by Zoey Castile
I smile and shake my head. The way she pushes her hair back, the way she stares at me, as if her actions are so obvious, remind me so much of Faith. “You must not be impressed.”
She sets her hands on her lap and sighs. “You moved in with your aunt Cecilia Rios when you were sixteen after one month in a juvenile detention center for assault.”
I clench my teeth. Close my fist because sometimes I can still feel my father’s fists on my face. But I do what I do best. I brush it off. I smile. I shove my hurt down my throat like bitter medicine. “To be fair, my father had it coming.”
“Your father?”
“My mom was in hospice. He’d stolen her mother’s necklace and given it to someone else. I went to get it back.”
Her brows knit together in that way older women have when they feel sorry for me. Only Daria Charles isn’t a client. She’s a woman who has been touched by my mistakes.
“You dropped out of high school the following year.”
I nod. “We had to pay rent. Besides, I was getting tired of hearing I was good for nothing. I started dancing. Eventually I met Ricky, the owner of Mayhem City. Or rather, he found me. I was at this dive in Jackson Heights. I can’t believe I made it out of there alive. Gave me a good job. Good hours. Taught me how to shop for a suit.”
She nods along to my story. On paper, I’m not the kind of guy you bring home. To be fair, Faith never brought me home, and yet, here is her mother.
“And your side business,” she says in the most politically correct way she can.
I chuckle, mostly blushing because this isn’t some stranger. She’s the mother of the woman I’m in love with. “People get lonely. I tried my best to make sure that what I did was legal. And that no one got hurt.”
“You failed at the hurting people part this time,” she says.
I nod, and look down at the six beignets left in front of me. Three dozen really was too ambitious. Suddenly, I’m nauseous.
“Why are you still in New Orleans, Aiden?”
I dust sugar from my fingertips. “I guess, when I got here I was hiding. I couldn’t face my brothers but now that I have, I know that the right thing is to see this through.”
“And where does my daughter fit in this?”
I stare into her deep-brown eyes, and I find that if I looked at her long enough, I’d tell her everything she wanted to know about me. “Faith asked me to stay away from her. If that’s why you’re here, then you don’t have to worry. I shredded the photo she brought and then I set it on fire. Set off the fire alarm, too, and blamed it on my smoking. I—uh—don’t smoke, I just said that.”
She puts her hand up to save me from my rambling.
“Anyway, you don’t have to worry. I’m going to respect what she wants.”
“I’m not worried,” she says, and when she says that, I believe it.
For a long time we sit like this. She asks about my life and I tell her. We talk about her favorite books and we discover that we both have a collection of Chernow biographies. I know she’s fishing to see if I’m going to be trouble for her campaign. All I can do is show her who I am. An immigrant kid from the Caribbean coast of Colombia who dropped out of high school but still managed to make a life for himself. Even if it’s not the road others would have chosen.
At the end of our conversation, she takes the last beignet. “It’s a shame to waste these, son.”
“Believe me,” I say. “I haven’t wasted any of it.”
* * *
I stand when she does. She’s shorter than me, but I lower my head. When she places her hand on my cheek, it just feels good to have a mother’s touch, even if she isn’t mine.
“Promise me,” she says. “You’ll go.”
It hurts to say this, more than anything. But I say, “I promise.”
This is one I intend on keeping.
22
¿Dónde Estás, Corazón?
FAITH
I’m not keeping count, but it’s been six days since I walked out of that hotel room. Two days since I left Aiden standing in the middle of the street, bare chested and vulnerable after telling me that he’s sorry. That he loves me.
No, I’m not keeping count at all.
Instead, I’m bathing in mud.
“Why did I let you talk me into this?” I ask Angie. I’ve spent the last two days with her. We’re dipped in mud baths up to our throats, facing the spa’s window, which overlooks a huge garden lawn. Thankfully, we’re in the tubs inside because we cannot handle the mosquitos out there. “The ball is in seven hours and I still have to pick up my dress from the dry cleaners and get my hair done.”
