"When I die, bring me some of Lola's tamales, please. I'll definitely come back from the dead for those."
I laugh. "Will do, Mr. America."
He settles into his seat. "There is one thing I hate about Mexico and the south."
"What's that?" I question.
"The heat."
I smile. "I don't notice it half the time. I guess I'm so used to it I don't even think about it."
"When I'm sweatin' just standing in the sun, I think about it. A lot. Or in my bedroom back at the gym, where there isn't a breeze to break up the monotony. Back in Chicago the summers are brutal, but the winter and snow break it up."
The entire three-hour-long car ride, we talk. While we share information about ourselves, I feel closer to him than ever before. There's not a single lull in conversation as I talk about my parents and sisters. He laughs when I tell him that I used to be afraid that someone was hiding under my bed at night. I had a huge fear that if I stepped off the bed, a hand would reach out and grab me.
He tells me about his mother and why they're not close. She's an alcoholic and drinks heavily to numb whatever pain she's going through, which leaves Ryan feeling neglected. I watch as his shoulders slump when he mentions her.
It's so easy to talk to him when he opens up. I wish he'd let down his guard more often, but I know his past rejection makes him closed most of the time. Does he feel closer to me now that I've shared stories about myself with him?
I reach out and put my hand close to his leg. Will he take it? Does he crave the physical contact between us like I do? I keep my hand there and look out the front window, acutely aware of my surroundings and the people and cars we pass on the highways.
He lifts his free hand and I wait for him to take hold of mine, but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches under my hair and starts caressing the back of my neck with his thumb. The gesture makes my senses spin. It feels so good. "I love your curly hair," he says, then winds his fingers through it.
"It's too unruly and frizzy," I say.
"Nah. It's perfect."
His words settle inside me like a personal gift I'll cherish forever.
I instruct Ryan to leave the highway and head toward Tulanco, the town where my abuela lives. "Don't expect her to live in some huge rancho," I tell Ryan.
"It's a small rancho?" he asks.
"More like no rancho. If you blink, you'll miss it."
When we pull up to my abuelita's house, I watch Ryan's expression turn from confusion to surprise. Her house is just a little one-bedroom ranch with a quaint garden outside. I remember this place from when I was a kid. Papa used to bring us here on weekends and I would help her plant flowers and herbs in her garden.
"There's no way your grandma lives here," Ryan says.
"Why would you say that?"
He looks at me as if I'm nuts. "Have you seen the mansion you live in, Dalila?"
"Maybe she likes living here," I tell him. "Not everyone wants to live like--"
"A princess," he finishes.
I playfully punch him in the stomach. "No. I mean live with modern conveniences."
"Abuelita!" I cry out when she appears at her front door and lets out a squeal of delight when she sees me.
My abuelita might be tiny and short, but she's tougher than any woman I know. She's wearing a flowing sundress that reminds me of a flag waving in the wind.
"!Bienvenidos, mija!" she says as she runs up to me with a warm, loving smile and a hug so tight I wonder how so much strength can come out of such a little woman. Just seeing her soothes a piece of me that felt unsettled.
"El es uno de mis amigos, Ryan," I tell her, gesturing to Ryan and explaining that he's a friend of mine.
Abuela Carmela opens her arms wide, then grabs hold of each side of Ryan's face and kisses both of his cheeks. "Gracias por traer a mi nieta a visitarme," she says, then kisses him on both cheeks again as a grand gesture of gratitude.
"She's thanking you for bringing me to her," I explain to Ryan as Abuela Carmela bounces back toward the house and motions for us to join her. "How's your Spanish?"
"About at a one-year-old's level," he says. "Or an infant. Why?"
"Because she doesn't know any English. Come on, let's go inside." It feels so good being here, like my soul is being healed from the inside out. Sometimes La Joya de Sandoval feels fake. My ancestors lived in this town for many generations and my roots feel deeper here than anywhere else.
Ryan holds back as he assesses Abuela Carmela's spry gait.
