Page 90 of A Dish Best Served Hot

Saint felt bad for Lola, but he couldn’t deny that a part of him was glad. “What did you argue about?”

“What else, my dad.”

Rafael León was a looming presence in every relationship Lola had, familial or otherwise. “When your brother calms down, he’ll change his mind and add you back on.”

She shoved the water bottle in the side pouch of her backpack. “I doubt it, but hopefully he’ll at least add Benny back on.”

Saint raised his eyebrows. If Iván had removed Benny too, then things must’ve gotten pretty bad. He wanted to ask more questions, but Lola’s short answers made it clear that she wasn’t interested in talking about it. At least not with him.

Instead, he gestured to her backpack and the mound of supplies on her tiny kitchen island. “What can I do to help?” Since his fuckup he’d been doing his best to show his support even though the whole thing still had him on edge.

Saint hadn’t slept deeply since the night of Kamilah’s engagement party. He felt like he was in the middle of an old rickety rope bridge and the ropes were all beginning to unravel. He was just a few frayed threads away from a fatal plummet. Despite that, he was determined to show Lola that he could and would be there to support her.

To that end, Saint had dropped Rosie off to his parents at his brother Eddie’s house in the suburbs. His brother had converted a large shed in the yard into a guesthouse for their parents so they no longer had to live in the apartment above El Coquí. He wanted Rosie far away from Humboldt Park while he and several of his family members attended the protest with Lola.

“I think I’m almost done,” Lola replied to his previous question. She stood by her tiny kitchen counter triple-checking the supplies. It reminded Saint of how he and his fellow soldiers would recheck their supplies before heading out on a mission. “I just want to grab a few more first aid things.” She turned and headed to her bathroom.

Saint stayed staring at the backpack. It had never occurred to him how much like a soldier Lola was until she’d brought it up, but she was. Except her battles were fought at home and the goal wasn’t to create change through violence—it was to create change through the type of awareness that cannot be ignored. He admired her. He truly did, but he also knew firsthand what it was like to be a soldier.

He’d seen what happened when overly zealous soldiers went out on missions. Their passion could cloud their judgment and people got hurt or killed as a result—themselves, fellow soldiers, civilians and innocent bystanders. And Saint hadn’t been able to control any of it, just like he couldn’t control the outcome now.

In recent years, Saint had watched news coverage of protests gone awry all over the globe. People were waking up, taking note, speaking out, and making moves, which was a good thing. However, heightened emotions led a lot of people to react before they really thought of consequences. According to the information his uncle dug up, Lola was definitely one of those people. What he knew about her personally easily convinced him of the validity of the claims. Lola had always been an act first, think later type of person and, as a natural leader, she was really good at getting others to do the same. He’d witnessed himself how much the other staff and volunteers of El Hogar looked to her and valued her ideas.

It was all too easy for Saint to imagine an incident getting incited at the protest. He could picture it clearly. Some naysayer getting mouthy and offensive and Lola coming back swinging with her usual zeal and fire. Things would escalate and suddenly the scene would descend into chaos. Shouts, bangs, pops, cries...fire, violence, fear.

Suddenly, Saint felt the need to sit. He plopped down onto Lola’s couch. His legs began to bounce up and down along with his stomach. His heart sped up and his breathing accelerated as he struggled to take in enough air. It was both unbearably hot and freezing at the same time, causing him to shiver and sweat in equal measure. His eyes were wet while his mouth was dry. The room around him seemed to blur and twirl. He closed his eyes but it didn’t help with the feeling of swaying. He felt like he was on the deck of a ship getting tossed in a storm. His mouth suddenly flooded with saliva like it usually did before he threw up. He swallowed thickly and tried to rest his head between his knees, but that made the tightness in his chest squeeze and pinch. He didn’t understand what was happening, he couldn’t process anything, all he knew was that something was terribly wrong with him.

His entire body was rebelling at the same time.

He was dying.

He struggled and fought with his own body. His sole focus was on survival. Nothing else. He heard sounds, felt touches, saw shapes and colors, but nothing truly registered. Not until something was shoved in his hands and then lifted up to his face, covering his mouth and nose.

“Breathe,” a voice commanded.

Saint tried.

He wasn’t sure if he succeeded until the voice said, “That’s it. Keep breathing.”

That sounded like a good idea, so he did it some more. His breaths slowed—became more productive.

“Good. Now lower the bag.”

When he did, Saint found that it was easier to breathe than before. He took more breaths, each one deeper than the last. His heart slowed from a rocket breaking free of gravity while shooting into space to a cheetah sprinting through the grass while on the hunt—still too fast but better than before.

He looked around into a sea of concerned faces. Lola sat next to him holding his hand while Avery and Teo looked on in mild panic. Avery had tears in her eyes. He recognized Lola’s blue-haired friend, Mariana, from that hellhole bar that served those devil wings. Next to Mariana, a woman sat on the coffee table directly in front of him. She must’ve been the one coaching him.

His suspicions were confirmed when she put a hand on his knee and said, “Keep taking nice deep breaths. Try to slow them down even more. In and then out.”

“Fuck,” Saint rasped, slumping into the couch cushions and leaning his head back. He still felt jittery as if his bones were pebbles on the ground during a stampede.

“You had a panic attack, but you’re okay,” Lola said from his side. “Just keep breathing.”

Saint closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, but he still heard the conversation happening around him.

“You think it’s about the protest?” Teo asked.

“He did look freaked out when we protested outside the old El Hogar building,” Mariana said.

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