Chapter 4: Broken Tamales, Broken Heart

Over a year ago, Nathan and I started this long-distance thing—New York to Chicago, nine hundred miles. Everyone warned me it’d be hard. Nathan’s schedule was a mess, surgeries never waiting for anyone. So I flew to see him whenever I could, counting the trips on my Delta app: fourteen times in fifteen months. He’d come to New York three times, and once was only because he had a conference.

I’d never complained—always showing up with hope. But why couldn’t he offer a few words of comfort, a simple hug, when I’d nearly died flying to see him? Was that too much?

Pacing barefoot on the cold hardwood, I wandered to his kitchen. Nathan didn’t cook; the fridge was empty except for one lunch box, yellow with a little duck on the lid. I’d brought four tamales—my grandma’s recipe scribbled on a Post-it stuck to the lid. I’d spent all night making them, carried them across state lines, kept them warm.

It was lunchtime, so I took them to Northwestern Memorial. In the break room, I saw a new face—Sophia, the girl from last night’s call. She called Nathan’s name with a flirty lilt, way too familiar. My stomach twisted. I tried to smile, but my face wouldn’t cooperate.

Nathan introduced me, but the phone rang—a code blue or something—and he and Sophia ran off. Used to being second to medicine, I just left the tamales on his desk and went outside.

When I returned, my blood ran cold. My lunch box was on the floor, lid cracked open, all four tamales ruined, masa splattered everywhere. Sophia was scrambling for tissues, Nathan beside her saying, "It’s okay, it’s okay, they’re not worth much. The janitor will get it."

I stared at the ruined tamales, and for the first time, I wondered if I was the only one still fighting for us.