“Likewise, Rosita.” He scans my body in appreciation, and I have to physically restrain myself from giving him a dirty look. If only I still had the solid wood salad server so I couldaccidentallysmack him over the head with it. No, I left that in the powder room cabinets.
I ignore the blatant harassment and move on to his wife. “Mrs. Castillo. Long time.” I smile politely and she gently shakes my hand before leaning in to kiss each of my cheeks. Resting her hands on my shoulders, she, too, appraises me with an appreciative look, just less creepily.
“Ah, Rosita. As beautiful as ever. The years have been kind to you,” she boasts.
The years? I’m twenty-eight, not fifty. I have to internally roll my eyes as we each take our seats. I usually take the head of the table at home, but of course, here, that is reserved for the men who rule the household. Both my father and Mr. Castillo take the respective seats at each end, their wives to their left, and Mickey and I are left to take the middle seats next to our mothers.
“Miguel, how are things with the latest casino?” Father asks Mickey as the wait staff fret around the table, filling up wine glasses and placing down the entrées.
“Well, the opening week has proven quite profitable and the hotel is booked solid for the next six months.” He smiles politely to my father.
“A wise investment. We have the new development going up in Vegas next year, have you thought any more about the proposal?”
“I have?—”
“There are other stipulations you need to fulfill first, Antonio,” Mickey’s father—also named Miguel, because they could not be any more pretentious—interrupts Mickey’s response and delivers my father a look across the table.
“What is he talking about?” I direct to my father, noting the way his jaw clenches.
“Nothing you need to worry about right now, Rosita,” Father says, not making eye contact, but I assess the two men at eachend of the table. They are pretty much in a stare-off. This time I don’t hide my eye roll.
The wait staff clears the table after we eat our entrée in silence, making room for the mains.
“Mrs. Castillo, how is the floristry going?” Mickey’s mother, while somehow married to a monster and spawned the devil himself, is usually quite polite. My go-to for the easy conversations.
“Well, thank you, dear. We did Andrea Santiago’s wedding last weekend, which was an amazing project.” The fashion influencer from Monaco who is like celebrity royalty over there.
“I saw that on Instagram, the flowers looked lovely.”
“Thank you, Rosita.” She smiles politely at me, and the rest of the table settles into a tense silence. We dive into our mains, and every now and then I clock the death stares both Papa Miguel and father deliver each other.
“Well, my work is going great, too, thanks for asking,” I say with a touch of attitude, bringing my glass of wine to my lips and drinking, like I had all the time in the world as I feel my mother’s body tense beside me. “I have this new manuscript from a friend that I think is going to be a best seller, and I get to be the editor! The team is a bit overrun, but when we get to it, it is going to be a?—”
“Rosita, enough,” My father scolds me, interrupting my story.
“Apologies. I had thought hearing a boring story about your daughter was better than barbequing your dinner guest with your glare. Of course”—I raise a palm to my chest—“I was wrong,again.I’m such a silly girl,” I say, with a bucket load of attitude. Ignoring my mother’s whisper-scolding, I meet my father’s glare with one of my own, hidden behind my polite façade as to not worry our guests about there being an insolent child.
“Still haven’t managed to get a hold on your wild daughter, I see, Antonio,” Mr. Castillo says through a smile, like the downfall of his friend brings him joy. The way my father clenches his jaw is a giveaway that he is pissed, and I make a mental note to leave immediately after dinner and avoid being alone with him in the foreseeable future. Mrs. Castillo pushes the food on her plate around with a fork and refuses to make eye contact with anyone. Mother, of course, is half drunk and downing her third glass of wine.
God, I need to get out of here.
The mainsanddessert finish without further conversation. I do my best to remind myself not to stick my foot further in shit and manage not to stir the pot. I like drama as much as anyone, but I know I’ll pay for it later and I’m smarter than that. I switched out wine for water because I didn’t want to risk stumbling home, I wanted a chance to go out and at least end the night on a high.
Eventually the table is wrapped up and we file into the living room where the men huddle and drink their whiskey, and the women are seen, not heard. The night gets later, and with our guests saying their goodbyes, I choose this moment to try to escape. Grabbing my purse and heading back into the living room.
“I will take my leave, thank you for the lovely meal.” I briefly wave at everyone and then spin on a heel to leave.
“Rosita. Can I see you in my office a moment,” My father calls, and I still on the spot, looking at him over my shoulder.
“It’s getting late,Padré.I need to get home.” I smile politely and take a few steps toward the door.
“That wasn’t a request.” He grumbles, and that built-in instinct to obey rears its ugly head. Swallowing to wet my suddenly dry throat, I glance at my mother and our guests, bidthem goodbye, and follow my father into his office with my chin raised.
He stalks toward his desk as I click the door closed.
“We need to discuss the arrangement,” he states as he moves things around his desk, I suspect looking for his favorite pen. I don’t tell him it was now sitting in the ice bucket of his favorite bar cart in the den. It’s the small pleasures in life.
“No.” My heart rate spikes despite the niggle of joy I almost had at watching him wonder if he was losing his mind or his memory, searching for the misplaced pen. I throw my purse to the chair in front of him as I storm in his direction. “You said I had more time.”
