Page 75 of Hidden Memories

The next morning,as with yesterday, Santi is already gone. When I pass the couch, I smooth my hand along the back of the plush fabric. He folded in the pull-out and left the blankets and pillows in a neat pile. He even smoothed Mila's bed and pushed it neatly into a corner of the living room. He’s considerate, not wanting to leave any mess behind.

However he did leave an apple core on the side table. I pick it up from the stem, and an ache passes through.

If we had made it, I’d have been finding theseall over the house, smiling every time. He started eating green apples when I used to bring them for his horse, Hector. The memory of me asking if Santi wanted an apple for his horse, and him crunching it instead, makes me smile.

I press my fingers into my temples as if I can knead away the thoughts creeping in. The what-ifs. The maybes. The ridiculous urge to hold on to the warmth Santi left behind, to let it mean something. But it can’t. It doesn’t. Not when every single choice I’ve made in love has been a mistake. Not when the only thing I trust is that I can’t trust myself.

The noise of the faucet running reaches me. I carry Santi’s core to the kitchen. I toss it in the trash, forcing myself to be done with the memory. But it doesn’t work. I still see him—Santi, all those years ago, stealing bites from my neck, smirking like he knew he was trouble. Back then, there was a different version of me, too. Someone lighter, freer. Someone who believed in love without questioning it.

That girl is gone.

Julia pours water into the coffee machine, looking slightly bedraggled.

“Morning.” I squint one eye apologetically. “Did Theo wake you up?”

She presses the on button. “Not at all. I would have come out, but you and Santi were in that room before I got my bookmark stuck in. Is the little guy okay? Do you think last night scared him?” She takes two mugs from a cupboard. “I know how kids are, pretending to watch Disney, but he was probably at the top of the stairs the whole time listening.”

“True.”

Julia is always so understanding.

If I counted right in the family photos dotted around,she has six kids. Her husband isn’t here, so he either left or died. I suppose when you’ve been through a lifetime, you get none of them are perfect and it makes you more sympathetic.

Yes, Julia is understanding, but so is everyone around these parts. Maybe people are just more laid-back in small towns. I love it, and it’s so kind, but having lived most of my life around a tyrannical narcissist and a controlling abuser, I can’t seem to let myself feel at ease. Why would they extend this kindness when I offer nothing in return?

I let a beat of silence pass rather than explain to Julia that Theo has recurring nightmares, even though she’d probably have some sage advice or maybe a point of view a young mother is supposed to get from her own mom.

I’ve never had that support in parenthood. Nic thought everything on this planet, including Theo, was put here just for his personal use. I wouldn’t have taken either of my parent’s advice if they’d given it to me. They didn’t parent me the way I intend to support Theo, so there’s never been a point in asking.

Dad doesn’t care about his grandson, though my mom has always been nice enough when we talk on the phone. I was a bit angsty with her during my teenage years after she left, when I was truly feeling the depth of her abandonment. Thank God we had a maid when I got my period. I was standoffish on our calls (not that she seemed to notice), but when I got pregnant with Theo, things changed. I wanted him to have some family. She’s the type of grandmother who would stuff him with ice cream and then lose him on the beach but at least she is fun-loving by nature.

She tries, and I give her credit for it. She asks about Theo and tells me she loves the photos I send through. I don’t get a word in edgewise when calling my mom, whoalways regales me with stories about her sunny life of caipirinhas and hangovers by the pool, but she isn’t mean-spirited.

The scent of dark roast curls through the air, earthy and rich, mixing with the faint sweetness of peppermint from Julia’s abandoned tea. Julia dips into the fridge to pull out the creamer.

I bet she would sit down all morning with me to talk about Theo’s night terrors. I bet she might even have some anecdotes about her kids and make me feel less alone in this, like Santi did last night.

When Theo cried out, he ran up to that room like a man with something to lose. He was there, just like I was. No hesitation, no second-guessing. And for one split second, I felt it—what it would be like to have a partner in this. Someone who isn’t just passing through, who doesn’t want something from me. Just someone who stays.

But Santi can’t stay. He has Owen to think about and there’s no way in hell I want to be part of ruining that.

Even though I know now that Santi didn’t leave me behind out of malice on his end, it somehow makes love even more confusing all over again. Thinking about my mom just now, hearing what my father did to me… to us, reflecting on how I stayed with Nic or even got with him in the first place… all of this tells me I am truly not ready for a relationship.

You show people how to love you by the way you love yourself. And how do I love myself? How have I valued myself? My life experiences? Who I am? The last eleven years, since getting pregnant with Theo, have just been a succession of self-sacrifice, of living for others, of following orders to keep the peace.

But I can’t stop my body from wanting Santi…

I need to stop this. My body doesn’t get a say in this.The way my breath catches when I think about him, the way I almost smiled when I saw that damn apple core—it doesn’t matter. Lust is easy. Trust isn’t. And love? Love is dangerous.

Losing love led me straight into Nic’s arms. My love for Theo kept me in that house. Love made me believe my father might one day choose me over his power.

I won’t make the same mistakes again. No. I am not ready for a relationship.

I hardly have time for self-reflection when I’m still trying to piece together why a mysterious force might want something from me.

Julia pours two cups of coffee and tips in the lush creamer she used yesterday. That cardigan Santi likes is going to be stretched to the limit before too long.

She hands me a mug, and I lift it in a way of thanking her. The ceramic mug in my hands is smooth, warm, solid—unlike the mess inside me. I wrap both hands around it, anchoring myself, breathing in the steady rhythm of the morning like I can steal some of its normalcy for myself.

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