The Burning Side(61)

Again, I look at him. Hardworking hands and Leo’s eyes.

“Sí.” He clears his throat. “Long time ago.”

The person in front of me might have caused pain, but he too has suffered. I’m humbled by his actual physical presence. Does he not deserve to know he’s an abuelo? Would he not want to know?

But it’s not my place. I found what I came to find.

Just like last time I was here, I touch his arm. “Thanks for the shears.”

He nods. “No problem.”

Then Javier takes care of me at the register as Rico greets another customer by name and asks how his shed is coming along, how his grandmother is doing.

With that, I leave Jed’s Hardware, the door tinkling behind me.



* * *



There is no traffic on the drive home, and the air-conditioning works better at cruising speed.

There’s still so much I don’t know. Where Ana is. Why they failed Leo so badly. If they’re in touch with Nacho. Whether it’s normal for a woman to be this invested in her almost-ex-husband’s estranged family. And—not least of all—whether Leo will want to know about this. I’m sure he won’t, but I should maybe tell him anyway.

I had flattened Ricardo Torres to his worst offenses, but he is flesh and bone and complexity like everyone else. I know what a semicolon tattoo can mean: Did he try to end his own life? My eyes prickle as though tears come from a shift in sight. Rico is more of a stranger to me now than before I met him, and now Leo is a stranger too. All his devotion to my family over the years, and what did I do? I pitied him for his. And pity is but a shadow of love.

I want to start over. Want to say, Tell me everything. And when he changes the subject, to say, No, really. Marriage begins in the middle of the plot, and I never truly learned Leo’s early scenes. The pain there scared me too much, and I really believed I could just give him a new family instead.

My phone lights up and I glance at the screen.

It’s Leo, still saved as Tooth Fairy.

I click the speaker. “Hey, everything okay?”

“The kids are good, but…did you see the email?”

My voice drops. “What email?”

He takes a breath. “They declared the house a total loss.”





Part Three Smoke





DEB


August 10, 2022

AN INCH OF MORNING LIGHT streams through the air where the bedroom curtains aren’t quite shut, and dust motes hover in the beam above my head. Billy is already out of bed.

I shuffle to the bathroom and open the cabinet where the pill bottle is tucked away like a loaded gun. It was only from our many years together that I was able to decipher which choice would grant Billy a moment of peace. Which isn’t to say that I’m not still furious. He kept calling it an “option.” I thought about my father. And in those seconds with my shaking hand clasped around that cocktail of pills, I knew that keeping them would give Billy some thin layer of comfort. A belief that he will not ruin my life.

Only, the last time he ruined my life, it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. And I hate having these pills in my house. I hate that he took it upon himself to get them, as though they wouldn’t destroy me just as much as the Alzheimer’s.

I shut the cabinet and splash water onto my face.

When I go downstairs, Billy is scowling at a book. Reading has become frustrating for him, but he keeps forgetting that. He glances up. “Morning.”

“Morning.” I shuffle past him. “It’s so quiet.”

“Yeah, everyone’s—” He frowns. “—somewhere.”

I smile in spite of myself. “That they are.” I can’t stay too mad at him for attempting to make sure my life won’t be ruined. The expanse of his sacrifice sends a shiver through me, and I walk over to refill his coffee. His morning-stubble profile, his focus on that book, his chaotic tufts of hair—it could all make me weep.

I take a breath and ask, “Do you remember what we’re doing today?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I checked the calendar. And I’ll have you know that I will be wearing my leopard-print shirt.”

I let out a snort of a laugh. That shirt was part of a costume years ago, and he always jokes about wearing it. But today is the right occasion because we’re going to see Josie in the matinee.

I notice the time. “Oh, Rachel’s bringing her dress soon.”

Sure enough, the doorbell rings within minutes, and Rachel and I take her wedding dress into my bedroom swiftly, though Cameron isn’t even home. I shove aside a laundry basket and all thoughts of those colorful pills. The wedding is in less than two weeks, and there is work to do.

Rachel tries on the dress. When I tell her she looks radiant, she blushes a little, the picture of promise. A wedding is a duet of hope.

“Thanks for your help with this strap,” she says. “My mom is useless with this kind of thing—she was infamously the only kid in her home economics class who didn’t get an A.”

I chuckle. “Happy to help.” It’s a simple adjustment, and we’ve already told Cameron he is not to go into my closet for any reason. Not that he would. I don’t think he’s been in my closet since he was an elementary-aged kid snooping for Christmas presents.