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More sobbing.
“Mom, I can’t understand you. What happened?”
“He’s gone, Isabella.” Mom’s tone is desolate, and my whole body goes rigid with fear.
“Who’s gone?”
“Tony left me.” The moan is slurred enough that I know that she’s been drinking. “He left me, Isabella. Just left. He took all my money and he left. Told me I was worthless.”
“Isn’t Paloma home? Can’t she—”
“Don’t you dare abandon me now, Isabella. I’ll never forgive you.”
I close my eyes tightly, taking a deep breath as my mood spirals into a dark pit. “Okay. I’ll be there soon. Just don’t do anything until I get there, okay? I’m coming.”
I hang up before she can get any more vitriol out. I stand there, willing myself out of the darkness and anger that has me shaking.
“Is everything okay?” Sebastian asks with genuine concern in his voice.
“I’m so sorry. I have to go.” I start pulling myself together, putting back on the clothes he just removed. “It’s my mom. She’s just… I have to… she needs…”
There is no way to describe what a mess my family is in only a few words. Besides, I don’t really want him to know.
“I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow. Or I guess today, later.” I shove my feet back into my heels, drop my phone into my purse, and head to the elevator. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you later.”
Sebastian comes to stand next to me as the doors slide open.
“I know my way out. You don’t have to—”
“I’ll drive you there.”
“What?”
“It’s two in the morning. I’m not going to let you go across the city alone. She still lives in Harlem, I assume?”
“No, the Bronx. I’m fine, really. You don’t have to come. I’ll be okay.”
But Sebastian is already striding into the elevator. “I’m taking you.”
He’s on the phone, calling for a car.
It’s not up for discussion.
16
ISABELLA
We drive to the Bronx in silence. I wouldn’t know what to say, even if I wanted to talk, which I don’t. Instead, I keep my face pointed out the window, watching the city go by in a blur of neon through windows tinted so dark, they paint a deep blue haze over everything.
“It’s the third house on the left,” I manage to say through a dry mouth as the driver turns onto the street.
“You said you grew up in Harlem?” Sebastian asks.
“Mom moved here after we all moved out. She wanted a house.”
I don’t tell him that I’m the one who gave her the down payment.
I look around at the other homes on the block, mostly dark, save for the occasional flickering blue light of a TV. We slow in front of a small house with a dingy brick exterior and a wrought-iron porch. The paint is peeling from the white window frames, and there’s a visible hole in the screen door.
