Page 94 of Interpreter

The door swooshes open before I can get to three. Standing barefoot, in nothing but my T-shirt that I put over her head at the fall festival, is my pain-in-the-ass girlfriend. “What are you doing here?” She eyes the belt in my hand.

“Who’s José?” I ignore her question, pushing her farther back into her living room.

“How do you know about José?” And before she can let her question soak in, understanding dawns. “Fucking Felipe and his games.” She nods her head to the coffee table where a liquor bottle sits. “Tim, meet José. He’s my Dr. Parker.”

I scrunch my nose and rake a hand up through her shirt. “I don’t want to talk about Dr. Parker,” I growl. “I want to talk about why you didn’t tell me that your job was cut.”

She tries to shrug out of my hold, but I yank her back. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

I can feel her chest expanding with each breath of air as I lean in closer, right by her ear. “Did you think I would let that happen? That I would let you go?”

She pushes me back so I can see her face—her very flushed face. “You don’t have a choice. My visa is conditional of my employment.”

“You can work at the foundation.” It never occurred to me what would happen tomyjob, but right now, I don’t give a fuck.

“What would I do at the foundation?” Her eyes roll, and I almost take Felipe’s advice and flip her over.

“We can find you something.” She’s not leaving. She’s too valuable to this community—to the kids at the school. To me.

“No. I’m not taking a handout.”

“Oh, but you would consider marrying Cal?” I don’t mean for the words to come out clipped, but they do, and she doesn’t miss a chance to retaliate.

“I was never considering marrying Cal! Never! I asked Felipe!”

Her confession stops me. “You asked Felipe? Why didn’t you just ask me? I would do it.” I move closer, wrapping her tiny body in my arms. “I would marry you, Milah. I would do anything to keep you here.”

Her body spasms under my grasp, and she pulls away. “I don’t want you to marry me because you want to keep dating me. I want you to marry me because you want to. I know we haven’t been together that long and we both have issues. I do love you, and I know you love me. But we don’t have to do this now. We can work it out. Some couples have been together for years through long distance.”

“I don’t want to do long distance,” I tell her, working the words past the knot in my throat. My mother and I were long distance. I’m not doing that again.

A tear slips down her face as she nods. “Okay.”

“I promised Felipe I wouldn’t make you cry,” I say, swiping the lone tear with the pad of my thumb.

“You didn’t. I made myself cry. I should have told you from the beginning, and now….” She turns back to the coffee table. “I need José.”

“Fuck José. You get me.” I scoop up the woman who went out of her way to comfort me when I was overwhelmed, carry her to her room, and lay her down in her perfectly made bed.

“I can make you forget better than José,” I whisper into the dim light. “But I don’t want to.” I remove the shirt from her body. “I want you to remember everything.”

Neither of us turn on the light because there’s nothing left to say. She’s not leaving me, and that’s final.

Soulful and enchanting, the sounds of the guitar’s acoustics drift onto my skin like a warm blanket. The music isn’t something I’ve heard before, but I would know that angelic playing anywhere. I slip on Tim’s discarded shirt and rub my hand over the indention where he’d been hours ago, holding me in his arms as I cried. We didn’t talk much after he declared that I wasn’t going anywhere. And I didn’t argue. I only made love to him like it was our last time.

I don’t want to leave him. Somehow, through all the arguments and headaches, I fell in love with this man. It wasn’t because he was broken—that was a terribly shitty thing for him to say. It was because I fell in love with his strength. This man has been through so much in his life that I can’t even begin to imagine what that would have felt like. I don’t know that I could have faced what he did and be so resilient. Tim, whether he believes it or not, is inspiring. Not just for me, but for Oliver and anyone else who hears his story.

I slip on my house shoes—yes, they have a heel—and follow the sweet lullaby down the stairs to Magic Michelle’s. Chills break out along my arms as my feet lead me closer to the source. I pause as my breath catches at the new sound. A soft voice, raspy and broken, carries up the staircase.

“When the wind blows the cradle will rock…”The distinctive sound shoots straight through my chest. He really is singing a lullaby. His fingers strum the guitar as he sings into his phone, which is propped up on the piano. I can’t tell whose face is staring back at him, but I don’t really need to. I know he’s singing to Aspen.

I slip off my shoes so they don’t clomp down the stairs. Later, I will think back on this moment and at least tell my loco self not to toss them in the dirt-filled planter before I tiptoe down the stairs, just so he could destroy my ovaries by singing the little girl a bedtime story.

“Good night, princess. Uncle Tim will see you in the morning.”

See? This is the kind of shit I’m talking about. This right here is why I can’t leave. I want to have this man’s babies. Who does that? Who FaceTimes his brother’s child and sings her a song before bedtime because he couldn’t do it in person? A rare unicorn. That’s who.

The bottom of the stairs is darker than it was in the loft. Everything in me tells me he wanted it this way. Sometimes it’s easier to hide greatness in the cloak of darkness. But let’s be real here, this is Felipe’s bar. There is a distinct possibility that tumblers and who-knows-what else are lying around waiting for me to trip over. So, as a compromise, I feel around backstage and come up with a table candle and a lighter. After a few tries, I have it lit and emerge from backstage, which stops Tim cold.

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