by Marie James
“Ignacio,” the pretty nurse whispers, and her tone says it all.
Even if the doctor hadn’t explained to me the dire situation, I’d know from her response that there is no waking up for Mateo Costa. The stroke, according to the last doctor that I spoke with, ranked a thirty-nine on the scale they use to determine severity, and with forty-two being the highest the scale goes, the doctor wasn’t hopeful at all that my grandfather would survive, much less recover. As the days dragged on, that sliver of hope has faded into just waiting for the inevitable.
I look back up at her, emotionless but trying not to look annoyed or bitter for the imposition he’s once again forced me into.
“And if he dies while I’m gone?”
“Then it’s his time.” Her lips form a straight line, and I’m grateful she doesn’t try to smile to lessen the blow.
There is no blow. There is no conversation I wish I’d had with him or last words of apology. There are no regrets or things that have been weighing me down where he’s concerned. And as much as it may make other people feel uncomfortable, there’s also no pain or heartache at seeing him lying there helpless and dying. I’m not numb to the thought of losing my only blood-related family because that would mean I’m hiding some emotion I don’t feel like I can deal with.
I just don’t care.
My family, my brothers, are back in St. Louis. The men at Blackbridge Security are all I’ll ever need. They’re the family I choose rather than the people I was saddled with at birth, and if there was a choice between the two, the decision would be the easiest one I’d ever have to make.
“You’ll call me?” I ask.
“We will,” she assures me, standing her ground beside the bed until I gather my things and walk out of the room.
***
I left my grandfather’s room yesterday with the intent to get a couple of hours of sleep, a shower, and something to eat before returning, but the fresh air on my face devoid of the antiseptic smell of the hospital made it impossible to return.
As I climb into my truck after a horrible night’s sleep in the dilapidated house I grew up in, I realize I may never return. It’s not like Mateo Costa knew I was there in the first place, and if he did, he’d probably spit some built-up venom my way and demand I leave. The way I see it, I’m giving him exactly what he’d want, and that thought alone makes me reevaluate my desire to never go back. Although sticking it to the man on his deathbed is what he deserves, my own mental health will more than likely keep me away.
According to the doctor, it’s merely a waiting game for his body to fully succumb to the injuries of his stroke. I’ll have a laundry list of things to do before putting this damn town behind me for good, so going back home, only to be forced to turn around again to take care of things, is pointless.
The drive across town is spent looking at familiar places, all worse for wear in the decade plus since I left all of this behind me. The faces of the homeless men and women on the corners and outside the tiny run-down stores have changed, but that’s about it. Hurricanes, poverty, and hopelessness have increased the numbers of those forced out to beg for help, and although it makes me lucky to have escaped, I can’t help the twinge of guilt I feel for not returning and helping those in the community I left behind so easily. I’m not a millionaire. It’s not like I could’ve made that much of a difference, but guilt still swims in my gut as I drive by my old stomping grounds — the gas station I used to sell drugs at, the check cashing place I had a gun pointed at my head when I tried to rob it.
There are places in town I refuse to go. I’ll drive hours out of the way in an effort not to see the park or the house I dropped Tinley off that night.
Fuck. Just being back makes memories I’ve stuffed down threaten to reappear. Thirteen years is a long time to hold on to things from the past, but I’ve managed this long. Once things are settled here, I’ll never have to revisit that pain and regret ever again.
I sigh as I pull into the parking lot at the middle school, angling my head to read the unintelligible graffiti on the side of the building. Gangs were bad when I called this town home, but they had never been brazen enough to tag the side of the school. It only proves that escaping was the best thing I could’ve ever done. Staying here was a death sentence. There’s one man from my past that made my life miserable, and it’s the very man struggling for breath in a hospital bed across town.
Years ago, Mr. Branford was the only person who looked at me and saw potential. School employees, from the teachers down to the janitorial staff, would shake their heads when I walked into a room. They knew it was only a matter of time before I ended up in prison or dead. Hell, there were many nights I felt exactly the same way.
My high school science teacher was the only one who took a chance and tried to convince me that my life didn’t have to mirror my parents’, but for the longest time, I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to consider there was a way out, no matter how many times I spoke of escaping this town. It would only give me false hope, and I proved there was no hope the night I let Tinley walk away.
I clear my throat and shake my head as I climb out of my truck, refusing to let those thoughts infiltrate. I can’t change the past and wanting things to be different now is selfish.
As I enter the school, the hallways are bustling with rowdy kids laughing and shoving each other as they make their way to class. Muscle memory from the many times I was in trouble guides me to the front office.
“I’m here to see Michael Branford,” I tell the scowling woman behind the desk when she lowers the phone back to its cradle.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Do I need one?” I ask in a sweet voice, but this woman has seen it all. Day in and day out, she deals with kids with chips the size of Texas on their shoulders. Charming my way in isn’t going to work with her. I’m sure she’s able to spot manipulation a mile away, and her experience has made her skeptical of everyone in this town.
