“Yes, I know they’re already coming.”
Paola opened her laptop and worked peacefully while Diego discovered that leadership required groceries.
At 2:40 p.m., he returned from the supermarket with three rotisserie chickens, two bags of chips, a tub of store-bought potato salad, paper plates, and a frozen chocolate cake. He looked sweaty and offended.
“Happy hosting,” Paola said.
“This is embarrassing,” he snapped.
“No. This is independent.”
At 3:07 p.m., the doorbell rang.
Elvira entered first, wearing perfume strong enough to announce its own zip code. Raul and Martha followed with their three kids, all carrying empty containers. Elvira looked around the kitchen, expecting steam, spices, music, Paola moving between pots and pans like a private chef. Instead, she found Diego standing beside three grocery bags and one sad frozen cake still sweating on the counter.
“What is this?” Elvira asked.
“Lunch,” Diego muttered.
Raul looked at the rotisserie chickens. “Where are the ribs?”
Diego glared at him. “At the store.”
The kids ran toward the refrigerator. Paola, sitting at the dining table with her laptop and a glass of iced tea, said calmly, “Please don’t open the fridge. Diego’s food is on the counter.”
Elvira turned slowly. “Excuse me?”
Paola smiled. “Everything in the fridge is mine.”
Martha gave a nervous laugh. “What does that mean?”
“It means I bought it.”
Elvira opened the fridge anyway.
Pink labels stared back at her from every shelf.
PAOLA. PAOLA. PAOLA. PAOLA.
read more in next page