Angie drinks her cucumber-lime water. Spa Palace is her favorite place. She usually drags me here when she’s stressed out about work or her shoulder is particularly bothering her. This time, I’m the one spiraling. Reorganizing my closet to donate clothes I haven’t worn in over a year. I bought a grill that has so many gadgets I don’t even know what to do with. I rented a floor waxer, and it’s still there in my mostly empty kitchen.
My mother and Raquel have both agreed that the best thing I could do for the campaign was keep a low profile. Every morning when I pick up my coffee, I grab a stack of newspapers and scour them for any hint of my name.
I did all the dutiful daughter things. Stood beside my mom during her speeches in the middle of Jackson Square. I smiled and nodded and agreed when people reminded me that my mother was strong and wonderful and would be the best thing for this city.
There has only been one incident where I had to see the Moreauxs. The hair on my arms bristled when I had to lean in and kiss Virginia’s cheek. Then, of all things, my mother placed her hand on my shoulder and stood with me. We didn’t talk about Aiden or what transpired. She was simply there for me, and I was there for her. It was something I wasn’t prepared for and I remind myself that everything my mother does is because she loves me.
“We can pick up your clothes on the way to the hair salon,” Angie says. “You’re looking for things to freak out about, Faith.”
“I am not.”
“You are, too.” She sets her drink on the wooden board between us. “Every time you’re anxious or stressed you give yourself more things to do. Then you’re like this little angry bee zipping back and forth, and anything around you gets stung.”
“A bee can only sting you once,” I say, and shoot her an unimpressed glare.
“Why don’t you just admit that you miss Aiden?”
“Because,” I say.
His name gives me a hot flash.
Just his name.
More than his name, actually.
I don’t close my eyes. If I do that, I’ll remember us. Instead, I stare at the glass wall and the trees out there, the women lounging around the pool with tiki torches lining the ground. Focusing on something else helps.
“Because admitting that I miss Aiden means that I’m not over him and I can’t accept that.”
“Faith, that boy is a wreck. He’s a zombie stumbling across the stage. It’s ruining my show.”
I chuckle. “So, what? I take him back so that you have a good season?”
“No. You talk to him because right now you’re punishing yourself.”
“How am I punishing myself?” I take my ice water filled with crushed petals and sip the flowery sweetness. “That makes no damn sense.”
“You’ve always done this. After you failed the bar, you bought a house that had no floors and a bathroom that was leaking.”
I frown. “It was a great investment in that neighborhood and it’s worth twice what I paid for it and the renovations.”
“When you broke up with Stuart after he proposed to you two years ago, you took a clerkship with your dad’s firm even though what you really wanted was to work at the refuge with Gladys.”
“That clerkship looks great on my résumé.” I drink ice water so quickly that it gives me brain freeze. “None of that changes the fact that Aiden lied to me. Even
if I do want him still, even if I—it doesn’t matter because I’ll always wonder if he’s going to do it again. I’ll have that in my heart and my memory and I don’t want to be one of those women who just turns the other cheek because she’s in love. Love isn’t enough.”
“Faith,” she says, voice full of guilt.
I set my water beside her and sink as far into the mud as I can without it touching the hair at my nape.
“Abbie,” she says. “I knew about Aiden and Virginia.”
Even though I don’t expect her to say that, I breathe deep and long, and the mud around me resists against the expansion of my body. “Everyone knew except for me, it seems. You’re right. I’m a terrible judge of character.”
“That night,” she says. “I saw them talking. I slapped him.”
I chuckle. “Thank you.”
“I told him to break it off or I’d tell you. I wanted to tell you, but then you were so happy. I haven’t seen you open up like that in so long. Your love was plain as a cloudless day, darlin’.”
