Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet

by Laekan Zea Kemp

  I picture every day being like today—Chloe dealing with the customers while I cook. At Nacho’s she was always stepping in when the situation called for compromise or a friendly face—two things that are necessary in the customer service business and which I lack the ability to muster. She’s my other half for a reason, and I can’t imagine taking this next step without her.

  “Let’s do it,” I say.

  She hugs me. “Thank you! It’ll be so much fun. Just like old times.” She yawns, curling into a ball. “Are you thinking of meeting up with Xander?”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “How’d you know?”

  “Because you’ve been gripping your keys since the movie ended.”

  “I’m sorry.” I stare down at the new addition to my key ring. “I just don’t think he realized that the second I drove out of Mr. Daly’s yard, we’d be open for business. A lot of things happened today. A lot of good things. I just can’t wait to tell him about it.”

  “Is he off work?”

  “Should be soon. He texted me and said my dad asked him to take over closing tonight.”

  Her face falls again as she realizes that Angel did in fact take off work… just not to be with her.

  “But I can stay if you want.”

  “No…” She forces a tired smile. “You go. I’m exhausted anyway.”

  “See you tomorrow?”

  She walks me to the door. “Absolutely. And our first order of business? Matching T-shirts.”

  “I like it.”

  My car is still parked in front of Mr. Daly’s house. As I pass through Xander’s front yard, the folder Detective Freeman gave me clutched to my chest, a light buzzes on behind me. I look back and spot Xander’s abuelo sitting on the porch. He’s holding a small pipe, the tobacco long burned out. I lift a hand but the rest of me can’t move. Because seeing him only reminds me of what’s missing, the answers to Xander’s questions, and maybe some of his abuelo’s too, currently gripped in my fist.

  The pages flutter in the breeze and I think about hiding them, throwing them away.

  I could keep the secret.

  I could keep Xander safe.

  I’m on the front steps before I even realize I’ve moved, the folder at my side.

  Xander’s abuelo smiles. “The famous Pen.”

  I smile back. “The famous Abuelo.”

  He laughs. “If only fame meant something at this age.” He chews on his pipe, thumb brushing his lighter. “I was just waiting up for Xander.”

  “My father asked him to close the restaurant tonight, so he’ll probably be running a little late.”

  He nods, relieved. “Well, as long as he’s with your father then I know he’s okay.”

  I ease myself into the chair next to him, still clutching the folder, still not sure what I’m going to do with it. I feel compelled to ask, “Do you worry about him?”

  He stares at the end of the street. “I always worry about him.” He loads some more tobacco into his pipe, lights it. “Sometimes I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and sit out here until I see his headlights turn the corner.”

  I stare down at the folder, wind still trying to tug the pages free. Xander wasn’t the only one who lost someone he loved, but I can see in his abuelo’s eyes, I can hear it in his voice that Xander has mended something broken inside him. How does it feel knowing that he hasn’t been able to fill the same void for Xander?

  “How do you like the truck?” he asks.

  “I love it.”

  “I’m glad. He worked hard on it. It was a good distraction for him.”

  I look down. “You mean from finding his father?”

  He puffs on his pipe, igniting the scent of vanilla. He exhales. “I mean from feeling like a disappointment.”

  Xander’s been trying to redeem himself ever since he was a confused little boy who could only make sense of things if he was the one who’d done something wrong. So that’s what he’s always believed. That’s why confronting his father is so terrifying. Because meeting him in a state of imperfection is too much of a risk. As if he could become the type of son a father would never leave. As if any of it was his fault. But…

  “It wasn’t his fault.” Xander’s abuelo rests his pipe on his knee, still waiting for his grandson’s headlights to come up the road. “But until he believes that… he’s not ready.”

  My stomach knots, my knuckles blanched around the folder.

  “I just want him to be strong enough.”

  “You don’t think he is?”

  He grips his knees, staring into the dark. “Or maybe I’m the one who’s not.” He hangs his head. “Maybe that’s a selfish reason to stand in his way.”

  Smoke swirls between us, the thin veil making it feel safe to ask, “What are you afraid of?”

  He barely moves. “The past.”

  I pick at the pages, edges now damp from my hands and the heat. “But… if you could change it…”

  He meets my eyes. “I hope I wouldn’t be too much of a coward to try.”

  Slowly, I hold the folder out to him. He examines it, confused.

  “Xander spoke with a private investigator,” I finally say. “This is what he found.”

  He scans the pages, breathless when he comes to the names of the granddaughters he’s never met. “He has a family.”

  “You and Xander are a part of that.”

  Suddenly, there’s a sadness in his eyes. “Does Xander know about this?”

  I shake my head. “And he won’t unless you want him to.”

  He closes the folder, squeezes my hand. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The scent of something burning tickles my nose and as I follow Xander’s abuelo’s eyes back down to the end of the street, the night is gray, something thick moving over the tops of the trees. It rises into the sky just over the restaurant. Smoke.

  The sound of sirens sets my teeth. Lights swirl up the road, a fire truck zooming down the next street. I think I hear him ask where they might be going and then I’m moving just as fast, racing to my car and jumping in the front seat. I catch up to the truck just as my cell phone rings. It’s Angel.

