Page 63 of My Heart Still Beats
I have to admit it’s tempting.
The savory aroma alone makes my mouth water.
I consider that a good sign. My mouth hasn’t watered for food—or anything else—in quite some time, except for the other night when I wanted my mom’s enchiladas, but that may have just been for comfort.
We enjoy our dinner, and no one notices that I don’t talk much, because Skye, Betsy, Kathy, and Daniela chat animatedly the entire time. No one notices that I eat slowly, because they’re all talking so much that they eat slowly as well.
I take a bite of the chicken, and it’s moist, succulent…and spicy.
I adore spicy food. My mother’s Mexican cooking has made me immune to most heat, but this—scotch bonnet peppers, according to the printed menu sitting at each of our places—has me feeling like smoke is coming out of my ears.
I take a quick drink of my water.
“Can I get you another cocktail?” a server asks.
“No, thank you. But more water would be great.”
“Coming right up.”
I take another bite of the chicken and then a drink of water. The vegetables and pigeon peas are easier to get down. When I finally realize I can eat no more, half of my chicken is left on my plate.
But I did okay.
The server brings out our dessert—passionfruit gelato. It’s a beautiful orange color, and ice cream is one thing I have no trouble with.
I take a bite and let the creaminess flow over my tongue. The passionfruit gives it a mango-like sweetness plus a citrusy tang.
And it’s good. I find myself enjoying it.
I take another bite when something touches my shoulder.
I nearly jump out of my seat.
“Whoa,” Terry the bartender says. “I didn’t mean to startle you, sweetheart.”
I’m not your sweetheart.
The words are on the tip of my tongue, but he’s been calling all the ladies sweetheart. I breathe in and exhale slowly. “It’s okay. Did you need something?”
“I just wanted to check to see if you wanted me to pop the champagne. Everyone seems to be finished with dessert.”
Great. But I can’t put this off forever. “Yeah, sure. That would be great.”
Terry ceremoniously opens the champagne, and I stare at the cloud of condensation that drifts off the lip of the bottle. He pours Skye’s flute first and then moves on to Betsy, Kathy, and Daniela, saving mine for last. Then he bows quickly and leaves.
I pick up my spoon to tap on my flute but then realize they’re already all staring at me.
Okay, then.
Showtime.
I rise.
“I want to thank all of you guys for coming tonight,” I say.
“Are you kidding? An all-expense-paid trip to Jamaica to celebrate Skye?” Kathy laughs. “You didn’t have to exactly twist our arms, Tessa.”
Daniela and Betsy join in the laughter, and Skye’s cheeks blush.
