“The hormones have been shown to help at the stage you’re in, yes, but there are no guarantees,” she says gently.
“If they don’t help? I don’t want to keep popping pain killers.” I hate how small my voice is, the fear and anxiety I’m feeling tightening my throat.
“Minimally invasive laparoscopic surgery to remove the tissue is also a good option if the hormones don’t provide enough relief,” she tells me with the air of someone who knows their idea is about to get shot down.
“I would get the surgery tomorrow if I had insurance and could afford it,” I say with a self deprecating laugh. “It probably won’t be feasible anytime soon unless I want to go into severe debt. Here’s hoping the hormones can do the job for now.”
“No sense in getting surgery until we see how the hormones do,” she agrees.
We finish up the appointment, and my eyes water with dread at the bill I’ll be receiving soon for simply getting diagnosed. The ultrasound alone might drain my savings, let alone the exam and pap smear. Healthcare in thiscountry is an absolute joke, especially for women. Dr. Naraya did mention that I could potentially work out a payment plan with her billing department, so that might ease the burden. She sent me home with the higher dose of hormones, which I’m hoping against hope will help.
I worked the morning and lunch shift before my appointment, and now the day is shifting into the tired haze of early evening, complete with the lovely horn honking and bustle of commuter traffic. Tania and Carlo are going out for a dinner date after work, and for some reason I don’t feel like going back to an empty apartment before I have my court ordered anger management class at eight tonight. It will be my first one after my sentence was reduced since it meets once a month, and on top of everything else today I’m nervous about how it will go.
I’m feeling completely raw, like an exposed nerve, between the doctor’s appointment and the upcoming class. As if on autopilot, I end up pulling into El Abrevadero. It’s been two weeks since I walked in to find Gage on his knees in front of me, and I feel a bolt of heat at the memory. Having him on his knees for me in another setting is something I’ll probably think about way too often when I need some self care inspiration. I’m having the pathetic revelation that it’s been over a year since I’ve had a man’s attention where I need it. More than anything though, seeing Gage always soothes me when I’m having a rough day.
When I park, I quickly pull out my ponytail to fluff up my hair, running my brush through it. Then I touch up my makeup a little with the mascara and lip gloss in my purse. Feeling a little better about my appearance, I get out and make my way to the front door of the bar. As soon as I walk in, my gaze meets Gage’s behind the bar, our eyes snapping together like attracting magnets. His face lights up with asmile as I walk toward him, and I answer it with my own. My nervous system instantly relaxes at seeing that handsome face.
I don’t know what it is about him that sets me at ease when I am normally incredibly skittish with men. He has this very specific mix of charm, earnestness, and calm whenever we talk. Maybe it’s that my intuition says he doesn’t seem to want or expect anything from me, in spite of our harmless flirting. He just listens and talks to me like I’m a normal human being instead of the angry, damaged woman a lot of people see. I can simply be myself and know that he won’t be offended or act out.
It’s a weeknight, so it’s not as crowded and loud as on a Friday or Saturday. There is still the completely wonderful assault on the senses as I wind my way through the tables. Upbeat cumbia music is playing through the speakers, I can smell the mouthwatering pork from the arepas, and the air is redolent with tequila and cologne. The lighting is low, sending a latticework of colorful beams across the floor. When I reach the bar and sit on a high back chair near the end, Gage comes right over.
“I was getting worried you forgot about this place,” he playfully pouts in greeting. I theatrically bring my right hand over my heart.
“I could never,” I say in mock offense. His already broad smile widens.
“What can I get you?”
“Just a glass of pinot grigio tonight, please.” He nods and quickly pours a glass for me before sliding it into my reach.
“Not a margarita night for you?” His head is tilted with curiosity.
“Nah, not in the mood for tequila.” A half truth. I’llnever admit that it’s mostly because the wine is so much cheaper, with the upcoming medical bills at the forefront of my mind. I could have not come and saved the money on the wine altogether, obviously, but this is sorely needed. The touch of soreness from my exam makes me wince as I shift in my seat.
In the hopes Gage didn’t see, I raise my glass in a salute to him and take a sip of the crisp wine. It’s not too dry, and the pear in it gives it just enough sweetness. I hum a little with pleasure as the flavors hit my tongue. Gage is watching my every move carefully, wanting a reaction to the wine, but there’s also a hint of concern in his face.
“Is everything ok, Celeste?” he asks gently. I wave him off.
“Totally fine, thanks. The wine is delicious.”
It doesn’t seem like he quite believes me about being fine, but he only slowly nods with a little smile.
“Ok, I’ll be back to check on you in a bit. Want me to put in any food for you?”
“Absolutely. I’m in dire need of arepas, please and thank you.”
“You got it,” he says with a rap of his knuckles on the bar as he goes to check on the other customers. Part of me wants to sigh at watching his ass as he walks away, he really does fill out his jeans so perfectly. It’s not long before he’s back with the arepas. He watches as I take a bite, and the flavors almost make me moan. I close my eyes and let the explosion of flavor roll through me. The soft corn cake, fall apart tender pork, queso fresco, and pickled jalapeño are complete perfection.
“Gage, these are seriously the most delicious things I have ever tasted. I’ll never get over it.”
He beams with pride.
“My abuela would pinch your cheeks and squeeze you she’d be so happy to hear that,” he says with a laugh.
“This is her recipe?” He nods with such a warm gleam in his eyes, the chocolate brown of them turning to a shiny mahogany.
“She worked on it for so long back in Colombia, and brought it here. It’s what helped make this place a success. The key was her getting the dough for the corn cake just right, and the seasoning mix for the pork. I could watch her make them forever while she told me stories. She started cooking here when my dad first opened this place, and then carefully trained the cook we still have now when she needed to retire. She passed a few years ago.” My chest tightens painfully at the grief in his voice.
“Sorry never seems to cut it, but I’m so sorry,” I say lamely. “So she really helped build this place?”