Moments I can’t even begin to fathom, and yet, holding her as she shook in my arms from a panic attack, I felt the weight of them settle on my bones. They’re dark and heavy, like sinking into a barrel of tar.
How has she survived as long as she has?
I don’t know if I’m that strong—I don’t know anyone who is.
I push out of bed, slipping into a pair of gym shorts and running shoes, foregoing the shirt. The thought of anyone going through the kind of torture she described brings my blood to a feverish boil.
I’ve got to get out of here—get away from the vile world I knew existed but never experienced.
As silent as possible, I slip out of my room and slink down the hall to the front door. A light illuminates the kitchen, and for the briefest moment, I contemplate seeing who it is. Instead, I head outside into the pitch dark of the clouded Texas night, the cricket’s humming offering a comforting vibration skittering over my skin.
Running has always been my escape, my way of sorting through the mess my head becomes when I’m warring between what I know and how I feel.
I jog down the stairs and head straight for the green gate connecting the driveway and one of the pastures. As I move farther into the night, following along the barbwire fence, my breathing becomes labored, my mind emptying of anything beside the sounds of my thundering heart.
Out here, I’m not Rafael Santos Marteniz, a poor kid from an immigrant family that no longer exists because their mother was sick and his brothers were misguided and twisted. I’m not the man who hid in the dark and heard his brothers shot without intervening, or the one who sent their younger brother to fill hisplace in crime. I’m not the man who’s a disgrace to my mother, a disappointment to my brothers. I’m not the man who traded morals for secrets and depravity in the name of revenge.
I’m just a shadow, slicing through the night, running from the inevitable.
Sweat sluices down the crease of my crest, dripping from my temples and gathering around my waist. If I can run long enough, far enough, maybe I can sweat out every evil action, every misguided thought from my body and mind. Maybe when I return to the house, stepping into the chilled air conditioned space with the smell of a warm, home cooked meal still clinging to the air, I can be a different man.
But what kind of man do I want to be?
Pulling out my phone, I dial the familiar number and wipe the sweat from my brow as I wait for the machine to pick up. I close my eyes, breathing so heavily, I can barely form the words. “Mama, it’s me again. I know it’s been a while since I called, but I need your help. I’ve fallen off the tracks, just like I have so many times before, but this time is different. This time, I’ve hurt everyone I love—I’ve hurt you. And above all, I’ve hurt someone who’s the least deserving person I know.”
I smile, staring at the shadow of the house, barely visible in the inky night. “You’d like her, Mama. She’s got a venomous tongue and a mean streak—just like you said the right woman would. I’m scared of her, but more than that, I’m scared I’ve hurt her too bad to go back. I don’t know how to confess everything I’ve done. I don’t know how to make it right.” My voice cracks, and I gulp in air, my lungs burning. “I need your help, Mama. I miss you, and?—”
Beeeeeppp.
My time ends, the machine cutting me off. A tear races from the corner of my eye, and I don’t wipe it away. I end the call and slide the phone back into my pocket.
A cool breeze picks up at my back, and I close my eyes, leaning into its caress. In some way, I know it’s my mother—her reassuring hand on my back just like she always did, pushing me toward where I need to go.
I have to make things right.
When I finally make it back to the house, I’m drenched from head to toe. A cool shower, and a nap are a must before I tackle exactly how to tell Valentina the truth. I round the corner of the barn, shutting the gate behind me, and notice the streaks of pale light tearing across the horizon. It looks like fingers shredding the darkness, and I smile at the image of God pulling back the dark to reveal the light.
If he can transform true darkness into light, maybe there’s hope for me.
I’m lost in thought when I step around the barn and almost run into the car parked in front of the steps, its navy paint blending into the shadows. I freeze, listening for sounds of another person, but I come up with none.
Taking another hesitant step toward the vehicle, I strain my eyes to see through the glass. A figure sits in the driver seat, its head facing the house, clearly oblivious to my presence yet.
Could it be a late night booty call for Valentina? Someone McCrae knows?
Deciding it has to be someone my housemates know, I knock on the window. The figure whips his head to look at me, his face contorting into pure rage, the whites of his eyes flashing. Before I can make so much as another sound, the car revs to life, peeling out the driveway almost so quickly, I half question if it was real or a figment of my imagination.
I stare down the driveway, the dust nearly settled, my feet leaden. My heart pounds in my throat, dread settling over my bones.
“What the fuck are you doing?” The sound of a gun cocking behind me has me turning. I raise my hands in surrender—does he know?
“What do you mean?” I ask, playing dumb.
McCrae lowers the gun but doesn’t remove the bullet from the chamber, and I maintain my distance. “I mean, what the fuck are you doing? Why are you outside, making noise at this fucking hour? What are you up to?”
I stare down the driveway. “I went for a run.” I contemplate telling him about Valentina’s panic attack and decide against it. Some twisted part of me wants to be the one who’s there for her—the one to keep her secrets and listen to her story. “There was a man sitting in a car here when I got back. That’s the noise you heard.”
He huffs a laugh, more a puff of annoyed air than anything. “A man sitting in a car. How fucking convenient. Where’d he go? Is he invisible, Santos?”
