Author's Note:
Sorry if this one's rushed. My original vision really drifts like a sand. There's the hurry as if I'm losing the freshness of it. After writing Chapter 2, I'm starting to think if it's Romance, Drama and Comedy as its subgenre. Or dark humor (lol).
Side note: I find my grammar softwares gentrifying certain nuances. It also polishes too much of the grit in the narrative voice. I'm having doubts putting it there instead of immediately publishing it after writing. Maybe I'll try on the later chapters the more painful, inaccessible raw draft.
Content Warning:
Mention of hypothetical yet skewed and dark depiction of revenge fantasy, strong language and dark psychology, they are present throughout. Sensitive topics of toxicity, cheating and dysfunction persists.
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Chapter 3
The silence in the house the next morning felt heavier than usual, thick with the unspoken fallout from my fight with my mother. I'd expected her to be gone for weeks, nursing her wounded pride elsewhere.
Finding her tending to Dad, acting like nothing happened beyond demanding his schedule, threw me. We settled into a cold, robotic truce, the air charged but still. It's weird how the brain works after an explosion like that -- numb, almost detached, latching onto stupid details.
Like noticing, as I wrestled with a pair of jeans, that being five-foot-nothing in America is its own special kind of frustrating. You know what? To be in the same height as Sabrina Carpenter or Ariana Grande is an existential crisis. At least for me, it does. Everything's scaled for giants; sometimes I think my best bet is the kid's section.
It almost made watching a six-foot something Michael Sanditon on a ladder seem normal. He was here for his nursing shift with Dad, but I'd asked him to fix the flickering bulb. And yeah, my eyes still automatically cataloged the view. Ass: confirmed gym-toned. Attire: scrubs. Verdict: pass. Moving on.
"I'm sorry you have to perform another unpaid service, Michael," I couldn't help poking the man in scrubs. "Ricky's on vacation."
"Not a big deal, Kat," he grunted as he crouched to look for something.
Sometimes I just want to grab something sharp to pierce his nerves every time I hear him call me that. It grates on my ears.
"Where are they vacationing?" he added.
I crossed my arms and watched him boredly. "Why'd you ask? You plan to tag along?"
He paused and looked at me. "You're so nice sometimes, I really want to do something."
Fuck you.
"Bahamas," I told him.
"Hmm." He made a face. "Is it summer already?"
"Try asking Siri," I shoved him.
He was so pissed he weakly threw a plastic wrapper at me. I heard my mother, who was sipping coffee at the kitchen counter, butt in: "Be careful, Mr. Sanditon. She's been a tease since she was little. She says one thing and means another."
Attention-seeker.
I looked between her and Mike. He, however, was clueless. Let him have it.
I walked away from both of them but could still hear them chatting.
"By the way, have you taken a break yet, young man?" said the matron.
"No, ma'am," replied the gullible one.
"Would you like to try some ethnic food?"
"It would be a pleasure, Mrs. Nievez," I heard him chuckling as he climbed down the ladder.
When asked to carry my Dad, he treats it like a universal struggle, but when offered food, he's quick to arrive.
Mi-ka-el. I internally shook my head. Humans.
"It's a turon."
Cliché. Moving on. I searched through the living room for some Japanese drinks my parents brought from their Tokyo trip last year. I was craving matcha.
"Hmm... a turon," he tested the word. "How about these white ones?"
"Oh, that's maja blanca," my mother said.
I whipped my head around at those words. I stood up and took quick strides to confirm. There was indeed maja blanca. "Is it pure coconut?" I asked.
"It was made by your Lola," she answered.
When your grandparents do the cooking, you know they have the expertise. I scrambled to grab a small plate and spoon before taking a good slice from the container.
"H-Hey! Tsk-tsk! Katarina! Don't be rude. Offer some to your Dad's hardworking nurse," she scolded.
I looked up at the mentioned nurse, annoyed. "You will have what will be left for you," I said.
My mother slapped my wrist. "Katarina!"
"Would you like some, Mike?" Ugh. Do I have to mention him out of politeness?
This asshole was quick on the uptake. After thanking me, he dug in and stole my slices. Thief.
"So your name is Mike, I presume?" My mother turned to him as he chewed his stolen maja blanca.
He swallowed first. "It's Michael, ma'am. Mike for convenience."
My mother nodded approvingly. Feeling betrayed by Mike's usurpation of my slice, I begrudgingly took the edge pieces--meaning: less coconut essence because a thief snatched the best part--and sought revenge.
"They own that blue mansion in the East," I snitched to this ruthless woman who counts success by capitalism.
Exactly the reaction I wanted--she was surprised. "Really? You're an heir?"
