“I used to do the same thing. I always tried to imagine the narrative inside each car or home. If their families were like the ones we saw on television or more like mine, a shambled mess.” She shifts on the couch, leaning into the cushions. Her arm is up against mine now, and the softness of her skin sends a spark through me. “It always amazed me how so many people could coexist with varying realities, in the same cities and on the same blocks, but know nothing about one another’s struggles. When I’d see them walk to their cars, laughing, I couldn’t help but be envious. Giggles and smiles were at a shortage in my house.”
The similarities of our childhood surprise me. Worlds apart, yet two kids around the same age, wondering who had better lives than they did.
“Is that what you’re thinking about now? Your childhood?”
“Not really. Each car that passes, I’m just wondering if they’re happy or sad. If they’re heading to a party or home after a long day.” She closes her eyes. “Or if they have a mom with cancer.”
I run my fingers softly across the back of her hand. “I’m sorry.”
She stills and I’m expecting her to yank her arm away. But instead, she opens her eyes and looks right into mine. “Thanks.”
I want to look away, but I can’t. It feels like she can see through to my soul, into all the stubborn, unflattering parts I want to hide. I barely know her but she already feels familiar, and it makes me want to be reckless.
Then she breaks eye contact, resting her head on the couch cushion and staring up at the ceiling of the bus. “Your dad died when you were young, right?”
I lean my head back, too. “Young enough. I was eighteen. But my relationship with him ended a long time before that. We never got along. He was selfish and a mean drunk. Nothing was ever good enough for him, especially me.” I press my lips together. I don’t usually talk about my dad. Most days, I try to forget him.
“My dad wasn’t great, either,” she says softly. “He was a gambler and a drinker, wasted all of our money, then decided our life wasn’t enough for him. He ended up cheating on my mom,” she confesses. “It was a few years before she realized it. Or at least, till she had proof she couldn’t deny any longer. She didn’t even get a chance to kick him out. He did that all on his own, claiming his new life was better than his worn-down wife and dramatic daughters. He’s been with that woman for fifteen years now and they have two kids of their own.”
“I wish my dad would have left.” I can see her look at me out of the corner of my eye, but I continue staring up. “He was the kind of man who thought roughing up his wife was totally acceptable.” She gasps, but I keep going. Getting this out feels…not good, necessarily, but important. “One of the last conversations I had with him was in the form of fists flying. He’d come home drunk as usual. I can’t even remember what my mom said to piss him off. Something stupid like ‘don’t wear your shoes into the house.’ But that was enough to send him over the edge.” I run my hand through my hair and let out a bitter chuckle. “I was nose to nose with him at this point. And pretty stocky. I got in front of him and wouldn’t let him pass. He got pissed and started swinging. Got me good a few times, but I was too angry to feel it.” I shake my head, the memories bitter in my mouth. “I didn’t stop till I laid him out.”
“Anthony…” she says. Her hand squeezes my arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“That wasn’t the worst part. It was the look of horror on Mamá’s face. I don’t think she thought I had it in me.” I finally turn to face her. My vision is blurred with pain but I don’t try to hide it. It feels good to let Darya see me for who I am. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like my dad than in that moment.”
She’s already shaking her head. “I don’t think you’re like him at all.”
“How would you know? You don’t really know me.”
“Maybe,” she answers. “But that kind of hatred isn’t easy to hide. And when I look at you, I know it doesn’t live inside you.”
The tightness in my chest loosens. For the first time in a long time I feel seen.
“What about your dad?” I change the subject. “Do you still talk to him?”
“No. I never really wanted to. He betrayed my mom. Well, all of us really. That was enough to make me not care. Besides, Niloo hates him so much that if I ever tried to talk to him, she’d probably disown me before Maman did.”
“Probably for the best. Seems like the two of you came out of all that strong. Your mother must be amazing.”
When she smiles, warmth stirs inside of me. “Yeah, she is.”
“Maybe someday I’ll get to meet her.”
It’s a bold statement, one that clearly takes her by surprise—hell, I’m surprised I even said it—but the sparkle in her eyes gives me hope. I don’t know what exactly I’m hoping for, but the feeling’s there anyway.
Carlos bounces into the seat to her left and ruins everything. He flings his arm around her shoulder, simultaneously swatting me. Impeccable timing as usual.
“What’s this boy boring you with?” Carlos asks. “Why are you depressing my doctor lady, bro? She’s too pretty to look this serious.” He leans in close to her ear and all I can think about is how I want to be that close to her right now. “I’m the better brother, everyone knows that.”
He playfully shoves me again. Realizing the moment is completely lost, I launch across Darya, shoving him back as she gets stuck in the crossfire. As I grab for Carlos’s head, he springs off the couch and bounces away. I’m quick on his heels. We wrestle our way down the tour bus, Mateo and Hugo egging us on. Travis sits in the front seat, facing forward, unaffected by our childish behavior. Darya moves over beside Mike, linking her arm through his and leaning back on the seat as the two of them watch us, and the bright smile on her face is everything.
