Page 62 of Taming Liberty

“Mierda, Luis, pay attention to the road,” Angel says. “No wonder your car looks the way it does.”

“Ouch.” Luis slaps his chest where his heart is but laughs. “Don’t insult Sophia. She’s sensitive.”

It takes me a moment to realize Sophia is the car.

Simone turns in her seat and grasps the center console. “The dent in the front was me, actually. Your brother is an impeccable driver.”

That’s a stretch.

I almost laugh, but Simone looks serious while still sporting a friendly demeanor.

“I’m sure,” Angel says, his voice even but lacking the obvious sarcasm.

She smiles at Luis and leans over to kiss him. I look away as if they’d care if I watched, although I doubt they would.

Luis seems so different from Angel. Soopen. And kind. He’s dressed casually in cargo shorts and a tank top and has a messy haircut that makes him appear young and carefree.

Angel is hard and closed off. Every hair is in place, every move is calculated. He looks like the type of man who would tip a valet big but slice their throat if his car came back scratched.

How could two people from the same home turn out so differently?

Luis continues asking questions and chatting incessantly about Spain and all there is to see and do here. It’s sweet and appreciated, but it does begin to come off like a sales pitch. I don’t want to ruin his enthusiasm, though, so I don’t tell him I’ve spent time here. Besides, I recognizenothingas we drive to Angel’s childhood home, so maybe I don’t remember as much as I thought.

When we pull up to a two-story, adobe home, Luis puts the car in park, and all the lightheartedness he’d emanated is snuffed out by the tension that fills the car. I’m confused when Luis doesn’t move to open the door at first, so I look over at Angel but can’t see his face because he’s staring out the window.

For several moments, it’s silent.

Luis glances into the backseat, blows out a breath, then opens his door. “Hogar dulce hogar.”

Home sweet home.

Simone opens her door next, then they both push their seats forward to let us out. Luis smiles as he helps me out of the car, taking my hand gently and grazing his palm over my back in a friendly manner.

I meet Angel around the car, and he takes my hand, his grip a little tight, hinting at the tension he feels. I squeeze his hand as we walk up to the door.

I can only imagine what it must be like to walk into your mother’s house knowing she’s dying. I mean, I don’t know it was his mother he spoke about on the phone with someone, but that’s the impression I got with the way Luis sounded when he insisted I meet the woman.

Luis puts his hand on the doorknob but pauses to turn toward Angel. He says something fast in Spanish, probably thinking I won’t understand, but I catch it.

He’ll be easier with your girlfriend here.

He turns to the door and opens it, stepping aside to allow Simone then Angel then me to enter.

“Thanks,” I say, giving him a tight smile as I pass.

A flowery smell hits me, and my eyes drift to a wax warmer on a bookshelf filled with picture frames. A living room sofa sits in front of a large cabinet that I’m guessing has a TV inside, and there’s a little coffee table with a red runner in between.

More pictures line the walls, and my eyes drift over them, searching for Angel. If they’re there, I don’t see them.

Footsteps thump on a staircase, and I turn my head toward it to see an older, gray-haired woman descending.

When she spots us, she puts a hand to her chest. “Angel.” She runs the rest of the way down the stairs, hurrying to us. She flings herself into Angel’s outstretched arms, burying her face into his chest.

This is his mother?

“Alabado sea el Señor, estás en casa.”Praise God, you’re home.

“Hola, tia Maria,” he says, hugging her back.

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