"What?" I ask. I point to the front door. "She wants us to follow her."
His jaw is clenched, his eyes slightly narrowed.
"She's not sick."
With a resounding sigh I say, "She's old."
"You fuckin' lied to me, Dalila. You said she was on her deathbed and you needed to say your last good-byes."
"Technically, you're right. But . . ."
He clutches my arm and pulls me to him, his eyes piercing mine as if they're searching for some kind of truth. "What else are you lyin' about, huh? Tell me."
"I didn't lie. I manipulated the truth."
"That's the same thing," he says in a curt tone.
I have to fix this, but I don't know how. If I reveal the truth, will he abandon me?
Twenty-Seven
Ryan
I'm not going in Dalila's grandmother's house until I get answers. That woman might be old, but there's no way she's on her deathbed. I doubt she even has a cold, let alone some debilitating affliction about to kill her.
Dalila shrugs with embarrassment. "Well, she is old."
"You said she was dying," I say through gritted teeth. "You specifically said you wanted to come here to say good-bye."
"Fine, I admit it. I lied. When you said you'd owe a favor to the person who brought you Camacho, I called him. I was holding on to that favor for when I needed it." The words leave her lips, but I don't hear any amount of remorse. "I don't know why you're so mad." She holds her hands up in frustration.
"It's a big deal, Dalila." Last night fucked with my emotions and my focus. If she hadn't told me her grandmother was dying, I'd have told her to find someone else to act as her stupid bodyguard.
"I lied because I thought if I said I just wanted to come for a visit, you'd have said no, whether we'd made a deal or not."
I feel so fucking stupid. Camacho tried to warn me, but I was thinking with the wrong brain. I wanted to believe her sweet, lying lips so much that I became the fool I vowed never to be.
If she's willing to lie about her sick grandmother, she'll likely lie about anything.
"Tell me who you're workin' for," I say. "No fucking around this time."
She steps back, and her brows furrow in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"Who are you workin' for? Just tell me."
Her grandmother appears in the doorway. The poor woman probably has no clue her granddaughter is a master manipulator.
"Ahorita vamos, Abuelita," Dalila calls out to her, then grabs the sleeve of my shirt. "I'm not working for anybody, Ryan. I lied because . . ." She hesitates. "There's something going on with my dad. I think he might be involved in the cartel and Santiago Vega, but he and my mom have shut me out. I think my grandmother knows the truth and you became the one person without ties to my father who could take me."
I shake my head. I'm not about to be duped by her again, so anything that comes out of her mouth is going through a filter. "I don't believe you."
"Well, you're going to have to believe me because that's the truth."
"You could've just called her on the phone."
"She doesn't have a phone, Ryan. Everyone on earth doesn't necessarily have a phone, especially here in the middle of nowhere." Dalila gestures to our surroundings. I'm trying not to focus on the way my T-shirt flows around her body and instead focus on my anger. "Look around us. There are no telephone poles. If you think you can get a cell phone signal anywhere around here for miles, good luck with
that."
"I don't know what to believe anymore," I mumble. I had one goal in my life.
One fucking goal.
Suddenly Dalila Sandoval comes along and I've become entangled in cartel bullshit.
"Believe this." She walks up to me with determination and looks me right in the eye. "I'm sorry I lied about my abuela being sick. I really am. But I need to protect my family or distance myself from them if they're involved in the cartel. I trust you with everything I have and everything I am. Last night wasn't any manipulation. It was just you and me, and it was real. Now that I've told you the truth, get over the fact that I manipulated you. I think it's about damn time you start to trust me. I don't have ulterior motives."
She whips herself around, and I watch her back as she struts into the small cement house.
So now I'm not just a fool, I'm a fool who's standing outside with the sun beating down on him in the middle of one-hundred-degree weather.
A very healthy Abuela Carmela is still standing at the doorway motioning for me to follow Dalila's lead. "Hace mucho calor, entra a tomar un refresco."