…
The city lights shine through the window beside my bunk, one long line that glows as the bus keeps moving down the highway. I’m not sure where we are exactly—it’s too dark to read the signs. I bet Travis is still sitting beside the driver, on his eighth cup of coffee, babysitting. It’s not part of his job, but I can guarantee he’s there. He has this fierce need to control his surroundings. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but he’s told me about losing some men on a mission when he was in the military. My guess is that’s where his work ethic comes from.
It’s two in the morning, everyone having gone to their respective buses and bunks a few hours ago when we stopped for gas. I can’t sleep, too busy thinking about the international tour the guys can’t stop talking about. Even on this comfy mattress with a thousand thread count sheets. How the hell am I going to manage another six months on the road? Overseas, to make it worse. And Emmanuel will probably have another tour lined up as soon as we get home. We’ve got to get into the studio, too. Record another album before our label gets pissed that we’re doing the same songs every show. I don’t know when they think we’re going to have time if they’ve got Emmanuel keeping us on the road.
I’m not sure I have that many more years left in me. Shit, I don’t even know if I have the six months of our tour in me, if I’m honest. But no matter how badly I’d love to throw in the towel, go back home, and live a quiet life, the guys would never go for it. I can see Carlos’s face if I try to tell him I’m done. He’d be so upset. I don’t know if I can do that to him.
Suddenly, I hear something thump to the floor. Even though I’m sure Travis is already checking on it, I roll out of my bunk, needing a distraction. I don’t bother pulling on a shirt. I try to be quiet, not wanting to wake the guys sleeping in the bunks nearby, and tiptoe down the hall.
I head into the living quarters in search of the sound and find Darya standing against the sink in the kitchen, no Travis in sight. The water is running and she’s washing dishes in her sweats. She’s humming to herself and I could swear it’s one of our songs. She’s so peaceful as
she bobs her head to the music.
“What are you doing?” I ask quietly, trying not to scare her. It doesn’t work, because she jumps and the dish she’s holding slides into the sink.
“Oh, sorry. Did I wake you when I dropped the cup earlier? It didn’t break or anything, but it was kind of loud.”
As if I care if she breaks something. “No, I was already awake. What are you doing in here?”
She lifts her soapy hand out of the sink. “Washing dishes.” She raises a brow like I’m obviously asking a stupid question. It’s adorable.
“I can see that.” I chuckle. “But at two in the morning?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she says.
“Okay. But why wash dishes? Why not watch TV?” I point to the flatscreen. “And we have someone to do that when we get to our next location.”
“No way I’d make it that long.” She shakes her head and looks at me like “how the hell would you make it that long?” I start laughing.
But then I look around and realize she’s cleaned…everything. The pillows have been neatly placed back on the couches, the coffee table has been cleared of cups and the card game we were playing earlier, and even the throw blankets have been nicely folded.
“You cleaned the whole bus?” I gape at her. “Why?”
She huffs and shuts off the water, placing the last dish in the rack. Then she grabs a towel and starts drying off all the stuff she just cleaned. There’s a huge pile of plates, cups, bowls, and utensils. When did everyone make such a mess?
“If you must know, I’ve been waiting for everyone to fall asleep so I could clean, okay? Travis refused to leave, of course, but he hustled to his room when I threatened to sic my sister on him the next time she calls.” She smiles to herself, then shakes her head. “Anyway. It’s my thing. I like order. And I can’t go to bed with a messy house. Or tour bus or whatever. Messes stress me out.”
She narrows her eyes and I have the feeling she’s waiting for me to make fun of her, but mostly I’m trying not to laugh at the image of Travis hightailing it out of the room so he wouldn’t have to talk to a woman. I grab a towel out of the cabinet and start helping her dry.
“Aren’t you going to make fun of me for being so anal?” she asks.
“Nope,” I answer. “Matter of fact, I wish everyone was as organized as you.”
We stand side by side in the kitchen and clean up in comfortable silence until everything is returned to its place. Once she’s satisfied, I walk her back to our bunks.
“Thanks for helping me clean,” she says.
“Sorry we made such a mess.”
“Ah, boys. You’re all gross by nature,” she jokes.
She stares at me for a moment like she wants to say something else but decides not to. I think she’s about to climb into her bunk when she hugs me instead. She draws me close, her body pressing into mine. Her breath quickens and I can feel her heart beating against my chest. She doesn’t say a word, just holds me in the darkness.
I can smell the floral scent of her hair. It fills my lungs with its sweetness, and I pull her in tighter. Her body is warm and inviting; I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed a woman’s touch. I feel myself go hard in response but I shift so I don’t freak her out. Darya is so much more than a quick fuck. She’s the kind of woman I’d introduce to Mamá.
“Good night, Anthony,” she whispers before pulling away.
“Good night Darya.”
I watch as she slowly slips into her bunk and slides the curtain closed behind her.
Chapter Twenty
Darya
I shut the door to Maman’s room, welcoming the soft click that echoes off the walls of the hall. I leave behind the tired, yellowed body lying beneath the sheets and the gentle whistle the air makes as it passes through her lungs. The exhaustion that claims my limbs as I drag myself into the living room, plopping down on the couch beside Niloo, feels like lead threaded through my veins.