“He’s a very busy man.”
“I can wait,” I tell her, hitching my hand over my shoulder to indicate the three chairs against the wall, two of which are occupied by a couple of surly looking preteens.
She narrows her eyes, as her hand picks up the phone she just got off of. “Your name?”
“Ignacio Torres,” I tell her, mildly thankful she doesn’t recognize the name. I was a hellraiser in this school and the high school next door, but thirteen years is a long time.
She relays the information into the phone before replacing it. Moments later, a pissed-off kid storms out of the principal’s office, the little shit having the balls to shoulder check me on the way out of the office. My eyes follow him out, not pulling away until the front office door slams behind him.
When I look back, the principal is grinning at me.
“Mr. Branford,” I say, walking closer with my hand outstretched.
“You’re grown now. Mike is fine,” he says as he clasps my hand. A wider smile spans his face as he claps me on the shoulder. “Let’s have a chat.”
“For real?” one of the boys in the chair snaps. “Can I just come back after lunch?”
“You may have your lunch in room 103B,” Branford tells the kid.
“Detention?” he snaps before yanking up his backpack from the floor and storming out.
With a sweep of his hand, Branford urges me into his office, and I’m thankful he closes the door behind him.
“Was I that bad?” I ask as he settles in behind his messy desk.
“Worse,” he assures me.
“And the one that shoulder-checked me?”
“That one is a chip off the old block, honestly. His mother does her best, but some boys are just stubborn—like you were.”
“Stubborn?” I scoff, knowing there is a lexicon of words better for him to use, many of them much more derogatory and negative than simply stubborn. “You’re being generous.”
“You were one of the lucky ones, Ignacio. And I�
�m beginning to think that young man may be as well.”
“So junior high, huh? I figured you’d be retired by now,” I say, needing to change the subject.
I wasn’t Mike Branford’s only pet project, and although I took his advice and got out, many others weren’t so lucky. His hope for that kid gives him a fighting chance, but the cards are stacked against him.
“I’ve been here for six years. I figure getting to the stubborn ones a little earlier in life would be beneficial to everyone. I know it’s not just me, but the high school dropout rate has dropped seven percent in the last couple of years. I like to think I have a part in that.”
“I bet you do,” I say with sincerity.
“Enough about my life. Tell me what’s going on with you.”
And I do. I tell him about my years in the Army—the direction he pushed me in high school—something I never even considered until after missing my high school graduation. We speak about my life in St. Louis and the men I work with. He tells me about losing his wife and how he’s a grandfather three times over now.
Before we can dig too deep, a bell rings and it’s time for him to hit the halls and change lives. I assure him I’ll be back to visit again before leaving town, but as I walk out of the room, I feel like my duty has been done. I thank him, shake his hand and give him credit for the changes he made in my life, and that was the sole reason for my visit.
I commend the man for sticking around and wanting to make a difference in so many kids’ lives. He’s one of the few that has never given up hope, and that honestly makes him a better man than me.
Lunch is fast food eaten in the parking lot of a strip-center filled with a check cashing place, a nail salon, and a discount store. Thinking of going back to the hospital makes my stomach turn, and I’d do anything to avoid going back to my grandfather’s house, even though getting a jumpstart on cleaning it out would probably be the best course of action.
So, I sit and people watch, keeping an eye out for any person who thinks it would be a good idea to try and jack my truck. My vehicle isn’t the only one parked in the lot, but from the looks of the two guys that got out of the BMW earlier, I don’t imagine they acquired the luxury car through honest means. That thought makes me feel like shit because I’m judging them without knowing them. Then again, there’s that saying about looking and acting like a duck. Those two quacked the entire way into the nail salon, eyes darting every which way like they were anticipating trouble. It heightened my own senses until my eyes fell on the one person I truly never thought I’d see again.
I scrub at my face, blaming my lack of sleep and frustration over being back in town on the illusion before my eyes.
Long golden hair tied back in a ponytail, legs that have been wrapped around my body more than once, plump lips made to be kissed. I’ll be damned if it isn’t Tinley Holland walking across the parking lot to enter the discount store.
I swallow, the lump in my throat winning out over the urge to race out of my truck and approach her. As if she can sense my eyes on her, she looks around then back at her car, a run-down looking number with a rusting dent in the driver’s side door. Guilt swims in my gut. She was supposed to get out. She was supposed to move to Dallas with her family and the new job her dad got. I never saw her after that night. I purposely avoided graduation the next day.
A week after Tinley Holland climbed out of my truck that final time, I was swearing an oath to my country, and I never looked back.
What the hell happened? Did she not leave? Is she back visiting?
I follow her eyes back to her car, and my fucking heart stops.
The same little jerk that shoulder-checked me in Mike’s office is sitting in her car, a scowl across his face.
“Now,” she mouths, her finger pointing to the spot right at her feet.
