Julie doesn’t like cheesecake. She just doesn’t.
Carlos’ eyes had grown wide when she had first claimed it. Well, claim is a strong word. She had muttered it between mouthful of cold Chinese leftovers. Carlos’ gaze had moved to their father, the one who had lightly suggested stopping by bakery that Ro— they liked, when he'd come home for work. Thus prompting Julie's outrageous lie about her not liking cheesecake.
Their father hadn't commented on it, simply staring at Julie's hunched form, the latter -- too -- focused on her food. His mouth slightly opened in surprise. His brow furrowed. His eyes sad as he'd looked at her. She’d been sitting with her knees to her chest, using her chopsticks to stab her food.
Carlos can’t remember the last time he had seen somehow chew that sadly.
Dad had blinked, cleared his throat and forced a smile on his face before focusing on his food. Carlos had loudly slurped on his noodles — surprised when he hadn’t gotten reprimanded for it — and said the glazed donuts they’d usually get when coming back from baseball practice were much better. A smile had appeared on his face when Dad had snapped in his fingers and pointed a fork at him, humming in agreement.
His eyes a bit less sad. Julie’s shoulders a bit less hunched. Her chewing less sad.
They don’t say anything when Tia brings a familiar bakery box a few days later, cheerfully — blissfully ignorant — announcing that it’ll go well with the empanadillas she brought the day before. They thank her with empty smiles and trembling hugs.
The box finds its way in the back of the fridge. It stays a week before Dad accidentally throws it away while cleaning the fridge. It doesn’t matter anyway.
Julie doesn’t like cheesecake. At least, not anymore.