Niloo’s head rests back on the edge of the cushion, her eyes closed. She’s breathing peacefully and I think she’s sleeping, until she speaks.
“I’m so tired.”
I sigh. “I know, me too.”
“This is so hard. How are we getting through the next six treatments? This is only the second one and she’s ten times worse than the last time.”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
I don’t tell her that she may have to deal with the rest of them on her own. Anthony was gracious enough to offer me time off to be home for Maman’s chemo, but I don’t want to make this a constant breach of contract. Yes, we have a sub for when I’m gone, but I made a commitment to Carlos and this job, and I keep my word. But I’m too tired to deal with another one of Niloo’s panic attacks tonight, so I leave the subject alone. Maybe I’ll get Khaleh to come and stay with her. My aunt will be a good support for Niloo. I make a mental note to call her in the morning.
“I’m so glad you were able to come home for a few days. I really needed you.”
“I know, me too.” I reach out and squeeze Niloo’s arm.
“How many shows are you missing?”
“Just the one in Austin. We had a few days in between shows so I’ll be flying in to meet them in Houston.”
“Look at you, sounding all famous with your tour schedule.” She grins and her happiness warms my heart. “Tell me something good.”
“Like what?”
“Like, how amazing is Carlos’s butt? Is it as glorious as it looks in his videos?”
“You’re weird,” I laugh.
She turns to face me, curling her arms around one of the gray throw pillows Maman has used to accent her couch.
“Seriously, is he as hot in real life as he is on TV?”
I roll my eyes.
She reaches out and shoves me in return. “What is the point of having my sister on tour with Ternura if I don’t get any insider scoop?” She throws her arms up. “You’re really ruining this for me.”
“Yes. He’s as good-looking as he appears.”
“Do you get to talk to them? Like, do you actually hang out with them?”
“Not all the time, but yeah, I do.”
“You’re so lucky!” she squeals. “What are they like?”
I lean back on the arm of the couch, grabbing my own pillow, so I’m facing her. “They’re actually really cool, to be honest. Not at all what you’d expect watching them up onstage. They seem all bad-boy and tough when they’re performing, but they’re super sweet.” Especially Anthony.
“Tell me about Carlos.”
“He’s young,” I say. “He’s always messing around or joking. He and Anthony wrestle like they’re kids. But they love each other fiercely. It’s really endearing.”
“I hate you right now.” Niloo sighs, hugging the pillow tighter to her chest. “I wish I could be there with them.”
“Well, maybe I can get them to let you come to a show.”
Her face lights up dreamily, but just as quickly, her features collapse into a scowl. “How am I going to do that? I can’t leave Maman.”
“Yes you can. She won’t feel this bad all the time. Just when she gets her treatments. Let me check with Anthony and see what the show schedule looks like. They have so many stops, I’ve lost track. We’ll figure something out.” Maman’s health will slowly decline the more treatments she undergoes, but my sister needs this. And I’ll figure out a way to give it to her. “It’ll be fun. You’ll get to meet the entire band.”
“Anthony?” she smirks. “You guys are on a first-name basis now?”
The thought of him causes a warmth to stir inside me, and the heat flushes my cheeks. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just easier than saying Mr. Castillo every five minutes.”
“You see him every five minutes?!”
“No! You know what
I mean.”
“Uh-huh.” She points at me. “You like him, don’t you? You’re blushing.”
“He’s my boss.”
“I wish he were my boss.”
Just as I’m about to come up with a witty rebuttal, we hear Maman coughing loudly from the bedroom. We both jump to our feet, heading to the rescue. Sadly, thoughts of Anthony and Carlos are lost to the reality of our sick mother.
She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, gasping while she tries to catch her breath in between each forceful wheeze. Her back shakes violently as it claims her lungs, transforming into dry heaving, and finally, puking into the bucket we’ve left beside her bed. Niloo kneels by her side, trying to keep her steady in an attempt to avoid a pile of vomit to clean up later. I pull Maman’s hair up and rub her back. Her ribs bounce beneath my fingertips, so much more apparent than just a few weeks ago.
“Everything hurts.”
The coughing is killing her. It’s making her muscles sore and causing her to feel worse. I don’t know if the puking is because of the chemo or the violent bouts of hacking up her lungs.
When she’s finally done, Niloo helps her to the bathroom to clean up while I gather loose tissues that have fallen to the floor among the chaos. I survey the bed to make sure there’s no stray vomit I need to deal with. As I pick up the last of the napkins, a bold red streak greets me. My heart lurches into my throat.
Blood.
We settle Maman back into bed and I tuck the covers around her. She smiles wearily at me, reaching out and placing her soft fingers against my cheek.
“I’m so happy you’re home, dokhtaram. I’ve missed you.” She lovingly rubs my skin like she did when I was younger. Nostalgia aggressively lodges itself in between my ribs. I wish for a time when things were simpler. Or at least different. What we witnessed between Maman and Dad was a walk in the park in comparison to watching my mother battle cancer. I have to pinch back the tears pushing against my lids. I won’t cry, not now, not where Niloo can see me. I need to be strong regardless of how deflated I really feel.
Set to Music Page 10