And the roaring night envelops us in its clutches. Fernanda and me sandwiching Ethan on the dance floor, and when he gets tired, just me and her dancing together—him watching from his spot at our table.
I surprise myself, actually having careless fun for the first time since I’ve come home to Mexico.
34
LOLA
We’re never going dancing again, I vow in silent prayer to the hangover gods. I swear if this sickness lifts, I’ll never go dancing again.
Fernanda’s head is resting over the bar top, and she’s holding a bag of ice to her temple. “Why did we drink so much tequila,” she groans, “when we knew we had to work today?”
“Shhh,” I say. “Don’t yell.”
She groans again, but I think it’s meant to be a laugh.
We aren’t open yet, and Ricardo, our main chef, is in the kitchen prepping for tonight. I swear he’s banging pots louder than usual, making me wince.
Elena comes out to the lobby and finds us clinging to the bar. Her hands fly to her hips. “Will you look at this?” she asks in mock scorn. One eyebrow is raised, but I know she’s biting back her smile.
“Tía, please,” I beg. “We feel bad enough as it is.”
“Right,” she says and gets to work mixing some drinks. “I remember what it was like to be young.”
My stomach churns when she sets themicheladasin front of us. “You’re not serious.”
“Very much so. If you two are going to be functional by lunch, we need to get you out of this hangover—”
“And your solution is more beer—” Before I finish my question, Fernanda is chugging hermicheladauntil she’s drained the glass.
She sets the glass down with an exaggerated belch. “She’s right,” Fernanda says. “Only beer will get us out of this one. And drink lots of water too.”
I try not to look at the red liquid because I don’t want to vomit, but I use a straw to drain my own glass.
And surprisingly, it mostly works.
Ethan mentioned last night he would stop by later in the week before he flies back to California, but honestly, I’m not holding my breath. Not after he tried kissing me goodnight, and I turned to offer my cheek instead of my lips. I don’t think the night went quite how he had hoped, but probably better than he expected. We said our goodbyes last night, and it feels like we finally have closure.
As I watched him walk away from me, all the resentment in my heart lifted. I wish him nothing but the best, but I don’t need to see him again. I doubt he’ll come by again.
That chapter of my life is over. Finally.
Unlike this hangover.
* * *
The restof spring break week is utterly exhausting, and we constantly have a line around the block. I blame Mariela’s food. I swear she casts love spells in each dish.
We make a killing, but my feet are sore and blistered. I don’t remember being this exhausted, even when I used to clean houses for a living—something that now seems like a lifetime ago. So Elena and I make the executive decision to close the following Monday to give all of us a much-needed break.
I take the opportunity to go to the beach on a low-crowd day and catch some sun. Elena likes to joke that I came here looking like a ghost, and I tried explaining the Midwest winter, but it went in one ear and out the other.
I’m pretty ecstatic to get a little bit of a tan, to be honest.
As I sit on my towel, watching the waves reach the shore and retreat over and over, I let my mind wander. I hate that I think about him still, but I do. How are Karl and Pixel? Do they think of me like I do of them?
It shouldn’t matter, but I can’t shake the thoughts away.
And I finally understand what some people say about love and music. When you’re in love, or in my case, heartbroken, every song, every painting, every sculpture, every classic novel, every poem is about you in that vulnerable moment.