“It...would be a hard pill to swallow,” I admit, but I add in quickly, “You have every right to be mad at my family. But all I know is that I don’t want to lose my home. And I don’t care if I’m humiliating myself now. I had to do something.”

“I’m not trying to humiliate you.” He scratches his head anxiously, leaving his bangs a cloud of messy curls atop his forehead. “I also didn’t...you know...agree with my mom’s decision to bake empadinhas for the other gig. I wasn’t home when it happened. But I also don’t blame her for having done that. There aren’t a lot of catering opportunities lately, and they pay well, so...”

Never in one million years I thought he’d say this.

“I guess we’ve been butting heads over our mother’s decisions, even though we don’t agree with them,” I say. “Isn’t it time to stop arguing with each other over things we didn’t do?”

Pedro nods, averting his eyes. “Okay, if I agree that we should work together, what are you even suggesting exactly?”

My heart swells with hope. “We could work as a bridge between the bakeries. Help our mothers see reason when things get complicated. They wouldn’t, you know, know that we’re doing that. But behind the scenes there’s a lot we could do to mediate.”

Pedro is silent for a second, deep in thought. But then he smirks. “Wasn’t it you who said the other day that you’d die before asking for my help?”

I laugh humorlessly. “Yes, you’re speaking to the ghost of Larissa Ramires.”

He looks like he’s about to laugh, but then he catches himself. “Can you promise me one thing?” he says.

“What?”

“Just please tell me if you think your mother is about to cave to Deals Deals.” I must look confused, because then he says, “And I’ll promise you the same. Diplomatic reciprocity, right? I need to know things in advance. I need time to think up plans B, C, D in case everything starts to implode.”

I think of the lawyer’s business card that Mom kept. Is she holding on to it because she’s considering it as an option? I don’t think that’s the case, but if I tell Pedro about it, what if he tells his mother and grandfather? Knowing the Molinas, they could see it as proof that Mom is considering selling Salt. In a panic, they could try selling Sugar first. Now that would be the final nail in Salt’s coffin.

Trust neither thin-bottomed frying pans nor Molinas.

No. I can’t tell him about the card. I’m not betraying Mom.

“I promise,” I say, and despite all my reasoning, the lie leaves a bitter aftertaste in my mouth.