“Can I ask you something?” said Fiona.
“Don’t say you thought that story was corny.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Rivera,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“That story wasn’t corny,” she said. “It’s romantic.”
“Colombianos, man.” He struck his chest with a fist, as if stabbing a knife into his heart.
The waitress came by, and they ordered. Fiona asked him if he was from New York, and Gabriel told her his parents still lived in the Bronx, same apartment where he grew up. “Same old sofa, too. Cushions smashed, but Mami would kill you if you try to take the plastic covers off.”
Fiona smiled, thinking of her own mother, how she used to shrink-wrap everything, too. The TV remote, the cream-colored lampshade that hung in the living room, the dining room chair cushions. Every time you sat down to eat you risked plastic burn. One time Mom had tried to wrap up the Nintendo controllers, but Conrad protested, and for once, she’d relented, let him mash away on the buttons with his greasy thumbs.
“You been out here long?” Gabriel asked.
She told him she was thinking of moving back to LA, even though it wasn’t true. Not really.
“For what?” he said. “Earthquakes to split your building in half. Sitting in traffic for hours?”
“Don’t you ever get tired of New York?” she said. “It’s so humid in the summer, and in the winter you’re walking around wearing a sleeping bag. For months, just miserable.”
“I like the seasons,” he said. “We need markers, you know? But worse, no Boricua out there.”
“What about—what’s his name?—on the Dodgers?”
“That don’t count. I’m talking regular folks,” Gabriel said. “Plus I heard people fake as hell in LA.”
“Oh, right. Like there’s no one fake in New York.”
Gabriel forked a slice of plantain from his plate into his mouth and chewed. “True, true,” he said after a moment. “But, girl, you can’t leave now. You just met me!”
Fiona shook her head.
“Why you laughing?” He feigned a hurt expression.
“My mom wants to go into business with me,” she said. “But it sounds like a total scam.”
“What is it?” he asked. “Nigerian prince with a frozen bank account hit her up?”
“Chinese people,” she said vehemently, “are way more shady than any Nigerians.”
“Word?” Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “You’re Chinese? Do I need to watch my wallet?”
“My ex,” she started to say, but her phone interrupted, bleating its robotic jingle. “Sorry,” she said, unzipping her clutch to reach inside. “Thought I had it on vibrate— Oh, actually—” Fiona pressed a button to silence the ringing. “I’m sorry, it’s my mom. I actually do need to talk to her, for just a minute.”
“Don’t apologize. I get it,” he said.
She stood and made her way toward the entrance, the phone pressed to her ear. Her mother’s voice on the line was asking Fiona for money—demanding it, then pleading. Another deadline, for the next level of investors: “Better deal, guaranteed to make our money back in three months, if we follow all the right steps . . .”
When she sat back down at the table across from Gabriel, Fiona was shaking.
“Is everything all right?” he asked tentatively.
“Want to get out of here?” she said. “I have this bottle of rum at my place I’ve been saving. My coworker gave it to me from her trip to Barbados.”
He gazed around the restaurant, searching for the waitress. When he got her attention, he motioned for the check.
Fiona straightened her back. She arranged her mouth into a smile. “You gonna come back later to buy this mirror off the wall?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I already asked them to wrap it up for me. With the flan.”
* * *
? ? ?
The rum was all gone. Fiona felt loose, giddy. Gabriel stood from the couch and moved toward the bed. He sat down on the foot of it, his knees spread open.
“Get over here,” he said.
Fiona crossed the room. She stood between his legs.
Gabriel’s hands rested on her hips. “Come here,” he said.
“I am.”
“Closer.”
Fiona wrapped her arms around his neck and sat down on his lap. He was still wearing his hat. They kissed a few times, then he pulled back. He looked at her. “You’re lovely,” he said. “You know that?”