“¿Como una hormiga?” I ask, then switch to English since I haven’t heard him speak Spanish. “Ant like the bug?”
“Sí, como una hormiga. Porque soy tan pequeño,” he answers in beautifully accented Spanish.
Like an ant because I am so small.
I rub my chest, grateful his language wasn’t stolen from him.
Misunderstanding the gesture, he holds up his hands. “They meant it to be sweet. They weren’t making fun of me. Promise. We gave each other nicknames, like, to remember we were people too.”
Stay in the moment, Javier.
“It makes perfect sense. I’m glad you and your friends knew how to hang on to your humanity. You speak English so well, and it makes me very emotional to hear you can still speak Spanish.”
“I didn’t speak it a lot before, but then I started working with Nacho, and he kept speaking it. Like he knew it was still inside me. That was the guy who spoke Spanish to you last night when you were…”
“…hyperventilating,” I finish for him.
We stand in the softly lit room for an awkward moment, then I ask, “Were you not allowed to? Speak Spanish that is?”
One of the ways traffickers dehumanize their victims is to make them stop speaking their native tongue. Instead, they’re forced to adopt the tongue of whatever country they end up in.
He juts his jaw out, then brings his eyes to mine, showing me his palms. My first thought is how much they look like his mother’s, but my second is the realization that, right along where his lifelines would be, there’s a deep, narrow groove on each palm. Scars put there by a knife.
As someone who uses knives extensively, I know how painful that must have been. No wonder he learned English so well.
“I see. Would you like me to speak Spanish with you whenever it’s just you and me talking?”
He nods. “With Nacho too.”
“Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”
Taking a breath, he gestures his thumb over his shoulder and continues in Spanish, “Uh, work gave me the day off, so I came by to see if you’d like to get breakfast or something.”
“I would love to,” I say, even though I’m nowhere near hungry. “I don’t want our first breakfast to be around a ton of strangers if that’s okay with you. Do you think Erik has eggs?”
“Yeah, he likes a big breakfast. He might even have some chorizo.”
I follow Ant into the hall, skeptical. “Is the chorizo in Texas any good?”
“Tastes good to me.” Pointing down at my borrowed pajama pants, he asks, “Are those Erik’s?”
I chuckle. “Yes. I may be tall by Mexican standards, but he’s white-guy tall.”
I wave my foot in the air to show that the hem goes an inch past. Ant cracks up and smacks my arm. I wonder if he knows how much he and his mother have in common.
“He’s an odd one, Erik. Quiet but doesn’t hold back from speaking his mind.”
Ant, still chuckling at my expense, nods. “That is the perfect description for him.”
“When he handed me these last night, he said, ‘You better be who the fuck you say you are, or you are going to have a very bad day tomorrow.’”
“That is a terrible imitation. You have to think Rip Wheeler meets Erik Northman.”
“Mm, Alexander Skarsgård. Now he’s hot.” I immediately realize my mistake and grimace. “Sorry. I haven’t had my coffee yet. You probably don’t want to know who your ancient gay tío thinks is hot.”
“You’re gay?” he asks, looking up at me.
“Yes. And I’ve suspected you were gay since you were three and drooling over Legolas’s long hair.”