I looked at him and saw his embarrassment. Serves you right. But I wasn't done. "He's Andrew Sanditon's son," I continued.
"You're Andrew's son?" my mom repeated. "Who is that young man who works as his protégé?"
"That's my younger brother, ma'am," he replied. "He loves what my father does."
"I see. I've met him at executive events." She turned to me. "Katarina, Andrew works as a CMO at that agricultural firm."
Don't care. Mike didn't live with big rats like me. Didn't I mention I hate privileged kids? I did. My mother is the only one obsessed with the Forbes list.
"Is there anything else they brought?" I asked, suddenly remembering other food presents. "How did you even get these?"
"Oh--Mike? May I call you Mike?" She addressed him, and he nodded. "Would you like to take your snacks to the living room? Katarina will bring you more familiar comfort food later," she requested.
Me? I'm giving him more maja blanca? What the hell? What's left for me?
Mike had no choice but to follow. When he took his plate and sat watching Shark Tank, my mother turned to me. "Your dad, grandparents, and I are going on a trip. Would you like to come?"
"No. It's full of seniors."
"Really, Katarina? Is that what you're supposed to say?" she challenged.
My forehead furrowed. "Where to?"
"Your father's childhood places," came her wistful voice.
I knew what she meant, but I still wasn't going. "It's summer. Last time, the temperature was a hundred degrees."
"That's just a lame excuse," she dismissed. "Now, bring these to your guest," she stood and handed me some grocery snacks. She then sliced ripe mangoes and put them on a plate. "And make him comfortable before he goes back on duty."
"Why?"
She gave me a sharp look. "No more of that. Be a good host, Katarina." She shooed me away.
When did that nurse become a guest?!
Against my deepest will, I grabbed the food and walked my ordeal. With careful movements, I put everything on the table and sat silently.
So silent I just stared at Mi-ka-el Sanditon to annoy him. He turned his head and blinked. "What?"
"You have a gunk in your left eye," I told him.
When his hand moved to check and found nothing, he looked at me and continued eating the mangoes. I kept staring like an idiot, and he was uncomfortable at first. Eventually, he just shrugged and adopted a don't-give-a-fuck approach.
"Since you're off-duty, can I ask you something?" I blurted out, still watching.
He made a sound since his mouth was full.
"When are you free this weekend?" I asked.
He didn't respond right away. Instead, he scooped more mango and kept eating. He'd already had three. Really? Nothing will be left for me.
"Why are you asking? Planning to tag along?" he shot back.
Try harder, boy. I've heard sharper wit.
"Exactly. But I'm not taking you to the Bahamas. What are your plans?"
He shrugged. "I wonder..."
That made me want to punch him. He continued eating until he got back to work. When he stood up, he turned to me, "I'm free this late afternoon. Why?"
I flipped my hand dismissively. "I've changed my mind. If you'd been quicker to respond, I might have forgotten you're still my father's nurse. Are you on a diet? You didn't touch those calorie-filled snacks."
His face said it all. Pissed, he turned away and didn't talk to me for the rest of the day.
I visited Mamita at the grocery store that afternoon to pick up supplies my mother ordered.
"Chica, this is an unusual time for you to come," Mamita remarked from behind the counter.
I dropped the items in front of her. "I have more time to kill these days. Mom's finally decided to come back."
"Really?" She seemed surprised as she scanned the items.
I nodded before exhaling a word, "When you said if you were my mother, mami, I could have agreed since you would only throw a sandal at me. My mom tried a drinking glass."
Mamita paused and stared. I just nodded. Finally, she spoke: "Oh my, come here." She gestured me closer and gave me a tight hug, her wild curly hair brushing against my cheek. She smelled like her kitchen. It reminded me of piñatas.
Mamita didn't ask questions or press for details. She just told me to breathe and hugged me again. After that, I felt a little giddy.
I waved my typical goodbye. "See you, mami. No more price increases this time," I grinned and teased her.
"Por favor," she sighed. "Chica, I really don't know what to do with you and your issues about money. I'll wait for the day you swipe a credit card without checking the bill."
"That'll never happen, mami. I like counting bills," I chuckled, blew her a kiss, and ran.
I got Mamita this time, which made me feel a bit victorious. I hate drama. And speaking of hate, I'm reminded of lesser drama. I paused my walk, set down my groceries, and dug out my phone.
After two rings and a pickup, a loud shout blasted through: "Katarina! I swear, you keep messing with me and I might lock you in a basement!"
It was so loud I had to pull the phone away and put it on speaker.
"Hey, Mike..." I greeted. "So, you're free this late afterno--"
"What. Do. You. Want?!"
