Page 17 of Marisol Acts the Part
How have I gone eighteen years without these?
“Knew you’d like it,” Jerome says with a grin. The foodgasm must be written all over my face.
I help myself to a second and a third tostone, along with a spoonful of yellow rice and beans and something wrapped in a green leaf after he assures me everything is vegetarian-friendly. While eating, I subtly take in the apartment. The room—a combined kitchen, living, and dining area—is definitely cramped, but they’ve made the most of the space. Family photos, signed Broadway posters, and costume props, like fans and decorative masks, adorn the walls. Two large flags from their respective cultures hang at the center of it all—Puerto Rico for my dad, Panama for Jerome.
The brown leather couch is clearly well-loved, but well-maintained too, with a multitude of plush throw blankets to cover up the scuffs and tears in the leather. There’s only room for one person to fit comfortably in the kitchen at a time, but they at least keep their lone counter free of clutter. Pots, pans, and woks hang from a rack above the stove, with various appliances, from air fryers to blenders, carefully sitting atop the fridge.
“Better, right?” Jerome asks, snapping me back to reality.
I nod as I swipe my last tostone through the sauce. Normally, I don’t allow myself this many carbs in a single meal, but screw it, I deserve it. There’s no way I’m depriving myself of all the food New York City has to offer.
“Much better,” I say around another blissful bite, and nod in agreement.
An exasperated groan pops our little foodie bubble. My dad collapses through the door completely drenched in sweat, crumpling into a heap on the floor surrounded by my hot pink suitcases.
“Jerome makes the best tostones in the city,” he wheezes. His face has gone as red as the fire trucks that zoomed past the block when we arrived. “Just don’t tell your abuela,” he adds in between heaves for breath.
Dad looking like he’s on the brink of a heart attack must be a regular occurrence since Jerome saunters right past him to admire the largest of my bags. “You came prepared,” he praises as he takes in my modest—seriously, I left at least half of my shoe collection at home—army of luggage.
“We’re gonna need a second apartment to store all this,” my dad says with a sigh as he picks himself up and wipes the dust off his hoodie.
Jerome rolls his eyes, brushes him off with a wave, and gestures for me to follow him, pulling two of my bags along for the ride. “Ignore the drama queen.”
If I thought the kitchen/living/dining area was cramped, it’s nothing compared to the hall off it. I can barely squeeze Bruiser’s carrier through without feeling claustrophobic.
Off to the left is a bathroom with a toilet, sink, and showerall crammed together. Beside the bathroom is a less horrifyingly small room that must be their bedroom. They’ve done a lot with the space—squeezing a king-sized bed and a vanity in without making the room feel too cramped—but it still pales in comparison to my place back in LA.
I’m so distracted by the size of the bedroom that I almost walk into Jerome. He opens a door at the end of the hall, revealing a closet with a couple of mounted shelves on one wall and a window overlooking the community garden across the street on the other.
“It’ll be a tight squeeze, but I think we can make it work.”
I perk up as I observe the closet from the hallway. I didn’t think I’d have the luxury of a walk-in closet in New York when the rooms are already the size of shoeboxes, but I’m pleasantly surprised. The additional shoe rack is a nice touch, but any moisture that comes in through that open window will be hell on my sensitive fabrics. This’ll do nicely for storage, though.
“I can definitely make this work,” I say before helping Jerome wheel in my remaining two suitcases. Having all three pieces of luggage in here takes up most of the closet, but if we can shove them underneath a bed or something, I should be fine.
“Now,that’sthe right attitude,” he says with a snap of his fingers and a pointed look at the kitchen/dining/living room, where my dad is still panting for dear life. When my dad ignores him, Jerome heads toward their room. “I’ll grab the air mattress.”
I freeze after setting Bruiser’s carrier on the ground. “Air mattress?”
“Ugh, I know, I’m sorry.” Jerome stops in the hall to whip around and give me a pout. “We tried to see if we could get aregular twin mattress to fit but couldn’t get it through the doorway. This isn’t one of those terrible air mattresses, though!” To prove his point, he pulls a box out from his bedroom,LIKE SLEEPING ON AIRwritten in bold along the side. “Only top of the line for our bebesita.”
My body is still too hungry and rattled from the plane ride to put these pieces together quickly. In slow motion, it clicks into place. I turn back to the room behind me, the one I can barely stand in without risking stepping on Bruiser’s carrier. No other doors off the hall. Nowhere else to go from the kitchen/dining/living room either.
This isn’t my closet. This is myroom.
“O-oh,” I stammer, unsure what to say without sounding like I’m on the brink of a meltdown.
Which, to be clear, I absolutely am.
I kneel beside Bruiser’s carrier and open the flap so she can stretch her legs. She walks in an aimless circle, as if to say, “Uh, is there anywhere else I can go?” No, babes, there isn’t.
With my bags shoved against the wall there’s barely enough space for me to shimmy into and out of the room. Bruiser gives up on trying to find a place to settle and heads out to explore the rest of the apartment. I try to hide my panic as I take in the room—myroom—properly this time. If I stretch my arms, I can touch both walls with my fingertips. There’s the smallest closet known to interior design in the corner that looks like it can barely hold two pairs of jeans, so unless I want to leave designer tops and dresses scattered on the floor, I’ll have to keep most of my stuff in my suitcases. There’d better be an iron around somewhere—I cannotbe seen out in public in wrinkled clothing. With a sigh, I sit down on my largestsuitcase because the brainpower it’s taking to figure out how I’ll unpack has zapped me dry. I have no idea where Bruiser’s dog bed’ll go, let alone where mine will.
Thankfully, I don’t have to figure that out yet, since Jerome lets out an ear-piercing screech.
“What is that?!” he shrieks, pointing at where Bruiser is attempting to nuzzle her head on the end of a Persian carpet runner.
I rush into the hallway, scooping Bruiser into my arms and nuzzling her until she finally stops trying to escape from my grip. Jerome must have thought her carrier was a regular purse—happens all the time, ever since I customized mine to a much more eye-catching hot pink fabric. If I ever decide to quit acting, I bet I could make a killing working in dog carrier design. There’s no reason dogs shouldn’t be able to travel in style too.
