Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
32
DANIELA
Señor Vega was my most frequent visitor.
Eventually he became so enamored with me that he asked my father for my hand.
I honestly don’t know why. He got to have me any way he wanted anyway, and he knew I was tainted by other men regularly.
Maybe he wanted to be the only one tainting me. Men like him are territorial and don’t like to share their property.
Papa agreed, but part of the deal was that he would keep me until I was eighteen, and I could continue to entertain his friends and colleagues and guests in the meantime.
If Diego Vega cared, he never let on.
Then again, he wasn’t a normal person. Neither was my father.
They were criminals. Indecent men. The kind who smiled too easily and touched without asking. They operated in shadows, but always acted like they owned the room, like rules were for the people who didn’t have the stomach to break them.
My father welcomed all these men into our home. Seated them at our table. Poured their drinks with a steady hand while I sat there, small and silent, trying to make myself invisible. I used to wonder why he didn’t see it—how rotten they were. But I get it now.
He was one of them. Maybe the worst of them.
Because while they took what they wanted and left, he stayed. Pretended to be the protector, the provider. But he never shielded me. Not once. He opened the door and watched it happen.
Not only did he make decisions about who would enjoy my body, he also made decisions about how I could use it. Every time a baby tried to grow inside me, he’d have it removed without so much as a conversation with me.
And no matter how many years pass, no matter how far I run, I can still smell the smoke of his friends’ cigars. Still hear their laughter in my bones.
I hear the crying of my unborn children as well. I hope that, wherever they are, they have learned to forgive me.
I can still feel the way my body used to go quiet just to survive.
At least my father is dead now.
Señor Vega is dead.
Neither of them can ever hurt me again.
Chef Charleston is finishing up our last class of the day.
We’re actually putting together a salad.
It’s not exactly cooking. We’re tearing—always tear greens, never cut, he says—different varieties of lettuce into bite-size pieces and then adding our chopped vegetables.
“For vinaigrette,” he says, “less is more. Extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar from Modena, and just a touch of salt-and-pepper.”
“What about MSG?” Jordan asks.
Chef Charleston frowns. “That does add a good flavor, but most chefs are steering away from MSG these days.”
“Why?” another person asks.
He paces the classroom. “For a while, the FDA had questions about its safety, but more recent research has indicated that it is generally safe except for sensitivity in a small number of individuals. The better reason is that in this basic vinaigrette, it’s not necessary. In cooking, it’s better to get umami from natural ingredients like mushrooms, tomatoes, seaweed, fermented sauces, or slow-cooked broth. Why rely on additives?”
The explanation seems to satisfy the student. She nods.
“Now to toss the salad,” Chef says. “Tossing a salad isn’t stirring. You’re not folding cake batter. You’re lifting. Turning.”
I wouldn’t mind having Hawk toss my salad.
Whoa—where did that thought come from? I shake it from my head. The last thing I need is to be aroused in class. Especially with Jordan stealing glances at me whenever he thinks I’m not looking.
Chef slides his salad utensils under the greens and gently scoops upward, letting the leaves fall back into the bowl like they’re being caught midair.
“You want to coat everything without crushing it.” He grins. “It should feel like you’re waking it up, not wrestling it.” He drizzles the dressing last, slowly in a thin stream. “This part’s about restraint. You can always add more. You can’t take it back.”
He tosses again. “Make sure every leaf gets a kiss of vinaigrette, not a bath. See this shine?” He holds up a leaf between his fingers. “That’s what you want. Glossy, not soggy. Give it a try.”
“Ladies first,” Jordan says to me.
I nod and slide the utensils under the leaves as I saw Chef do.
“Nice,” Chef says, watching me. “That’s how you toss a salad. With respect. With care. Like it matters. Because it does.”
I hand the utensils to Jordan for his turn as Chef walks among the class, offering guidance. Once he’s visited each station, he returns to the front of the room.
“Now it’s time to taste our creation,” Chef says.
But I’m not hungry.
Too much going through my mind.
“You okay?” Jordan asks.
I swallow, take a deep breath. “I’m fine. I think I’m going to go home.”
Jordan raises an eyebrow. “You don’t want to stay and eat what we’ve made?”