  He’s standing on the edge of Monte Vista Boulevard when the truck finally comes to a stop. But I barely notice him.

  It looks like morning and everything is cracking.

  And screaming.

  And burning.

  I step out of the car, the heat steeling me back. Angel runs over, gripping my arms, speaking words I don’t understand.

  I don’t understand.

  I don’t understand.

  I see my mother, her arms around my father. He’s so still. Just staring.

  I run to him, my mother grabbing my face, her voice just as foreign as Angel’s. She’s trying to get me to look at her, to make sure I’m all right.

  But I’m not all right.

  Looking at my father—destroyed—I will never be all right.

  But then I look closer. I stare at him as he stares at the flames, and for the first time he’s not impossible to read. He’s not a statue or a god or my enemy. He’s a man, the faintest flicker in his eyes. And I know that he isn’t mourning. He’s free.

  30

  Xander

  MY SKIN WAKES UP first.

  It’s screaming in a language the rest of my senses can’t understand. So then they start screaming back, and suddenly I’m on fire again and… Fire… the fire…

  Oh God. The restaurant.

  “I think he’s waking up.”

  “I pressed his morphine button.”

  “That’s just gonna knock him out again.”

  “He’s in pain, Lucas.”

  I hold tight to the voices, trying to make out each one.

  “Yeah, and what about me?”

  “You’re a fucking hero.” Angel. “Is that what you want to hear?”

  “You think I’m that selfish? So, I do a good deed by dragging Xander out of a burning building. I
don’t need a medal or anything.”

  “No.” Pen. “You just need to remind everyone a thousand times.”

  I reach for her, straining to open my eyes. I blink, the room bright, her face coming within inches of mine.

  “Xander? We’re here. We’re all here. You’re okay.”

  Lucas crosses his arms, mumbles, “Yeah, thanks to me.”

  Angel punches him in the arm, and that’s when I notice Lucas’s bandages. I stretch, stiff as I realize I’m covered in them too.

  “How long have I been at the hospital?” I ask.

  “Since last night,” Angel says. “Pain meds have had you in and out of sleep for the past twelve hours.”

  Pen finally takes her eyes off me, looking to Angel and then Lucas. “Can I have a minute?”

  “Sure, we’ll be right outside.” Angel looks down at me. “I’m sure it goes without saying, but I’ll be doing the closing from now on.”

  This time Lucas punches him in the arm. “Dude, too soon!”

  “What?” Angel shrugs. “You’re the one who asked if that assistant manager position was up for grabs.”

  Lucas smacks him again. “Don’t say that in front of him. That’s my best friend!”

  “Best friend? Really? Because a best friend wouldn’t—”

  “Get the hell out of here!” Pen shoves them toward the door.

  A small, tight laugh tries to escape, and it’s torture.

  Pen slumps down on the edge of my bed. “I’m glad to see your sense of humor’s still intact.”

  I look down, absorbing myself in pieces. My right arm is covered in gauze and I can feel it taut beneath my gown. But the longer I sit in my skin, the more I sense the pain is only on the surface.

  Pen registers my relief, her own forcing her to fall on top of me, face wet. “I can’t believe you were inside.”

  “I’m so glad you weren’t.” My heart pounds against my chest, every detail sharpening until I’m pricked full of holes. “I’m so sorry, Pen.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut again. “But I’m so—”

  She presses her lips to mine, shoving the words back down.

  “I love you,” she breathes.

  “I love you too.”

  She rests her head on my chest, both of us quiet for a long time—Pen probably trying to picture me in the middle of those flames while I try not to imagine the damage they must have done. I don’t know if the restaurant is still standing or if anyone else got hurt. I don’t know what happened to J. P. or how Lucas managed to drag me out alive.

  I want to ask Pen, but I’m afraid the answers would wedge themselves between us, and I need her close.

  Angel pokes his head in. “Dad just called to make sure we can still pick up Lola and Hugo from Mrs. Nguyen’s.”

  She sits up, not letting go of me yet.

  I swallow. “Is he…?”

  They both look down.

  “He doesn’t blame you,” Angel says.

  Pen squeezes my hand. “No one does.” She stands, kissing me on the forehead. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  “Is my abuelo here?” I ask before they leave.

  Pen stops, hesitant. “He was here earlier. I’ll ask Officer Solis to give him a call and tell him you’re awake.”

  In the quiet after they leave, I replay every second. J. P. toying with the matches, beaming with pride about the people he’s made disappear. And then he set the place on fire and left me there to die.

  But I didn’t.

  There’s a light knock on the hospital door. Officer Solis pushes it open. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  I shove aside the pain, trying to get at the knot in my stomach. “Confused.”

  “How much do you remember?” he asks.

  J. P.’s voice is in my head again. I pinch my eyes shut.

  “How did I get out?”

  Officer Solis sits by my bed. “Lucas. He smelled the gasoline and then he heard J. P.’s voice behind the door. Police showed up a few minutes later.” There’s something in Officer Solis’s eyes that looks like defeat.

  “And the restaurant?”

  He hangs his head.

  “It’s gone?”

  He just nods.