I give Abuela Carmela a small smile and enter her house. When I step inside, it's obvious the woman doesn't have many possessions. It kind of blows my mind that Dalila and her family live in a mansion with all the luxuries of life while her grandmother lives in this tiny house. She doesn't have a television, but she's got a bunch of books on her bookshelves. The woman must love to read.
I scan a wall full of pictures. Some are old black-and-white portraits of families and couples. Others are of Dalila and her family. I point to an old picture of a man holding a baby on a running track. "I bet this picture has an interesting story behind it," I say.
Abuela Carmela gently glides her hand over the picture with her small, thin fingers. I watch as her expression softens while she explains the picture to Dalila.
"She says the man is her father. He was an alternate runner on the Olympic team and he's holding my grandmother after a race he won," Dalila explains as she translates her grandmother's words. "I've never heard that story before. I guess I never stopped to pay attention to the pictures."
Dalila pats me on the back. "Maybe you'll be on the Olympic team one day, Ryan. For boxing."
That would be amazing, but I've got a long way to go. Hell, I'm probably too old to start training for the Olympic team. "Dreams don't always come true, no matter how hard you try."
"Miracles happen, or that word wouldn't exist. Never lose faith, Ryan." With a big, encouraging smile Dalila plops herself down on one of the chairs in the kitchen. "Here," she says, holding out a mug to me. "Taste this."
I peek inside and see something that looks like tea. The steam wafts up my nose when I sniff it.
Her grandmother chuckles, then says something to her in Spanish.
"It's mint tea," Dalila explains. "Made with mint leaves from her garden."
Wow. I breathe in the fresh scent before I down the glass in one gulp. I hold up the mug and throw out one of the handful of words I know in Spanish to accurately describe the tea. "Bueno."
"Gracias," Dalila's grandmother says with a smile that reminds me of her granddaughter. The old lady takes Dalila's hand and my hand and holds them together.
"She thinks we're a couple," Dalila tells me, then looks at me with those bright chocolate eyes that shine with something I'm not ready to acknowledge.
I look down at our hands and a pang of sadness fills me.
Damn. Ignore all feelings and emotions.
I snatch my hand back and get down to business. "Tell her why you came here so we can get back before dinner."
As soon as I say it, Abuela Carmela starts pulling leftovers out of her refrigerator and freezer. She dismisses Dalila's protests that we're not here to eat. The woman starts talking so fast as she heats up the food, it's a wonder Dalila can even keep up. I'm in awe of how quickly the woman prepares the food. In no time at all she's got a huge spread in front of us.
I'm not here to disappoint the old lady.
I pick up a piece of meat from a plate that her grandmother set on the table and cut it with a sharp, jeweled knife she hands to me. "This looks old," I say, examining the green and shiny stones set in the wooden handle.
Dalila holds up the knife and asks her grandmother about it. "She says her great-grandfather made it after the war. She says he carved his initials in it and embedded green emeralds into it to represent a good harvest and red rubies to represent the blood and tears that go into the hard labor they did to make their lives easier. It's good luck to prepare food with it."
I examine the butt of the handle. The letters PH are carved into it. I wonder what it would be like to have a family heirloom, something that was cherished because of those who owned it before you. I have nothing from my ancestors to tie me to them.
"This knife is cool," I tell her. "I bet if it could talk it would tell some pretty good stories."
"Yeah." Dalila fingers the tip of the knife, but quickly jerks her hand away. "Ouch! That's sharp."
"Be careful," I say, then take the knife from her and stab some fried thing with meat inside. As I bite down the burst of flavors makes me wish I could bring some home with me.
Abuela Carmela keeps talking to me as if I can understand every word. "What's she sayin'?" I ask.
"Nothing."
I raise a brow.
"Fine," Dalila finally says. "She says you have kind eyes, and that must mean you have a kind soul."
I pop another fried meat thing in my mouth. "Sorry to break the news to you, but your abuela is blind."
"She's not blind."
