Page 37 of Broken Grump

“That means no side pieces,” I reminded him before we signed the bogus but significant, at least for our purposes, contract yesterday.

In response, that devastating yet cocky grin spread across his face as his green eyes dazzled in the reflection of the lights above our heads.

Who the hell looks that good under fluorescents?

“Same goes for you,” he said after lifting his pen from the paper.

I gave him a funny face. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“There are greater chances of pigs flying,” I reminded him.

“If you say so.”

Then, I was growing tired of the shenanigans, so I bent down and wrote my signature. He soon followed suit.

“Okay. You’re all set,” Steven announced after giving both of us copies.

Mine is still chilling face down on the passenger seat next to me. I snarl at it before finally getting out, swinging my knockoff Louis Vuitton bag over my shoulder, pushing my sunglasses into my hair, and heading inside.

But as soon as I pass the threshold of the doorway, the familiar smell of Chanel No. 5 wafts into my nose.

Oh, no.

“Adriana! My darling!” the monster herself screeches after appearing from out of nowhere.

“Mother,” I say through gritted teeth.

“How lovely to see you.” She takes me by the forearms and aggressively kisses both of my cheeks.

“Uh-huh.” I’d say likewise, but that would be a lie.

The longer I stay in there, the more I realize the small, yet, impactful changes she’s made in a short amount of time.

For one thing, the calming Nicaraguan folk music has been replaced by generic elevator tunes and the air reeks of burnt coffee and donuts.

“Mother,” I repeat. “What have you done?”

“What do you mean?” She plays dumb and waves her skinny, ringed fingers around as if nothing is different.

I have to laugh. “The music, the food—” Then, I see that she’s even covered up the flag with some generic ocean tapestry. “No! Absolutely not!” That’s the last straw, and I pull it off after stomping over there.

“Adriana! Stop that!”

“Oh? I’m just getting started!” I then rifle behind the desk until I find an AUX chord, attach my phone, and pull up my Spotify playlist titled, “AbueloSal.”

“Ah!” she screams and covers her ears.

My eyes practically roll back in my head, as the music, with its rhythmic guitar playing and soft singing, is objectively easy to listen to.

“Give me that!” She comes up from behind me and tries to disconnect everything.

“No!” I turn to face her and hold it behind my back.

“I’ll have you know this is stillmybusiness!”

“It is not!” My throat feels dry, and I feel tears creeping up in my eyes, but I choke them back.I’ll be damned if I ever let her see me cry.That’s a promise I made to myself when I was a little girl.

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