threw herself into the small crowd gathered at the edge of the stage. I guess she expected them to catch her. I guess she expected to fly.

  She didn’t fly. She fell flat on her face, onto the brick pavers.

  Everyone on the small dance floor stepped away to give her room.

  And who rushed in to scoop her up off the pavement? I did. That’s who.

  Blood ran from her nose, and her left cheek was filled with tiny abrasions.

  “Move!” I called out.

  I carried her to the kitchen and held her head back. I compressed her nostrils with a clean dishrag. Sabrina grabbed a churrasqueiro uniform shirt from the rack in the break room and helped her put it on while I pressed the rag hard against her nostrils.

  I must have asked her again—if she was okay, if it hurt. I’m sure I tried to determine whether she had broken her nose. But she didn’t say a word. She leaned into my arms and cried silently while I stopped the bleeding and cleaned the abrasions with warm soapy water.

  Sabrina went out to find Vivi’s friends. They came stumbling into the kitchen, still laughing and singing.

  “Let’s get out of here!” one of the asshole frat boys said.

  Vivi struggled to sit up and wiped her eyes with her forearm.

  “She’s done for the night,” I said. “I’m calling a cab.”

  “Whatever, man,” the other asshole frat boy said. “Look at her. She’s all good!”

  “She needs to go home,” I growled. “She lost a lot of blood, and her blood-alcohol level is through the roof. She needs fluids—electrolytes—and she needs a bed.”

  “Who do you think you are, a doctor or something?” idiot frat boy said. “How about you stick to being a waiter and let us take care of this, buddy?”

  “Dude,” the other one said, gesturing toward my abandoned mop bucket, “I think he’s the janitor. Doctor Janitor, M.D.!” They both laughed, doubled over.

  I actually grabbed my right wrist with my left hand to physically prevent myself from punching both of those assholes in their faces.

  “Sabrina.” I clenched my jaw together tight. “Call her a cab.”

  As soon as Sabrina walked out of the room, Vivi’s friend—the blond girl—came in and pulled her to stand up. She locked arms with Vivi and dragged her out of the kitchen.

  “We’ll take care of her!” the girl half slurred. “Won’t we, Vivi?”

  All four of them stumbled out of the restaurant and into the night. I figured I’d never see that girl again.

  I hoped I’d never see any of them again.

  My dad stands up and pulls a box of sea salt from the top shelf.

  “Please answer me, Pai. I want to understand this. Why did you let him do it?” I know that, with Dad, I don’t even need to explain what I mean by it—the stage, the karaoke machine, and now the samba dancers. He knows better than anyone what it means, and how far it’s all taken us from where we want to be.

  “I didn’t let your uncle do anything, Tomás. We all thought it was the right thing to do.”

  Dad’s the only one who calls me Tomás. It’s not even my name, technically.

  “Do you still think that?” I ask him.

  “Bigger isn’t always better,” he says.

  I guess that’s his answer, because he starts to walk away. When he gets to the bar counter, he puts the box of salt down and grabs a leaflet from the top of a stack.

  “For the girl who drives you,” he says, handing it to me.

  I look down at the leaflet. It’s one of those inserts you find in the newspaper, with coupons from local restaurants. This one is for ours, a 50-percent-off July 3 special for local residents only. Uncle Jay decided to run the special as a way to fill the place on an off night. For once, he and Dad agreed on something—Dad just wanted a way to thank the locals for their loyalty (or, in other words, for putting up with all the wasted tourists).

  “She’s a vegetarian,” I say.

  He shrugs and smiles wide. “Salad bar—twenty-five items.”

  “Brazil’s best,” I say, and we both smile, because I say it a hundred times every night, and because: When, exactly, did macaroni salad become Brazil’s best?

  * * *

  “What’s up, my homeboy’?”

  Did Ángel just say what I thought he said?

  “Excuse me?” I ask, lifting the corner of his bedsheet.

  “Just keepin’ it real over here. So waaas uuuuuup?”

  I walk to the front of the bed, where Ángel is sitting upright, holding one hand by his face in a crooked peace sign or a gang sign or some shit like that.

  I mean, what the hell?

&
nbsp; “Let’s get this clear, Ángel: I am not your ‘homeboy.’ That’s not—I mean, just no.”

  “Yeah, all right, my vato. We cool.”

  “Turn on your side,” I say as I fold the sheet under his hip. He turns away from me.

  “Tell me ’bout your weekend, homie,” he says.

  “Other side,” I command.

  He turns toward me.

  “So, uh, Ángel, before I tell you about my weekend, maybe you should tell me where you learned English.”

  “Same place I learned el español, yo! Music, la música. Videos, mostly. Reggaeton, gangsta rap, but I like kickin’ it old-school, too, homes. I’m all up in that—Big Daddy Kane, Slick Rick…”

  I can’t help myself. I’m trying to pull the bedsheet out from under him, but I’m doubled over, laughing my ass off. “For real? Slick Rick?” I manage to cough out between laughs.

  “You got a problem with my boy Ricky?” he asks, whacking me on the shoulder.

  I shake my head. “You’re a piece of work, Ángel.”

  “Fo’ real, TJ, I’m dyin’ over here without my music. Can you help a man out?”

  “What? You want me to bring you, like, an old iPod?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Or somethin’!”

  “Do you promise never to call me your homeboy ever again?”

  “Yeah, okay, homie.”

  “Dude! I mean it, you can’t go around talking like that. It’s just—it’s weird.”

  Ángel’s face drops and he looks down at his legs hanging motionless from the end of the bed. “Go around? I’m not going anywhere, TJ,” he says, suddenly serious. “I can’t even stand up.”

  I nod and ease him back down onto the bed. “I’ll try to hook you up,” I say. “But none of that old-school rap bullshit. I think I’ve got, like, some Calle 13.”

  “I’m down,” he says. “You got ‘Uiyi Guaye’?”

  “Never heard of it,” I say.

  He shrugs. “‘La Vuelta al Mundo’? Cuz I’m gonna play that one for you and Vivi.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “‘Yo no creo en la iglesia, pero creo en tu mirada.’” He’s singing, sort of. At least, I think that’s what he’s doing.