Which is vexing, but not enough to supersede my thoughts from the conversation that took place minutes ago. From where I stand I’m able to watch Father Diego, Aida, Benito, and Violetta exit the church and disappear behind the adjacent building. My eyes never stray from Violetta and not once does she glance in my direction.
She’s a complication I don’t need but can’t stop thinking about.
This situation with my mother reappearing after twenty-five years is one hell of a distraction. Although I’mnotgrateful for it, at least it’ll force me to keep my attention off of Violetta.
I’m less confident in that notion because I’m mentally counting down the hours until she turns eighteen. But why? I told myself nothing was going to happen with her, regardless of her age. However, my inner monologue doesn’t match the anticipation running through my veins. Nor does it mirror all the thoughts I had while caressing her body on the way here.
I’m so fucked, whether I have sex with her or not.
Shoving that aside, I straighten away from the vehicle when Octavia approaches me with a silver object in her hand. Her expression is fierce, and if I wasn’t angry I’d appreciate how much she resembles our mother.
My fingers are already inching toward my weapon while my mind runs through a number of outcomes if that item in her hand is a firearm. None of them are good. However, once she’s close enough to the exterior lights of the church and I’m able to make out the flask, I relax.
Other than lifting a brow in a silent inquiry, I say nothing. She is direct and will tell me her thoughts soon enough. Another trait she has in common with Aida.
“I think you’re the only one who can actually sympathize with me right now,” Octavia says, all but collapsing against the jeep. “No one else fucking gets it.”
“Gets what, exactly?”
She unscrews the lid and takes a long swallow from the flask. Then she clears her throat twice before she’s able to answer me.
“The feeling of betrayal.”
Her perception is accurate and surprising. It’s never been a question as to whether or not she’s intelligent because that was established within the first few minutes of meeting her.Emotionalintelligence is what I wasn’t expecting her to have. Also, I haven’t bothered schooling my features, which is why she’s able to discern my thoughts somewhat.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re hurting,” she says. Ignoring the scowl that’s now present on my face, she holds up the flask instead. “Want some?”
It occurs to me to decline, but the irresponsible part of me—the selfishness I don’t allow to surface—encourages me to take it. The alcohol goes down as smoothly as bubbling, liquid tar and I find myself impressed she didn’t cough or gag after drinking it.
“It’s strong shit,” she says with a lopsided grin. Without a hard demeanor covering her in a veneer of seriousness, Octavia appears younger. “The first time I drank it, I thought my intestines were melting and I was going to die.”
“This would not be my drink of choice.”
She huffs out a laugh. “Me either, but I had to sneak what I was available, and unfortunately, this was it most of the time.”
“I never went through that phase. There was always work to do, of some type or another.”
“That’s because you’re the oldest, right?” When I nod she downs another healthy swig and continues. “I thought so, given the timeline I estimated.”
“How old are you?”
The grin on her face evolves into a sly smile. “You first.”
“Thirty-six.”
“Twenty-three.”
Octavia isn’t that much older than Violetta, but the differences in their worldviews are extremely noticeable. The woman beside me doesn’t exhibit the same amount of mistrust and deliberation when it comes to men or her surroundings. It’s in the confident way Octavia carries herself. She’s not intimidated by much, which I attribute to her lifestyle as someone who’s involved with drug trafficking.
However, I prefer the quiet strength Violetta has. In some ways it can be deadlier because you don’t see it coming. I know I didn’t.
I exhale and look up at the moon now overhead, wondering how I expected the day to have a good outcome. Did I really believe that knowing what happened to my mother would bring closure and set me free from the incessant theories that constantly streamed through my head? I must’ve or else I wouldn’t be here.
The question is: how much is it actually worth to me?
“What are your brothers’ names?”
Octavia’s question pulls me from my musings, as does her nudging me with the flask. I take it from her, give her a nod, and down more than the last time. The burning sensation travels down my throat and gathers in my stomach, yet it’s not as repugnant as before.