  I feel the panic of a soldier whose last line of defense has just crumbled. Where will people go when they want to feel safe?

  Officer Solis’s expression changes, his voice strange. “They found J. P.”

  “And he’s in jail?”

  He looks from my bed to the window, avoiding my eyes. “The police chief’s a friend of his, and he’s not the only one.”

  “But Lucas identified him. I’m a witness too.” I try to sit up. “They can’t just let him go.”

  Officer Solis grits his teeth, his voice almost gone. “I thought things were different. I… wanted them to be.”

  “But they’re not,” I finish for him. “They never will be.”

  “Not never.” Officer Solis snaps out of his anger for a second, desperation in his eyes instead. “Not right now. But not never. We never say never, you understand?” He senses my doubt and lowers his voice. “You’re alive, Xander. You won.”

  I want it to feel like all of the other times Officer Solis has rescued me… but it doesn’t.

  “I didn’t. Not if it means he didn’t lose.”

  “Maybe people like that never will.” He looks me in the eye. “But surviving in spite of all he’s tried to tear down, that’s a victory. It has to be. Resiliency is its own reward, and it’s something no one can take from us.”

  I don’t argue. I’m too exhausted. But all I can think about is that if resiliency was worth something, I would be the one with all the power and people like J. P. wouldn’t run the world. But even with blood on his hands, with hate in his heart, it turns when he tells it to. And I don’t even want to tell the world when to turn. I just want the strength to tilt it a little more in our favor. To balance the scales. To make things right.

  But it’ll have to wait.

  Because people like J. P. make those decisions too.

  Or maybe that’s the brokenness talking. Maybe when the wounds have healed, I’ll forget about the pain. Maybe resiliency doesn’t work without a little amnesia.

  After Officer Solis leaves, I tense at every sound—the shuffle of footsteps, hushed voices of the nurses, the whirring of the machines—waiting for someone else to come in and tell me something awful. Hours pass, and in the quiet, I tell myself stories instead, picturing the restaurant in flames, everything turned to ash and dust. It feels like I’m still choking on it.

  But fixing what’s broken doesn’t feel so impossible anymore. That’s all Pen and I have been doing since we met. Maybe that’s the reason we did. To mend each other. To make each other better. What if the restaurant can be mended too? What if, just like Pen’s truck, I can use my hands and my heart to put it back together? And not just for the Prados, but for all of us. Because we’re a family.

  I have a family.

  The sun is beginning to set when the door finally pushes open again, Abuelo stepping inside. He looks exhausted, eyes ringed red. But he’s not alone.

  Behind him is a man I can barely remember in three-dimension. The giant is gone, what’s left—a shell that shares my father’s voice. My father.

  I’m dreaming again.

  I know I’m dreaming because this isn’t the man who walked out our front door when I was four years old. This isn’t the man whose crackling voice on the other side of a pay phone used to sing me to sleep. This man is weathered and graying and someone else’s father.

  “Xander… there’s someone here to see you.”

  Abuelo speaks to me, low by my ear. But I’m not listening. I’m staring… searching for that thing I’ve been looking for since my father left. And then the stranger takes my hand, and there’s a pang… like I’ve found it.

  Or maybe he’s found me.

  Maybe that’s ho
w it was supposed to happen.

  “Alejandro?” His voice hangs between us, the gravel, the tenor making the hairs on my arms stand on end. “Do you remember me?”

  I find my reflection in his eyes, the boy in me staring back.

  “Your abuelo called me last night.” He sits, hands retreating like he’s not sure where to put them. “I got on the first plane.” His hands inch toward the hospital bed. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

  I’m too quiet and it makes him nervous, his eyes glistening like he’s holding back tears. Mine are all over my cheeks, the rush making it impossible to breathe.

  “I always wondered…” He marvels at my face, at my body stretched under the blankets. “You looked so much like her when you were little.” He shakes his head, eyes smiling, still taking me in. “But now…”

  Abuelo grips his shoulder. “He looks like you.”

  He leans into Abuelo’s touch, his eyes closed like he’s forgotten the way it feels. To have a father. To have a son. And I wonder if there’s a hole in him too, one he never quite figured out how to fill.

  “My little boy…” He can barely get the words out and I can barely see him behind the sting of tears.

  “I looked for you.” The tears spill into my mouth. “I waited for you.”

  He crumbles, taking my hand.

  “He’s here now.” Abuelo squeezes him. “You’re here now.”

  “I should have come for you.…” My father chokes. “I should have…” He pinches his eyes shut. “I didn’t know how.” He presses my hands to his face, letting me feel the time that’s passed all over again.

  “I’m sorry, Alejandro.”

  I had forgotten what my name was supposed to sound like. The way it bends into a sigh. The way it curls and loosens. He says it over and over, like something sacred, and suddenly, I miss that little boy almost as much as I missed him.

  Alejandro.

  The tears don’t stop.

  I’m drowning in them.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He’s drowning in them.

  And I don’t care that he’s too late. That I’ve become a man without him.

  He’s here. Now. And this close, I can see that familiar gleam in his eyes, the one my laughter used to ignite. I can see the truth. That it wasn’t all in my head. That he loved me.