I bite my lower lip. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re being as stubborn as your momma, bless her. You don’t want to see it but you’re the same person. And yet, your daddy still looks at her like she’s the sun to his moon. That’s how Aiden looks at you. When he’s not messing up a routine by forgetting a step.”
I know I’m as stubborn as my mother. “Aiden said he was afraid of becoming his dad and yet, here we are.”
“He recognizes that. You do, too. It’s one thing if he looked in the mirror, said it, and then kept making the same mistakes.”
“I don’t know how to accept his love,” I finally say. “I’m scared of it. When I’m scared of something, I can conquer it. But this? I can’t conquer this. I can’t fix it or beat it. That’s not a feeling I’m comfortable with.”
“Oh, Abbie. You’re not supposed to conquer love. If you go in thinking it’s a war, then you’re never going to win. You embrace it, but only if you want it and it wants you back. Believe me, this time, it wants you back.”
We stay in the mud bath for a bit longer, enjoying each other’s presence. I’m still unraveling the strings in my heart, hoping none of the threads break.
As promised, Angie drives me to the laundry to get my dress, and then we get our hair done. She gets a wash and an updo that makes her look even taller than she already is. I keep it simple with soft waves parted at the center.
When we get to my house, she curses. “I left my shoes at home. I’ll be right back.”
“Why don’t you just pick them up on the way?”
Angie gives me an incredulous side-eye. “I’m not driving tonight. If I’m going to be your date, your ass is ordering a car service so we can both partake in the fancy champagne.”
With that, she’s gone and I’m going up my porch, fishing for my keys.
There’s a package on the porch chair. I look around the area, but other than Mrs. Friedman out for her evening power walk, the street is empty. My heart seizes at the thought of it being another mystery package from Betty LePaige.
The package is wrapped in brown butcher’s paper, and my name is scrawled in sure, strong letters. FAITH.
My movements are robotic, hand turning the key, walking inside, kicking off my shoes, and sitting at my kitchen table—all from muscle memory because I know beyond anything that this package is from Aiden.
I carefully unwrap the package. Blink. Aiden pulling down the zipper of my dress.
I push the paper apart. Blink. Aiden parting my legs with his hands.
I open the pale wooden box. Blink. Aiden pushing deep inside me.
The box is light to the touch, like those shadow boxes you get at voodoo shops in the Quarter. Only instead of it being filled with straw and crystals and tiny painted porcelain skulls, there’s a single piece of paper and a red velvet baggie.
The card is one sided, thick and soft to the touch. The initials RR are stamped in the corner, and immediately I know it’s Ricky’s stationery. Aiden wouldn’t have stationery. But he would have a wooden box, and he’d have sloppy, almost indecipherable handwriting.
I brace myself as I read.
Dear Faith,
This has weighed me down all my life. My mother told me to give it to the woman I loved. I can’t imagine anyone else having it. No matter what. No strings attached. Adiós, mi reina. Mi vida.
Aiden
I press the card to my chest for a long time. Mi reina. My queen. I don’t know what the other word is, but I set the card down for the baggie. I hold my hand out and drop its contents on my palm.
A glittering citrine set in a vintage gold pendant and delicate chain. I trace the jagged cut edges with my thumb. Something like this must have meant everything to Aiden.
And yet, I find myself putting it on. It sits delicately in the spot between my collarbones. I stare at myself in the mirror and try to see the woman who owned this. Aiden’s mother, the only person he loved more than anything.
I pick up my phone and call him. It’s like the gem is in my throat as it rings and rings and rings.
Just like that I’m angry that he’s given this to me. Thrust this on my doorstep today. I pick up the card again. It’s not dated.
I look at that word again. Adiós. Good-bye.
I grab my keys and speed all the way to the hotel. How can he just leave this here? It could have been stolen. What if I never noticed it? My fist lands on the horn to get through traffic almost until I’m in front of the hotel.
“I won’t be long,” I tell the valet, who recognizes me.