"I don't have kind eyes. And my soul is pretty dark. Maybe you jinxed her when you said she was deathly ill. She's obviously ill-informed."
She aims a nugget at me. "Fate put us together. Did you ever think that I could fix that dark soul of yours?"
I catch the nugget and pop it into my mouth. "Fix it with what? Food?" The dark part of my soul knows I need to push her far away. "And it wasn't fate that brought us together. It was a punk rock concert. And now it's because you need answers about your family."
"You're right." Dalila's expression stills and grows serious. The mood changes instantly.
"?Pasa algo?" Abuela Carmela asks.
With a deep breath, Dalila pulls out an open letter from her pocket and holds it out to her grandmother. The lady takes one look at it and her expression matches Dalila's. They talk back and forth in Spanish, so I have no clue what they're saying, but something she says upsets Dalila so much that she breaks down and chokes back tears.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
Dalila looks up at me as tears run down her cheeks. "She said my father has been involved in some shady business deals outside the courtroom. When she confronted him, he didn't deny it. My father is no better than his clients."
Full of emotion, Dalila pushes her chair away and runs outside.
I'm about to go after her when Abuela Carmela reaches out and touches my arm. She points to herself. She wants me to stay here while she talks to Dalila.
I look out the living room window and see Dalila sitting on the ground with her head bent in her hands. Her grandmother is rubbing her back, consoling her. A part of me wants to run out there, kneel in front of her, and tell her I'll be her hero to protect her from anything.
I can't deny it to myself any longer. I care deeply about Dalila. More than I should, and more than I ever wanted to.
Twenty-Eight
Dalila
Everything is stressing me out and the truth of my father's involvement in illegal activity and the cartels is too real. Abuela Carmela is rubbing my back, telling me that everything will be okay.
But it won't.
She takes my hand in hers and tells me that she comes from a time when people worked hard in order to put food on the table, not to buy personal possessions. But it's not all about that. She mentioned that the people she saw Papa working for and associating with were against ev
erything she believed in. Papa told her he was doing what he had to do and she should mind her own business. Abuela Carmela hasn't been back to La Joya de Sandoval since.
Ashamed for even putting my thoughts into words, I ask if she thinks Papa is connected to the new cartel Los Reyes del Norte.
"Ojala supiera," she says with sadness clouding her sweet face.
She doesn't know.
But I can tell she suspects he's getting more deeply involved.
"Aveces es mejor ser ignorante, mija."
Sometimes it might be good to be ignorant, but I don't want to look away and pretend bad things aren't happening around me.
"Can we talk?"
I turn to see Ryan standing behind me and I quickly wipe away the tears falling down my face. "Sure."
Abuela Carmela walks back into the house, telling me to lean on Ryan if I need to. She leaves us alone to talk even though I don't feel like saying anything.
Ryan holds his hand out. I furrow my brow as I stare at it. "What do you want?"
"Take my hand," he says. When I do, I feel the warmth and strength in his touch as he helps me up. "Walk with me."
I wipe my tears with my free hand, hating that I feel so alone. "You should probably stay away from me, Ryan. Very far away from me."
"Well, that's not going to happen, Dalila. Just walk with me."
With my hand in his, he leads me away from Abuela Carmela's house. We walk for a few minutes, weaving our way through the hilly, grassy land with vines sticking up from the ground that always made me feel free and alive.
"I'm sorry you're upset," he finally says as he kicks a rock down the little cobblestone path leading to the shed.
The concerns I have about Papa are too real and too overwhelming.
He stops and turns to me. "We're in this together, you know."
"No, we're not. I'm alone in this. You said yourself that we can't be involved and your only focus is boxing."
"I thought I couldn't have both." He takes a deep breath. "You've got to understand that I've been numb for so long, Dalila. And all I wanted to do is prove that I'm good at something so my mother would love me and not regret the fact that I was born. But when I saw you out here cryin', something inside me woke up." He swallows hard. "What if I asked you to be my girlfriend?"
Crossing the Line Page 15