I can’t hear them, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to imagine the shit spewing from that brat’s mouth as he climbs out of the car and slams the door.
I watch him approach her, his head hanging low as she leans in close and speaks with him.
His golden skin.
The mop of unruly curls on the top of his head.
Jesus. It’s not possible. There’s no damn way.
I’m doing crazy math in my head, trying to remember how old I was in junior high, but I’m so distracted I end up having to use my damned fingers to count out the years.
By the time I’m certain I have the math right and I look up, the beater she pulled up in is gone. I grab my phone, knowing exactly who will have the answer to every question I can ask, but the damn thing rings in my hand.
“Yeah,” I snap, answering the call without looking at the screen.
“Mr. Torres?”
“Yeah?” I hiss again, ready to tear this person to shreds if they even mention consolidating student loans or my vehicle warranty.
“This is Dr. Bishop from the hospital. It may be best for you to get back up here.”
“It’s time?”
“I believe so.”
The call doesn’t last much past that, and although I have even more shit on my plate right now, I need to close this one door once and for all.
Chapter 2
Tinley
“I do,” he mumbles from the passenger seat.
Taking a long, slow breath, I let my anger and agitation flow through the tight grip I have on the steering wheel.
“I don’t think you do. If you knew how hard you’re making things, you wouldn’t do them.”
“He started it.”
“And what did I tell you?”
“You really think I can just walk away when some asshole disrespects me like that?”
“One,” I hiss. “Watch your language. Two, walking away is better than getting suspended once again. I don’t know how you’ve managed to stay out of the alternative school this year, but I don’t imagine you’re going to get any more chances.”
“Respect is all that’s important at school. You think things are bad now? If I walked away after he insulted me, everyone would be on my a—butt. That means even more fights.”
I’ve heard this argument more than once. His father, a man I refuse to think about, said the very same thing to me after knocking some guy out for smacking me on the ass at a football game. He swore that if he didn’t, it gave all the other jerks at school permission to put their hands on me. What I thought was chivalrous—what I awarded with my very first oral experience—isn’t as cute now that my own son is behaving the same way.
I’d like anyone who believes in nature over nurture to spend a few minutes with this child. He’s never laid eyes on his dad, yet he’s a mirror image of the man.
“You can’t get an education by being suspended all the time,” I argue. “The mature thing to do is walk away.”
He folds his long arms over his chest, a huff leaving his mouth as he stares out the window.
My throat clogs with emotion. I wanted better for him, but that life never came to fruition. Having a kid a month before my nineteenth birthday wasn’t my plan, but I know I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ve never regretted my son. Not even now when he has the potential to give me gray hair before I turn thirty-two.
We’ve had this conversation numerous times over the last couple of years – more often since returning to Houston to help take care of my mother. What started as mild anger at being pulled from his friends and school in Dallas has transformed into his hatred of everyone, including me.
I’ve been accused of ruining his life more than once, and last week, he told me he hated me. He’s all anger and hostility, and it bothered me more than I’ll ever admit until I heard him crying a few weeks ago. He wants to be strong, feels the need to be the man of the family, but it’s impossible at his age.
I wanted to slip into his room and hold him the way I did when he was younger, but I knew it wouldn’t be met with the open arms it once was. Instead, I slipped off to my own room and cried myself to sleep. Things are bro
ken in my life, in our relationship, and I have no idea how to fix them.
“You’re grounded for two weeks,” I tell him, not having to wait long for the explosion.
“What? No way!”
Ignoring his outburst as much as I can, I park the car in front of my work and climb out. Thankfully, it’s payday. The last check stretched until three days ago, and we’re in desperate need of groceries.
When I realize he hasn’t climbed out of the car, I turn back and glare at him. Some may think I’m a helicopter parent, but bad things happen in the blink of an eye around here, and I’ll be damned if my child becomes just another statistic.
Chills rush over my skin, a perceived threat making me antsy as he climbs out of the car and walks toward me.
I’ve never once thought about wishing this stubborn boy away but wanting a quiet beach vacation is always at the forefront of my mind.
***
“I’ll get the rest,” Alex says as I turn from the kitchen counter to head back out to the car.
I work on unpacking the groceries, frowning as I place canned goods next to the meager amounts left from the last shopping trip.
The kid is helpful around the house, taking out the trash and often making easy dinners for himself and Mom when I have to work, but it’s like the child doesn’t understand that I’m missing out on paid hours each and every time I have to leave work to pick him up from school because he’s gotten into trouble.
At the rate we’re going, I’m going to have to find a second job, and that means leaving him alone even more.
Alex drops off another load of groceries on the kitchen table before stomping back out to the car.
“What’s his problem?”
I turn, giving my mother a weak smile as she wheels herself into the kitchen.
She doesn’t make it far, the size of her wheelchair compared to the tiny kitchen, making it impossible for her to even get to the sink.
“He’s grounded.”
“For sneaking out again or trouble at school?”
