Page 11 of Sinful Little Lies

7

VERENA

Balancingthe bags of groceries in my arms, I push the key forward and unlock the apartment door. Walking inside, I kick it shut with my foot before heading toward the kitchen and setting down the grocery bags filled with ingredients.

I start unloading the refrigerated items into Leo’s fridge to keep cool until I need them. I move around the kitchen with ease, as I have a hundred times before. His apartment is off campus in a neighboring city, the large windows offering a welcoming view. Walking over to the windows, I stare out at the surrounding busy city. There's a mix of professionals and artists and I hope to make a name for myself among that crowd one day.

Leo says I should focus on a career that’d be more practical than art or writing. Easy to say when he comes from a line of established doctors and physicians. I come from two stuck up wanna-be’s who do everything in their power to blend in. Born and raised in Aguadilla, you’d think my parents would show more appreciation and acknowledgement towards our culture. But since they both landed corporate jobs, every ounce of our Puerto Rican heritage has slowly chipped away.

As much as I would love to work a boringly stable job it’s just not going to happen. That’s not me. It’s the same argument I’ve had with my parents for years. The most irritating thing about Leo, he’s like them in more ways than one. Sometimes it feels like he’s my third fucking parent.

I’ll be moving in here after I graduate. I hope I can find a job nearby, like Leo has mentioned. He’s twenty-five and even though I’m only twenty-two, he’s constantly reminding me that I should be looking for a job close to “home” since he’s made my choice for me.

The thought makes me feel uneasy, but I shove it down. I always thought my first place after college would be my own. We’ve been together for a while, but that didn’t mean we had to live together yet, right?

I mentioned the possibility of getting my own apartment for a while, and Leo immediately shut it down. He wouldn’t hear of it. He said there was no reason for me to not be under the same roof as him, yet live in the same town. The only reason heallowsit now is because I’m on campus, in a house full of girls.

Why wouldn’t he trust me to live on my own? The thought swirls in my mind and the reality of the situation is, I’ve questioned our relationship more times than I can remember. His loyalty has been faulty and I’ve lost count of the amount of times that pictures of naked women just happen to slip into his phone. But tonight, I don’t want to do that. Tonight, I want to relight the spark that was there when we first met.

Not wanting to let my intrusive thoughts ruin my good mood, I head back to the kitchen and start setting up everything I need to make arroz con pollo y tostones. I’ve been craving the dish for days and when Leo told me to come over tonight, I knew it’d be the perfect opportunity to make it.

The rice is simmering,and the chicken is baked to perfection. The tostones are cut and ready to be fried. I grab a frying pan and place it on the stove, then pour the oil into the middle. Once there's enough, I turn the dial on the stove to low. As I wait for the oil to heat, I grab the salt and an unopened bottle of wine.

The door slams and Leo walks in. I feel the energy in the room change from tranquil to cynical. Just by the way the door was slammed shut, I know I’ve wound up in the crossfire of a war I had no part in. He rounds the corner and my heart picks up speed, knowing that I’m in a delicate situation and this could go one of two ways.

Bad or very bad, depending on if I respond accordingly. Air gets stuck in my throat as he chucks his keys to the counter and tosses his bag down. He doesn’t say anything as he makes his way over to the island behind me.

I turn around and offer him a small smile, but when he sees it, his lip curls in disgust. “Are you not going to ask me what’s wrong? You’re just going to smile at me like I’m not visibly upset?” he spits and my heart stutters in rhythm.

“I-I’m sorry. Are you okay? What happened?” I stumble out my words while trying to keep the tostones from burning.

A scoff is my response as he shakes his head. “No, Verena. Clearly, I am not okay. I was fucking busy and the ER was overflowing. Ingrid screwed up the charts of three different patients. And-” His nose scrunches as he takes an audible inhaleof air, “-what the fuck are you cooking? It smells like absolute shit.”

“It’s tostones,” I say softly, not wanting to somehow piss him off more. “I have some arroz con pollo ready for us, too.”

His eyes look up from the food to meet my own. The anger and disdain in his eyes trigger the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. “You’re in America, Verena. Speak. Fucking. English,” he spits at me, his tone laced with venom.

I swear I feel a part of my heart crack and splinter with every word he says. Not only is he disrespecting my culture, a part of who I am, but he knows how his comments affect me. I’ve made this meal for him before too, and he liked it, might I add, but I can’t say that. I look down at the meal in front of me as I continue to prepare it.

“It’s tostones. What else does it look like?” I say back, my voice coming out harder than I intended. I freeze. My eyes snap up to meet him and the look has my lungs seizing. My brain begs me to get the hell out of this house before things get worse, but I can’t. My limbs are frozen in place as I stare back at him.

“What the fuck did you just say?” he sneers.

“I- I just meant that I’ve explained what it is before. I make this dish more than a few times a year for us and we’ve been together for three years. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” I reason with him. I don’t know when I became such a weak bitch, but I don’t want to be on the receiving end of his anger right now, or ever again, for that matter.

“Huh,” he responds. “Excuse me for not remembering how many times a year you make your shitty meals. Most of the time, I’m ordering us dinners from high-end restaurants, where the food smells as good as it tastes. I’m not eating that shit. Toss it.”

I scoff and turn to face the stove when his hand shoots out and locks around my wrist. The force of his grip has me clenching my teeth together to keep from crying out. “Let me go,Leo. You’re hurting me,” I beg, while trying to pull my arm back from him.

He yanks me roughly, and my hand slams into the hot pan filled with oil. The bottom of the pan and the popping oil touch my skin, making me scream out in pain while trying to yank my hand out.

“Fuck! Let go!” I shriek, tears spilling from my eyes at the burning pain covering my hand. He grips the back of my neck and shoves my face toward the hot pan. The heat licks at my skin and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to pull my face back.

“Yell at me again, Verena. I’ll shove your fucking face inside this pan the next time you decide to talk to me with that fucking smartass tone. Watch your goddamn mouth.” He shoves me closer to draw his words home and popping oil catches on my cheek, making me wince.

He releases me and steps back while I immediately fall to the kitchen floor, cradling my burned hand to my chest. I peer up at him as he stands above me and fear wraps around my heart. “Your cooking fucking sucks. You’re nothing more than a pretty face and a hot body. Don’t think you can get fucking smart with me, Verena.” He picks up the pan, still filled with oil and tostones, and tosses it across the kitchen.

I turn my head to keep it from splattering against my face. The pot clatters to the ground and I flinch at the loud noise of it. “Clean this nasty shit up,” he demands before leaving the room. I sit there for a few moments, trying to calm my erratic heart.

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