Page 110 of Riding the Pine

I can’t blame her. This place doesn’t only serve Dominican coffees and desserts, but it’s what she’ll pick every time because they’re as close to ‘home’ as she can get without going back to the DR.

Abuelita makes trés leches for them every now and then, because she makes the best in the land. And everyone knows it.

There are four plates on the tray, but no coffee. When I lift a questioning eyebrow to her, she shrugs. “They’ll bring the coffee.”

She’s selected arroz con dulce, a sweet rice pudding, a Dominican corn pudding called majarete, and a sweet pastry we call pastelitos she’s got two flavors, guava-filled and pineapple-filled.

As we remove the plates from the tray she looks me dead in the eye. “We need to tell your brothers about this place.”

I shake my head. “No, they’ll only share it with the whole team, and it won’t be this quiet and delightful to visit anymore.” I wrinkle my nose. “It’ll smell of hockey boy.”

She slides the tray onto a neighboring table, not standing on ceremony as she digs straight into the rice pudding.

“Mamá.” I rearrange the dishes to try to make space for the coffees. “Why are there four?”

She shrugs. “They’re small.”

They aren’t small. Portions in this place are anything but small. But I won’t argue.

Once the coffees are placed in front of us and the empty plate where the guava pastelitos used to live is removed, Mamá takes a deep inhale of the coffee. “Aaaahhh. Just like home.” She winks at me over the rim of the mug as she takes her first, sacred sip.

She reaches over the table, tucking loose hair behind my ear. “Don’t hide your beautiful face from the world, Athena.” She regards my features with an intense stare. It takes all my focus not to shift in my seat under her assessing gaze. There are still bruises on my face, they’re faint, but I see them every time I let myself look in the mirror.

“How are you feeling?” She pierces my eyes with her own. “How is therapy?”

“Exhausting.” I blow out a huff of air. “Who knew that trying to get better, that trying to be healthy would take so much energy?”

She smiles. “It’s a long road, but it’s worth it. I know you know this, but if you don’t click with your therapist, there are others.”

I nod. “I’m giving this guy a chance. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but I don’t hate him.”

She takes another sip from her dinky cup. “That’s high praise for a therapist. I hate mine. He’s awful and makes me want to strangle him. But he’s exceptional at his job.”

If I knew Mamá was in therapy, I’d forgotten, because this news surprises me in all the right ways.

“It’s healthy to have an outlet to talk to someone, Athena.” She shakes her head with a motherly smile on her face. “Kids think that because their parents are grown, we don’t need helpanymore.” She taps a manicured fingernail off the side of her cup. “And yet, we need it more than ever.”

I want to push her to talk about what she means but she’s already moved back to me. She squeezes my hand. “You’ll get through this. It’s hard, awful, and some days you’ll feel like you want to curl up and die. But you mustn’t let them win, Mija. Do you hear me?”

A lump appears in my throat, and I’m blinking back tears.

“You must dig into the reserve pool of strength so deep inside that you forgot it was even there. And lean on us, of course, your brothers, Scott…”

My face heats at the mention of my Scottie.

“We’re together, Mamá. I choose him.”

She nods like she’s been expecting it. “I had my suspicions. He has loved you for a long time, and he is a fine choice. Your brothers have told me how much he’s been there for you since your attack. I knew even before that he was good for you.”

I quirk a brow.

“He pokes at you in ways your brothers don’t, in ways you need him to poke at you.” Her warm, motherly smile takes on a tinge of smugness. “And he makes you laugh.” Her eyes turn sad. “Hold onto the laughter, Athena. No matter what comes your way, find time to laugh together.”

She clears her throat as though she was getting emotional too. “What did you want to talk to me about, Mija?” She places the small cup onto the saucer before scooping some corn pudding into her mouth.

I don’t want to say it out loud. I don’t want to give voice to the truth because I know she’s going to be hurt. I don’t want to ruin her favorite place to have coffee with the memory of her daughter breaking the awful news that her husband is a cheater.

Shaking my head, I pick up my own cup. “It’s nothing. We can enjoy our coffee and talk about it later.”

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