Camille introduces us. "Simon, this is Chevy. He's a firefighter with Aiden, Beth’s boyfriend."
Simon glares at me as if I'm a threat…cold eyes, clenched jaw, and a hostility so sharp I can feel it from across the room.
"Hey, man. Nice to meet you. Your mom tells me you're into basketball?"
His gaze cuts to Camille, then back to me, and his voice is flat: "She shouldn't be telling youanythingabout me."
The words land like a sucker punch. Camille's face flushes. She starts to say something—"Simon, that's not—" but he'salready looking at his phone, conversation over. Dismissed by a seventh grader.
I play it cool. I smile, and pivot to small talk with Camille while she grabs her purse.
But as we walk to my truck, she's apologizing—"I'm so sorry, he's not usually—" and I stop her with a hand on her arm.
"Hey. Don't worry. He doesn't know me yet."
“But he still needs to be respectful. He knows his manners.” She looks gutted, and I pull her into a hug in the driveway.
The date is great, but something lodged in my ribs during that exchange with Simon, and I can't shake it.
Because I was Simon. I was that kid at twelve years old, angry at a world that felt like it was rearranging itself without my permission.
I remember watching my mom come home from her second job and thinking:If another man shows up trying to be my dad, I'll burn the house down.Nobody came. Mami never let anyone close enough. But the impulse, the crazed protectiveness, the terror of one more person leaving—I know exactly what that boy is feeling.
And I walked into his house disguised as the thing he fears most: some random guy who might make his mom happy for a little while and then leave.
Things escalate over the next few days. Camille tries to manage both of us, but Simon digs in. He won't speak to her about me. He won't be in the room if my name comes up.
And then, he detonates.
Camille calls me at 10 p.m. on a Wednesday, and she's crying so hard I can barely understand her.
"He said…” she hiccups. "He said if I want to date some random dude, I can do it without him. He’s going to live with Javi. Full-time."
The words hit me like a beam through a floor.
"Cam—"
"Maybe we need to slow down. Maybe this was too fast. I can't do this to him, Chevy. He's my son."
I close my eyes. "I know."
"I'm sorry. I don't know what to do."
After we hang up, I sit on my couch, the TV on, but I’m not paying attention.
My worst fear is staring me in the face:I'mthe complication.I’mthe variable that makes her life harder…the man who showed up and brought in a mess instead of comfort.
My father's voice (or what I've imagined it sounds like) whispers from somewhere deep:Just leave. It's easier for everyone if you just go.
I call it the coward's arithmetic—subtract yourself from the equation and the problem solves itself.
And for a full, ugly minute, I consider it.
I could text her something noble about giving her space. I could pull back and let her focus on Simon and tell myself it's the selfless move. I could disappear the way Torres men do. Maybe itisgenetic, maybe the leaving is in the blood, maybe I was kidding myself to think I could be different.
Then I think about whatCursive&Caffeinewrote to me weeks ago, late at night, in the dark, with all her armor down:That I'll always be the one taking care of everyone else, and no one will ever take care of me.
And what I said back:Then let me take care of you.
