“Elotes,” Rafe declares as I approach. He presents me with a steaming platter of food balanced on one hand. “And tamales.”
“Impressive,” I declare, and my awe isn’t faked—scrambled eggs and salad is the extent of my culinary abilities.
His creation blows both out of the water. Intrigued, I sample the elote—corn slathered in a mixture of spices—and my eyes widen in genuine shock.
“Good, huh?” Rafe smirks, unabashedly smug. “It’s damn good.”
Too stunned to argue, I nod and attack my plate in earnest. The variety of spices and rich flavor make me suspect he didn’t learn this from a random recipe. “Who taught you to cook?” I ask once I’ve nearly cleared my plate.
“My mother.” His face falls, and guilt hits me like a punch to the stomach.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t be. She could make one hell of a tamale.” He takes a monstrous bite of his and flashes a grin.
“Tell me about her?”
His eyes darken, growing distant again. In a heartbeat, he’s miles away, staring into the past where I can’t follow.
Just when I think he’s beyond my reach, he sighs.
“She was good,” he says softly. “Damn good. A good mother. A good woman. She worked her ass off for me. Anything I wanted, I got, whether or not we could afford it. Even if I didn’t deserve it. Somehow, someway, she made it happen.”
Obvious sadness deepens his voice, and I have a good idea as to why. Gino once mocked him with the awful truth of just how his mother provided for him—by doing whatever his uncle required of her. Anything for her son.
“I was a punk back then,” he adds. “I gave her shit like you wouldn’t believe, but she never once yelled at me. Never hit me. Never really punished me. ‘You’re angry,’ she used to say. ‘Don’t pout or throw a tantrum. You let it out. You show me your pain.’ Then she’d give me a pad or a pen and make me draw. No matter how shitty it was, she’d always act like it was a Picasso or some shit.”
He laughs, and I feel my lips quirk into a smile.
“She encouraged your art,” I say softly.
He frowns as if he never put the pieces together himself. “I guess she did.”
“And your dad?” I don’t know what makes me broach this topic, but his eyes cut to mine, brimming with an emotion that isn’t anywhere near love or affection. It’s pain. One so raw, he must normally keep it buried deep. Just as quickly, he smothers it with a hardened mask.
“He was a piece of shit,” he says. “She cleaned up at one of Shen’s clubs back in the day and was nothing more than a conquest to him.”
There’s more to it, though. Exhaling, he adds, “He wanted to be a singer or some shit. Break away from the triad. Make something of himself. He fed her so much bullshit about the life he’d build for her, all of it a fantasy. But she never lost faith in that lie, even when he turned his frustration on her.”
“He hurt her?”
He strokes his bottom lip, lingering near the bruised flesh. “Yes. He hurt her. Damn near every fucking day during the worst of it. Until he went too far.”
He’s already told me this part of the story. One night, he got too rough after showing up again out of the blue. He shoved her around, but she didn’t get back up. The asshole just laughed and passed out. She would never call the cops on his ass.
“You look like her. Your mother,” I point out, recalling the picture of the woman I caught a glimpse of in his room. “You have her eyes.”
“Her eyes.” He scoffs, his upper lip curling from his teeth. I worry I’ve insulted him, until he brushes his finger along the ridge of his cheekbone as if memorizing the shape. “I have those,” he admits, letting his hand fall. “But that’s it. Nothing else. I don’t even want to be like her.”
He sounds too cold. Too bitter.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because she gave it all up for a worthless motherfucker. Everything.” He turns away, his hands forming fists. “She sold her soul to a son of a bitch for nothing in return. Nothing but pain and bullshit. What good came of that—”
“She had you.” I don’t know what makes me say it, but he flinches. Gradually, the fire leaves his eyes, and he’s ice in an instant.
“I think she’d be proud of you,” I add clumsily. “I know she would.”
Slowly… Very slowly, he sets his food aside and approaches me. Each step is deliberate, giving me all the time in the world to evade his reach.
I don’t, and his arms go around me, his mouth finding my shoulder. I can feel his heartbeat racing, his breaths heavy and labored. Very gently, his fingers slip into my hair, and the soft, hesitant motions goad me into voicing a confession of my own.
“My mother didn’t want me.” It sounds so dramatic to say and yet so emotionless at the same time. After twenty-one years, I’ve made peace with it. The admission doesn’t hurt anymore, as natural to utter as my own name. “My dad really wanted a boy, and Branden was her ticket to guaranteed alimony if they divorced. I wasn’t part of her plan. I barely even have memories of her, to be honest. She didn’t teach me how to cook, and she certainly didn’t teach me how to write. She just…existed. Until one day she never came back.”
He stiffens, and it strikes me that he may suspect the next part of the story before I even say it.
“She was angry after what happened with Bran. Humiliated. I…” I suck in a breath, self-conscious of the admission on the tip of my tongue. “I envy you.