I march up to the reception desk. “Can I have the room number for Aiden Rios or Aiden Peñaflor? Please, it’s urgent.”
The girl looks around the room, as if she’s afraid of being caught.
“Please,” I say.
She types in the name. “I’m sorry, Miss Charles.”
“Please.” I don’t even care if she knows who I am. If she’ll tell others.
“It’s not that. I can’t tell you his room. Mr. Rios checked out yesterday morning. I called a car service for him myself.”
“To where?”
“The airport, Miss Charles.”
I whirl around because I don’t want her to see the way tears sting my eyes.
“Are you all right, Miss Charles?”
Breathe. Count to ten. I do all the things I’ve learned to do to cope. I turn to look at her, and I find my words are failing me. So I nod and leave.
* * *
Angie is on my porch when I pull my car in the driveway behind hers.
“What the hell happened?” she asks. “I was about to call the cops. I was going to break your window with a rock.”
I shake my head. “I forgot something.”
“What did you forget?”
I forgot my heart. This bloody, messy, terrible thing in my chest. “Aiden.”
Her anger leaves in an instant, and then she’s holding me until I finally let myself cry. I tell her about the necklace and that when I got to the hotel he was already gone.
“I didn’t know,” Angie says. “There was no rehearsal yesterday. Maybe he’s coming back. Maybe he just went to Vegas or New York.”
I pull out of her hold and wipe the corners of my eyes. This is what I wanted, and now that I have it, I regret everything I did to push him away. I can still call him. I can still—
I shake my head. No. I asked him to stay away from me. I told him to pretend I don’t exist. My words were drenched in hurt and anger. Now all that’s left is a second heartbreak of my own making.
“No,” I say. “No. Now I know. I have to let him go.”
23
Here I Go Again
AIDEN
“Are you sure this is something you want to do?” Ricky asks me.
“I’m positive,” I say, taking his hand in mine. In front of us is a set of signed contracts. “Thank you, Ricky. I mean it. I won’t let you down.”
<
br /> He squeezes my hand. “I don’t give second chances easily, my boy.”
I tense as the force of his shake threatens to break my bones. I smile and slap his arm. “I know. Believe me. It’s good to be back. I need this. But first . . .”
“You’re going to go get your girl?”
“Actually, I have to go to New York.”
Ricky smooths his beard with his index finger and thumb. “What for?”
“I haven’t seen my mom in a while,” I say. “Actually, in five years.”
“We have a show in two weeks,” Ricky says.
“I’ll be there.” I point to the contracts. “You already signed. No backsies. Don’t worry. You won’t even know I’m gone.”
I grab my bags, head to the front desk, and check out.
* * *
New York feels different because I’m different. The wind is too cold. I should’ve worn a jacket. I should’ve shaved.
But my mother wouldn’t have cared if I shaved.
“It’s okay, papito,” my tía Ceci says, holding my hand as we walk into St. Mary’s cemetery in Queens.
She’s exactly as I remember. Same shoulder-length hair she dyes blond every three weeks. Same bright top showing more cleavage than I was comfortable with as a teenage boy. Her heeled boots barely bring her to my shoulder, but somehow it feels like she’s holding me up.
I get up to the headstone for Amada Helena Rios, querida madre y hermana. The grass is well taken care of and there’s an old bunch of roses Tía Ceci must have brought last month. She always comes on the third of every month to visit her sister without fail.
I remember the day when I stopped coming. It was the first time I got punched in the face by somebody’s husband. My head was full of my mother’s face—disappointed, disheartened, disillusioned with me—and I just stopped visiting.
My chest hurts with the cold air, car exhaust thick even within these rows of dead. Cemeteries even feel different than they do down in New Orleans.
Tía Ceci stands back while I talk to her. My mother’s English was never very good, so I speak in Spanish. I place my hand on the headstone and it takes me three tries before I can say, “Pues, Mamá. Ya pasó. La conocí.”