Jesus. I need to stop thinking about the refrigerator.
God, I was sober for what, three days? Four? The longest stretch in months. And then last night I threw it all away.
"You tracked my phone," I say, needing to fill the silence with something other than my shame spiral. "On the boat, you said you'd been tracking me since day one."
He doesn't look up from his gun. "Yes."
"I'm still processing that. The violation of privacy. The creepiness. The fact that you watched me destroy three days of sobriety to go to that yacht."
Now he does look up. "Four days."
"What?"
"You were sober four days. Since the night I arrived."
He was counting. Of course he was counting. Just like he counts pull-ups and drinks and every other measurement of control or its absence.
"Well. Four days down the drain then."
"You'll start again."
"Will I? Because right now I feel like what's the point? My father's dying, I'm a disappointment, and I can't even…"
His phone rings.
He glances at the screen, frowns. "Unknown number." He answers anyway, listens for a moment, then holds it out to me. "It's for you."
I take the phone, confused. "Hello?"
"Marisol." Cesar's voice floods through, warm but strained. "Finally. I've been calling your phone all morning."
"Tío? How did you…" I trail off, realizing I don't even know how to ask how he got this number. "Sorry, my phone is dead. Is everything okay?"
"Your father gave me the Rosetti's contact when he arranged protection for you. Smart man, keeping tabs." He pauses, and I hear him take a breath. "It's Jorge, mija. He's asking for you. The doctors… They're not optimistic."
The warmth drains from my body, replaced by ice water. "How bad?"
"Bad enough that you should come today. Now, if you can."
My hand tightens on the phone. "I… yes. Of course. I'll be there."
"Good girl. I'll tell him you're coming. He'll be glad."
Good girl. The phrase sits wrong somehow, condescending in a way I can't quite identify. But my father is dying, and I don't have time to analyze why Cesar's pet names suddenly feel different. Maybe because I'd rather hear them from Nico.
I hand the phone back to Nico. My hands are shaking. Not from the hangover this time.
"I have to go. My father…"
"I heard. I'll drive you."
"You don't have to…"
"I'm not letting you go alone."
The certainty in his voice breaks something in me. Not letting me go alone. Like it's already decided. Like my well-being is his responsibility even when I'm just visiting my dying father.
"Nico…"
