Page 31 of Reckless Woman
Ice breaking.
Her.
Breathe. Want. Mine.
Boom.
Chapter Ten
Anna
“You can’t marry a mantra,parcera,” Vi says, pushing the almond flour pancakes around the plate with a fork. “There are only so many times you can tell yourself it’s going to be okay, or that one day he’s going to magically open up and tell you his tragic life story.”
“I like mantras,” I say with a frown, watching the pomegranate seeds commit suicide from the top of her stack. “They keep me sane in a world full of hate and madness.”
She gives up on the pancakes and takes a sip of her soya milk and berry smoothie, making a face as she swallows it. She’s still wearing the same white Tee and black jeans she arrived in, but they never look out of style. She’s far too cool for creases.
“What happens when you forget the words?” she says slyly.
“I find the notepad that I wrote them down on.”
“Nope, you find yourself chained to a bad reality.” She’s full of self-confidence as she places the glass back down on the table. Presumption is just another good hair day to her, and it’s making the edges of my temper fray.
“Joseph isnevera bad reality to me, Vi.”
“Mm, if you say so.”
“Enough!” I drop my spoon into my untouched granola and lean back in my chair, my shoulders catching the sunshine trail from the skylights above.
I wish I hadn’t told her about that weird night on the island with Joseph, or about the ocean of distance that floods the spaces between us. She’s been dog-without-a-bone relentless about it ever since. Her anti-Joseph lectures are almost as bad as my anti-Dante ones, and it’s making me lose my appetite.
“You going to eat that?” She points to my overflowing bowl.
“All yours.” I wearily push it across the table at her.
“Thanks.”
It’s our second morning here already. Joseph is picking me up in a couple of hours, but I don’t feel calm or together in the slightest. Vi’s a livewire who never sleeps. Her constant questions are like interrogations and her views are doctrinaire at best.
In short, the whole residential has been a disaster.
“Pinche puto. Motherfucker,this is even worse than those pancakes,” she mutters, spooning up the granola with another of her sourpuss faces.
There’s a loud noise from the kitchens behind us.
“What was that?” Vi tenses, as if she’s expecting carnage to come spilling out of the door.
“It’s only a dropped pan.” I frown at her. All around us the rehab cafetiere is emptying. Fading voices, food debris, and crushed recyclables are the only evidence of a busy breakfast period. “Why so jumpy?”
“I don’t like loud noises.”
“Chose the wrong profession then, didn’t you?”
She rolls her eyes as I mimic the action of a firing gun. In the end, she fell so naturally into the Santiago cartel business, it was almost like a calling.
“Is he coming to set you free?” she says, resumingmybreakfast.
“Joseph? Yes. He’s picking me up at midday. Can wepleasestop talking about him now?”