Total pages in book: 191
Estimated words: 182070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
She was the only person at Maio House who knew about my “side business.” But as friendly as we’d been before—because she really was the only reason now why I hadn’t walked out of the gym like so many of our coworkers had—nothing had brought us together more over the last couple of months quite like our mutual hatred for the same person: Gunner.
“You get paid to work, not to stand around chatting,” our new boss complained. “If you need more things to do, let me know. And if you don’t want to work, then that’s fine with me too. The McDonald’s down the street is hiring. They posted a sign.”
I hated him.
And I wished I knew Morse code so I could tell Deepa that with my eyelids.
“Have I made myself clear?”
Had he made himself clear that we were paid to work the front desk—and in Deepa’s case the juice bar—and couldn’t exactly walk away from the counter to go do other things?
I didn’t trust myself, so I just nodded, and so did my friend.
“It’s business, ladies. Don’t take it personally. One day, if you’re lucky, maybe one of you will be a business owner and understand where I’m coming from,” the asshole went on.
If this dickwad only knew.
He could suck on his condescending advice.
I was my own business. And the only reason I was still around was because of the dumb decisions I’d made in the past—financial and personal.
A few days ago, after I’d gotten home from eating dinner with Zac and Boogie, I’d laid in bed and thought about my future more than I had in a while. I thought about what I wanted. Mostly though, I thought about what I dreamed of—after I’d beat myself up for being so cold to Zac and not answering his questions or asking my own.
For not telling him what I’d been doing with my life the last few years.
I hadn’t exactly started filming videos of myself cooking on purpose. It had just kind of… happened.
As far as I could remember, I had always loved making things in the kitchen. It was something I’d inherited from all the time I’d spent with Mamá Lupe. It had been our bonding time. Our happy time. Even our sad time. Some of my absolute favorite memories had been in her house, making empanadas and cakes and mole and guisado. She’d even bought an Irish cookbook so I could make some things that my dad’s family would have liked… if he’d still had any of them. And when we hadn’t been cooking, we loved watching talk shows with cooking segments. We’d binge Emeril. She had made it fun and TV show-like when we made things together, and it had sucked me in and turned into a place of comfort and love.
When there were a ton of other things in my life I couldn’t control, I had always been able to pick and choose what I made; that was something I didn’t have to rely on other people for.
And later on, being in the kitchen made me feel closer to the woman I had adored who I missed so much. She had left me with a legacy. With a way to still feel her.
So yeah, I loved making things I could eat. I always had. I loved eating.
One night, about seven years ago, after I’d had a bad day at the restaurant I’d been waitressing at and only had a couple things in the fridge to make for dinner and no money to go buy more groceries until payday, that’s when it happened. That was when that first seed of an idea had been planted in my head. Looking back on it, I’d only been brave enough because Connie and her family hadn’t been home to watch me. They had been on vacation visiting Richard’s family.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I’d done it. I’d uploaded a video to WatchTube just for the hell of it. For fun. Pepperoni pasta, I’d called it, because all I’d had was pasta, pepperoni slices, and leftover parmesan cheese in packets. It took a month to get five views. A month later, I uploaded another one on Mamá Lupe’s birthday, just for her. That time, it had been her favorite tres leches cake, a recipe I’d known off the top of my head for years. I got twenty views and twenty thumbs up from my family members after sending Connie and Boogie the link. My boyfriend at the time—that idiot—had suggested I keep doing them.
No one told me I sucked or that I was awkward or an inconvenience, so I kept going, because I got a thrill from seeing nice comments, even though they had been from relatives and my ex. They had made me feel good. The people pleaser in me liked making people happy and enjoyed making them laugh even more. I’d struggled with my self-esteem for so long that it was nice, for me, to feel… nice.