Page 8 of A Dish Best Served Hot

At least it was clear he knew that Saint had nothing to do with his cousin’s outburst.

“What? Aren’t you always saying that we’re one big family? Don’t you think they want to know this stuff too?” She motioned to the crew, who really was like one big nosy family.

Tío Luís rubbed the back of his neck. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he grumbled. “You just embarrassed me for no reason.”

Poor Tío Luís.

As the single father of a spirited daughter, Saint felt for him. He really did. He lived in fear of the day Rosie truly understood her power over him. He already knew he’d be wearing the same look Tío Luís did whenever he dealt with Alex, a sort of frustrated adoration.

Saint’s phone vibrated in his pocket, saving him from having to continue to take part in this unbelievably uncomfortable scene. Saint stepped away and pulled his phone out of his pocket. The wordsWorld’s Greatest Sisterflashed across his screen along with a picture of said sister making that weird pouty face girls made in selfies. He didn’t know how many times he’d changed her contact information to a normal name and picture, just for Kamilah to change it right back.

“Stop messing with my phone,” he told her upon answering.

“Stop having easily guessable passcodes,” she replied. “I don’t know why you keep changing it. It’s like you’re challenging me.”

God save him from these women. Weren’t little sisters supposed to get less obnoxious with age? “You’re too old to be this annoying.” He walked past the table saw and out the front door so he could hear.

“Well, that’s a fine way to talk to your favorite sister. I should tell Mami. She was just telling Madrina Marisela how great you are, her precious baby boy. If only she knew how rude you actually are.”

He loved his little sister and she was his favorite. Simply because she was his only sister. Although, lord knew Alex usually felt like another one. He knew better than to continue down this route though. “Mila, why are you calling me?”

“What?” She sounded distracted.

“Why are you calling me?”

“Oh right. I need you to go to the senior center. They called, but I can’t leave. The lunch rush is insane today.” The loud hum of many conversations happening in the background floated through the phone as if to underscore her claim.

His baby sister was now the sole owner of their family restaurant, El Coquí, and he was incredibly proud of everything she’d accomplished there in only a few short months. Where they had once had empty tables and the threat of closure, they now saw a packed house from open to close and big-name regulars like the mayor of Chicago.

“Is Abuelo okay?” Saint asked. His grandfather had heart issues, so his health was always at the forefront of their minds.

“He’s okay physically, but he’s in trouble.”

“Again?” Saint asked even though he knew the answer. Of course, his abuelo was in trouble again. He was like fucking Dennis the Menace, constantly coming up with pranks and schemes to entertain himself, and since Kamilah took over the restaurant, Saint had found himself dealing with the consequences of said pranks more and more often.

“I don’t know what he did this time, but it’s bad. When Maria called, she didn’t say we needed to talk. She said that I need to come get him. I think they are really going to kick him out this time, Saint.” His sister had always been high-strung, but this time the anxiety in her voice could easily be well-founded.

Just last month Saint had been forced to go plead for his grandfather, who was being threatened with expulsion from an art therapy class. Saint had sat there for forty-five minutes listening to the director yammer on and on about Abuelo’s painting being alarmingly disrespectful. Something about a sacrilegious depiction of the Last Supper featuring her and other staff members except, instead of Jesus and his disciples feasting on bread and wine, they were painted as Lucifer and his demons eating the food from the cafeteria. Eventually they’d settled on an apology to those depicted and temporary suspension, but Saint had known it was only a matter of time before his abuelo did something else.

A loud bang sounded over the phone and Kamilah cursed. “The new guy I hired just dropped a whole caldero of rice on the floor. I gotta go.”

“Yeah me too. I better hurry up.”

“I’m sorry. If I could get away—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay, te quiero mucho. Cuídate.” She always ended their conversations the same way. She ended just about every conversation she had with “I love you,” but he was the only one she told to take care of himself. It had started when he was serving and still continued even though he’d been discharged. He sometimes wondered if it was simply habit or if his sister was more observant than he gave her credit for.

After he hung up, he rushed back inside to tell his uncle that he had to go, but he’d be back as soon as possible. Then he hopped in his truck and raced to the center. He’d just got stuck at a red light when his phone whistled signifying an incoming text. It was from Abuelo.

Avanza. Me quieren hacer esto:Below that was a GIF of an older Latina taking off her leather sandal and throwing it at her kid. The wordChancletazopopped up like the old school comic book “Boom, Pow, Bam.”

Who the hell had not only taught his eighty-year-old abuelo how to text, but to send GIFs? Saint sighed and rushed to the center. The minute he walked in, he knew that Kamilah had been right. Abuelo was in some serious trouble.

Maria Lopez-Hermann, the director of Casa del Sol Senior Living, stood at the door to her office. Usually Saint sensed a sort of fond exasperation from her, like the parent of a particularly naughty kid. That was gone. She was more stern-faced than he’d ever seen her and the muscle ticking at the side of her jaw showed how upset she was about whatever had happened. But that wasn’t what set all of Saint’s warning instincts flaring. It was that behind her he could see Abuelo Papo sitting in the chair in front of Maria’s desk, head tilted down while he stared at the interlocked fingers of his hands. It was the posture of someone who knew they’d fucked up, that they were in deep shit, and they deserved every bit of it.

“What happened?” Saint asked.

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