“Deluxe…” Logan muttered. She pulled off her sunglasses and cleaned them with the hem of her shirt. The outside of the motel was painted white, clouded with brown rust stains. The parking lot was half gravel and half pavement, riddled with potholes and the butts of used cigarettes. This wasn’t the kind of place that people sought out, Logan guessed. It was more the kind of place where people crash-landed when they couldn’t make it any farther down the road. She’d stayed at hundreds of these places over the years. At a certain point, they all blurred into one.
“I get my own room, right?”
“I don’t know,” Brandon said. “I thought the three of us sharing a room sounded fun. Like a nonstop sleepover.”
Logan stared.
“He’s joking,” Alejo cut in. He joined their triangle and put an arm over Logan’s shoulders, laughing the strained laugh of a man who’d just prevented a bloodbath. “Take the girl out of the city and she suddenly forgets what jokes are.”
Logan offered a half-smile. She wished that Alejo didn’t always have to translate for them. Talking to Brandon was supposed to be easier than this. Before they sat her down for the you’re adopted talk, she’d just assumed Alejo was her birth father. They had the same dark hair, the same sharp sense of humor, the same coolheadedness. Alejo had always made sure that, no matter where they were, Logan felt wanted. Even if she was alone.
But everywhere they went—Flagstaff, Shreveport, Tulsa—she was an afterthought. To Brandon, she was sure she was another ghost lingering just out of sight.
An elderly woman emerged from the office building of the motel, leaning on a knotted wooden cane. When her eyes locked on Alejo’s, she melted. “Chacho, you better get over here.”
“？Ay, Viejita! Hermosa como siempre,” Alejo cried. He bounded across the parking lot and gave the woman a kiss on both cheeks.
“Mentiroso,” the woman said. “？Que pasó, Chacho?”
Logan smiled, but it was strained. Alejo fell into Spanish so easily, but it’d never come naturally to her. Alejo had tried to teach her growing up, but thanks to the show, he was hardly around long enough to practice with her. It was always stilted for her. She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, suddenly untethered from the conversation and from Alejo. Next to her, Brandon was entirely tuned out. His gaze was miles away.
“And this is Logan,” the woman said. It was a statement, not a question. She released Alejo and made her way to Logan, planting a firm kiss on her cheek. Her long ponytail was pepper-gray and streaked with silver. She wore a T-shirt that read THIS TOWN BITES BACK. “I’ve seen all the Facebook pictures, but she’s even prettier in person.”
Alejo smiled. “Logan, this is Gracia Carrillo. She’s mi tía.”
“Your daddy lived here when he was little,” Gracia said, motioning to Alejo. “We told him to come back and visit whenever. I didn’t think he’d wait until he was an old man.”
Alejo scoffed.
Logan put on her best pleasure-to-meet-you smile and returned Gracia’s hug. “Thanks so much for letting us stay here. It’s beautiful.”
“A liar, too.” Gracia laughed. “Come with me. I’ll show you your room.”
While Brandon and Alejo started unloading suitcases from the van, Gracia led Logan to room 7. The door caught on the frame, knocking chips of white paint to the pavement. Inside, it was a standard motel room—hideously patterned wallpaper, matching queen-size beds, a mini fridge, a TV mounted on the long wall. A door connected her room to Brandon and Alejo’s room. Not a feature she was particularly enthusiastic about, but the room was fine.
“Home sweet home,” Gracia said. She gave the breakfast table a hearty slap. “You don’t hate it too much, do you?”