“It’s a Delgado thing.”
“An adorable family trait.” My gaze drifts to another photo of them sitting side by side on a living room couch, playing their guitars. In this one, Chaz is around eleven or twelve, and that déjà vu feeling comes over me again, raising goosebumps on my arms. So strange how that happens. “You two look like you’re really jamming,” I say.
“Mm-hm.” He wraps his strong arms around my waist and speaks quietly next to my ear. “Dad worked so hard, but whenever he was home, music was everything. This was takenon my mom’s birthday. We’d written her a song called “La Mejor Mama.” In English, the title translates to “The Best Mom.”
“She must have loved that.” My hands cover his.
“She did. I can see her smile. Hear her laugh. We were all so happy that night. Mom was pregnant with Soph then. I didn’t know it would be the last birthday the three of us would celebrate together.”
His bittersweet memory pierces my heart.
“It took me a long time to hang these up,” he continues, in a voice thick with love and haunting sadness. “For years, I couldn’t face them. But I didn’t want my anger and grief to erase the memories. It’s still hard sometimes, but I’d rather deal with the pain than hide these away in a box, you know?”
I nod, though I don’t really know. Not in the way he does. But I hear the raw ache of loss etched into every word, and I’m struck by how much weight he carries. What he shoulders alone.
“That’s enough of that.” He abruptly straightens. “I’m not looking to drag us down.”
“It’s not a drag,” I say, turning to him. “You can talk to me any time.”
“Thanks, but no more tonight. We said it would just be us.”
“We did.” I bring a hand to his cheek. “Just know I’m here for you.”
“I do, baby.” He takes my hand and kisses across my knuckles, then reaches for a tin on the side table. “Mind if I smoke?”
“You smoke?”
“Sometimes.” Flipping it open, the unmistakable scent of weed fills the room.
“Oh.” My nose wrinkles. “That kind of smoking.”
“Yeah. This blend gives a chill buzz. Like floating.”
“Really?” I say, more curious than anything. “Go ahead.”
He gestures for me to sit, and we settle onto the loveseat. The cool leather presses against my bare legs as I tuck my feet beneath me. Chaz taps dried grass onto a thin sheet of paper and rolls it with practiced ease.
“Ever smoked?” He glances up.
“Nope. No real opportunity.”
“Until now,” he says, sealing the joint with a slow slide of his tongue. After lighting it up, he takes a long drag and holds it out to me. “Want to try?”
I hesitate for only a moment. The ember glowing red at the tip dares me. “Okay.”
“Another one for the fuck-it list.”
“I don’t have a list.”
“I’m keeping one for you.” He grins, hiding away his grief from moments ago, and I wonder if smoking helps him numb it.
“Don’t inhale too deep your first time,” he warns, “or you’ll be coughing up a lung.”
I hold the joint carefully, the paper fragile between my fingers, and raise it to my lips for a small puff. The smoke burns the back of my throat like fire, and I cough hard, my eyes watering.
Chaz rubs my back. “Smaller drag next time.”
“I thought that was small,” I croak, my voice raspy. “How could you possibly enjoy this?”
