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.