Page 36 of Loco

Roque came home two days later.

The second I saw him, my heart stopped. He looked like he hadn’t slept since the moment he’d left. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed in red, his face pale and drawn. His shoulders sagged like the weight of the world had finally broken him. There was a hollowness in his expression I’d never seen before—like something inside him had been stripped away, piece by piece.

There was so much I wanted to say.Why didn’t you answer your phone? Where the hell were you? Are you okay?But none of those questions mattered in the face of what I saw in front of me, so I just opened my arms.

He didn’t say a word as he stepped into them. He wrapped me up in a hug so tight I could barely breathe, lifting me right off the ground like he needed to physically anchor himself to something before he came undone.

And I let him.

I didn’t speak, didn’t ask, didn’t prod. I just held on, giving him the space to feel what he needed to feel, knowing that words would come when they were ready.

And then, after a long silence, I felt his breath stutter against my neck. His voice was raw, wrecked, broken into something unrecognizable.

“They’re gone. Kemble and Aislinn, they’re dead.”

My eyes stung immediately, and I gripped him tighter as he slowly set me back down on the floor. I didn’t let go of his hand as I guided him to the couch, and when he sat down, I climbed into his lap, straddling him so he couldn’t hide from the safety I was offering. His hands went instinctively to my hips, but there was no tension in them—just the tremble of a man holding himself together with whatever scraps he had left.

That was when he broke.

He dropped his head, burying his face against my chest as the first sob tore out of him. He cried like I hadn’t seen someone cry in a long time—shoulders shaking, breath catching, everything raw and unfiltered. And all I could do was hold him and let my tears fall silently into his hair.

My heart ached for him. For the pain he was drowning in. For the friend he’d lost and the way he’d lost him.

Then he started talking, his words coming out sounding painful through the tightness in his throat, his body still shaking as he held back his tears. It was a tragedy that should never have happened. So preventable and so devastating.

I didn’t even realize I was speaking until the words whispered past my lips. “The kids… Roque, what about the kids?”

His head tilted back slowly. His face was wet with tears, and when he rested it against the back of the couch, he looked like he’d aged ten years over his current thirty-six in the last forty-eight hours.

“They made me their guardian,” he said hoarsely. “They had the paperwork on the wall, framed. CPS confirmed it a couple of days ago. I wanted to call you, but I forgot my charger, and I lost track of time while I was sitting next to their beds.”

My breath caught. My eyes stung even harder. “Oh, Roque…”

He nodded, rubbing at his face before letting his hands fall to my sides. His touch was gentle as his thumbs moved up and down, grounding himself in the motion.

“Kairo’s almost three,” he said softly. “He’s a quiet kid. Smooth and observant. He doesn’t say much, but when hedoes, it lands. An old soul in a little body. And Kaida… Jesus, that girl’s got fire. Eighteen months and already taking over every room she’s in. Loud. Laughing. All personality.”

I smiled through the tears, the images forming clearly in my mind. Roque had shown me pictures during the storm and told me stories that painted them so vividly that it felt like I already knew them. Even in their tiny bodies, there’d be echoes forever of their parents—little reflections of Kemble and Aislinn, living on in the smallest expressions, personalities, and gestures.

“They were groggy when I got there,” he continued. “Sluggish and scared. But the doctors said the blankets probably saved them. The tests came back decent, considering. But they’re improving and will be released in a few days once the levels in their blood normalize.”

He looked up at me then, tired eyes searching mine. “I need to bring them home. Soon. But I don’t even know what I’m doing. I don’t know if the house is right or if mylifeis right for this. The job, the hours, the shit I deal with…”

His hands squeezed gently at my waist.

“And then there’s you.” His voice cracked. “How do you feel about all this?”

I didn’t answer right away, I couldn’t. My heart was a mess—twisted with grief for him, aching for those kids who’d never get to grow up with their parents, and spinning with the reality of what this all meant.

“They’re never going to remember the little things,” I whispered. “Not really. Not the way they should. Bedtime routines, and birthday candles. Hearing their parents laugh from another room. Making those memories that last for a lifetime. They’ve lost all of that before they even knew what they had.”

I looked at my house across the street, my brain already making plans. “You’ve got the space, you just need beds, bedding, and some of their clothes and toys to make it feel familiar. That’s the start.”

He dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What about us?”

My brows pulled together. “What do you mean?”

“This is my house,” he said quietly. “They need a safe, stable place. Ahome. Not confusion.”

---