“Was he?” I fire back. “Or is he just another product of that environment?”
She looks away and exhales slowly.
I pull out the chair beside her and sit, the fight draining enough for the truth to slip through.
“Bud’s sick,” I confess, “Like really sick. He has cancer in his liver.”
Her head snaps up. “Efren, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I just—I’ve been thinking lately. What if we just get out of here? Go with Bud to Corpus Christi and leave all this bullshit behind? We could open that coffeeshop we talked about.”
Her smile is immediate. Real. And then it fades.
“I want that,” she says. “I really do. But I can’t.”
“Can’t,” I repeat. “Or won’t?”
“I’ve worked so hard to figure out my past. I can’t just leave right now. Not when I’m so close to figuring out the truth.”
I release her hand and pull back. Her words cut me like a thousand tiny knives. She sees my hurt and reaches back for my hand.
“Efren.” My name falls from her lips like a plea.
“No.” I stand, the words burning their way out of me now. “This has gone on too long. Missy kidnapped you. Your real parents didn’t try hard enough to find you. And I’m over here moving heaven and hell for us, and it’snever enough. It’s never fucking enough for you.”
“That’s not fair.” Tears spill into her eyes.
“You’re right,” I say hoarsely. “It’s not. And I’m done being the only one who sacrifices everything.”
“Efren,” she pleads, her voice cracking.
“If you want to stay here, fine. But I’m done with this family. All of them. I’m not going to do this shit.”
I step back, grab my keys, and slam the door behind me before I say something I can’t take back.
_______
After my fight with Alma, I drive for a few hours to clear my head. Somehow, I end up at Los Peregrino’s Motorcycle Club with Ricky glued to one side of me and Silas plastered to the other.
Sober Silas is one of the craziest motherfuckers I know.
Drunk Silas? One of the most emotional.
“We’rebothin the doghouse tonight,Pa!” he announces to the whole fucking bar, slapping me hard on the back before barking.
I wince.
I should be back at the penthouse, reading Alma a book and cuddling with her on the couch. Not here watching Silas fill up another round of shots and slide them toward me and Ricky like he’s dealing cards. We’ve already knocked out half a bottle of Don Julio 1942, and I can feel myself edging toward that blurry place where bad ideas start to sound reasonable. Silas, of course, is way past that.
He’d been here for hours before calling me for a ride. Then he convinced me to come inside “for one drink.” Now we’re both too drunk to drive, and Ricky’s just happy to get some time away from Lurch.
“Women,” Silas says solemnly, lifting his glass. “They suck your fucking soul out, man.”
He demonstrates, curling his fingers toward his mouth and making a dramatic slurping noise like he’s extracting a demon from inside him. I stare at him, and Ricky snorts.
“And yet you’ll still crawl back, begging her to forgive you every time,” a voice says behind us. I look up to see one of the club members patting Silas on the back.
“Aye! Hermano sit down. Take a drink,” Silas replies. The man sits on the empty seat next to Silas.
