Armando just stood and snuggled in his arms, his soft breath in his neck. Not saying a word, sitting in his lap, melted against his chest. Damian just stroked his back, lost a bit in his emotions, his mind racing, feeling drained a bit. He closed his eyes in that soft silence, at the warmth of the sleeping child, the letter plummeting from his hand to the floor as he fell asleep.
He woke with the sun setting, blinking that slumber away. Armando playing at his feet, silent. He sat up, yawning. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
Armando pushed his cars around. “We don’t wake Mamá up when she is asleep.”
His words were like a chilled blade on Damian’s heart. He stood and sat next to Armando, tipping his chin up to look into his eyes. “But you can wake me up, okay? Don’t stay alone.”
Armando nodded but didn’t answer, gone back to that silent play. Damian stood and picked his phone up. No calls. He sent a message though to Harry, smiling, a plan there which was taking shape. His eyes darted back to the boy’s slender shoulders, his thin body.
He crouched down to him. “Did Mamá or abuela take you to the doctor?”
Armando shook his head and looked at him. “The doctor was at school.”
“Did you go?”
“Sometimes…”
“What do you say if we both went? I could use a doctor.”
“You’re sick?”
“No. But I have not been for a long time. What do you say?”
Armando shrugged. “Okay.”
But where to go? Fuck…Pretty sure he didn’t want to go back to his family doctor. He dialed reception and asked for a doctor’s address. A private medical center. Booking appointments for both of them for the next day, his name opening doors which remained closed to others.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to eat?”
“Spaghetti.”
“Oh, nice…” He picked up the phone and ordered it, but asked for a salad and some grilled meat for himself.
Armando climbed in his chair, leaning his head on his hands. “You don’t like spaghetti?”
“I can’t eat that many carbs… uh… pasta…”
“Why?”
“It makes me fat.”
Armando mused. “Will I be fat?”
“You should be… a bit fatter.” Remembering suddenly what he had said many times to Cassie, that tidal wave of shame washing over him. He sat to face the small boy. “Forget it. You like pasta? You eat pasta. That’s it.”
“But you don’t?”
“No. It makes my stomach hurt. There was no pasta on the island.”
“So… what was there?”
“Animals, fish, crabs, lobsters… sometimes birds…”Pigs…But he kept quiet, knowing what that pig meant to Armando.
“And you cooked them? How?”
