Page 3 of The Crush
“Danny,” my dad calls, his deep voice carrying from the front hall without him needing to raise it. “I’m heading out.”
“All right.” I press my hands against my face, knowing I’m disappointing him by not coming along to the Riveras’ for dinner. Even more so now than when I turned down his invites to church, although it’s hard to say which house would remind me more of my sins.
My dad says my name again, this time from outside my bedroom door. “You sure you don’t want to come? I think it would be good for you to…get out for a bit. Why don’t you go ahead and get ready? I know Eva would love to see you.”
“I’m good,” I reply, because I’m absolutely fucking certain I’m in no mood for an interrogation from my mother’s best friend. Well meaning as it might be. “Besides, you know how Eva gets when people are late.”
“Pretty sure she’d rather you be late than not come at all,” my dad counters, and I don’t argue even if it doesn’t change my mind.
“Next time.”
There’s a long pause, and I’m almost sure I hear my dad’s hand close around my bedroom doorknob. His presence large, even when out of sight. I turn in my chair, waiting.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says at last. “Just call me over there if you need something. You still know the number?”
The Riveras’ phone number reflexively appears in my head in my mother’s smiling singsong voice.Danny, repeat after me: 956—I stop the memory, the pain in my chest making me put my head back in my hands. “I remember.”
“Mijo?” my dad calls again.
“Yes, I remember it,” I answer, louder this time. “I’ll be fine. You go.”
My dad waits a minute or two longer, and I can so clearly picture him standing there in the hall with his hat covering his gray hair and his mustache covering his deep frown. Both of which can likely be attributed to his only child.
“Sorry, Pop,” I mutter too late for him to hear it, too late for it to even matter once I find myself back in the kitchen, reaching for the single bottle of whiskey that’s been hidden in the same spot above the cabinets since I was in high school.
I shouldn’t be so surprised when I find it nearly empty, knowing full well I’d done a decent amount of damage to it the night before. All the more reason to go back to my room to try to sleep instead of walking out the front door. All the more reason to not let this become a habit.
I grab my keys anyway.
Ten minutes later, the owner of the liquor store in La Orilla is greeting me by name, critically eyeing the large new bottle I’ve placed by the register. “Stocking up?”
“Something like that,” I respond, bordering on rude in my attempt to discourage conversation. “How much do I owe you?”
“Let’s see. Should be…” The older man, who I seem to remember is named Tom, starts to scratch out a figure on a receipt pad before pausing. “Well now, come to think of it, I do still owe Tadeo for that side of beef he brought me last month.”
“Let’s keep that separate,” I tell him. “Pretty sure the shelf said fifteen.”
“He told me not to worry about it with Maggie in the hospital and all. But I can’t possibly accept all that,” Tom goes on as if I hadn’t spoken, rolling right over my follow-up attempt at well-wishes while I pull a few bills from my wallet and place them on the counter. “Good man, your dad.”
“He is,” I agree, guilt burning in my throat without a chaser. “Would twenty—”
“Saw all that stuff about Escobar on the news last December. Seems like a pretty nasty business for you to have gotten mixed up in. Tadeo must be glad to have you back home.”
“Must be.” I nudge the money toward him again, reaching for the bottle without waiting for him to bag it. “Why don’t you keep the change?”
Three
Isabel
Saturday, June 18, 1994
In the weeks after I first see Daniel, the news flows rapidly through the La Orilla gossip lines that he’s back in town. And, of course, given that the details are few, the speculation isimmense…from how long he’ll stick around, to how he’ll adjust back to ranch life, to his current marital status.
Single, according to my mother, who has barely stopped muttering to herself since I came home and shared the news with her myself.
“Could’ve had a nice life here. Settled down. Married. Babies. His mamá would be pulling her hair out knowing what he’s been up to.” She stops the harsh scrubbing of her cookware at the kitchen sink long enough to make the sign of the cross. “At least he’s home now. How did he look, mija?”
Each and every time she’s asked me that, I’ve struggled to keep my expression blank as I say some version ofokay.Fine. Healthy. So good.
