If only she knew what kind of ‘gentleman,’ biting earlobes in office kitchenettes.
“He was just being helpful,” I lie, my fingers unconsciously touching the spot where his teeth had grazed.
“Well, whatever happened out there, I’m just glad you’re safe.”Flora pats my arm gently.“Now, let’s find you some concealer for those bruises.You can’t go around looking like you’ve been in a prizefight!”
As Flora fusses over me, all I can think about is the way Caleb looked at me, the promise in his voice when he said I’d regret crossing him.Part of me is wary of what he’s cooking up in that head of his.
The other part is looking forward to seeing his comeback.
* * *
The next coupleof days are a flurry of police station visits, working on the campaign, and making sure the scratches don’t get infected.Fortunately, they weren’t that deep, so by the time Sunday rolls over and I’m standing in my bathroom mirror, they seem slightly better.
I study my reflection, fingers gently probing the healing scratches on my cheek.They’ve faded to thin, pink lines over the past few days, barely noticeable under concealer.The deeper cut near my hairline is still tender, but it’s healing nicely.
My phone buzzes on the marble countertop, and I glance at the screen.Marco.
I consider letting it go to voicemail—Sunday calls from my oldest brother usually mean family obligations I’d rather avoid—but ignoring Marco never works.He’ll just keep calling until I answer.
“Hey,” I say, setting the phone on speaker as I continue examining my face.
“Hermanita.”His voice fills the small bathroom, warm but firm.“You’re coming to dinner tonight.”
“I can’t.I have—” I say, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, as I walk out of the bathroom into my bedroom.
“You have nothing.”The certainty in his tone makes me pause.“You’ve missed four Sundays in a row, Eve.Mamá keeps asking where you are.”
I sink onto my bed, suddenly exhausted.“Marco, you know how she gets.Every conversation turns into a lecture about?—”
“She misses you.”
Three words.That’s all it takes to crack my resolve.
“She misses the daughter who does what she’s told,” I correct, staring at my carpeted bedroom floor, my heart hollow, my voice quiet.“Not the one who refuses to apologize for having standards and dreams.”
“We all miss you.”His voice softens.“Even the boys keep asking when Tía Eve is coming over.Miguel’s kids made you drawings that are still stuck to the refrigerator.”
Guilt twists in my stomach.I adore my nephews, but facing my family means facing their disappointment, their confusion over my choices.
“I don’t know, Marco.Every time I’m there, I feel like?—”
“Like what?”
“Like I don’t belong anymore.”The admission slips out before I can stop it.“I can’t do anything right.I can’t please her.I never have.”
Silence stretches between us, and I can picture him in his restaurant kitchen, probably prepping for tomorrow’s service while his wife Elena handles the kids at home.
“You belong because you’re family,” he says finally.“That doesn’t change just because you make different choices than the rest of us.”
“Tell that to Mamá.”
“I will.But you need to be there, too.”
“Marco…”
“Eve, Mamá doesn’t see the fire in you.She has never understood it.Not the way Papá did.She just wants to see you settled.”
“So do I!But not like this!”I throw myself back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my eyes burning with unshed tears.“She wants me to sacrifice everything I am, crush every part of myself to become the person she wants me to be.I can’t do that.I won’t do that!”
