Page 27 of Brittle Heart

Martin Del Moro was never nice, but when his family visited mine, he was tolerable, and he’d leave me alone at school. Now, with my parents having passed away just a couple weeks ago and a fallout between his father and my uncle, he seems to have found a new hobby of kicking a girl who’s already on the floor.

“What does he say?” Howard inquires.

“A lot,” I shrug, not wanting to detail the vile things Martin throws at me.

“And what do you say in return?” he pushes.

“Nothing,” I mumble, trying to deflect.

“Why?” he questions, tilting his head.

“Because I was taught to be nice, and I don’t want to stoop to his level,” I say, although part of me wishes I could give him a taste of his own medicine.

“There is a time to be nice and a time to stand your fucking ground,” Howard says before turning and leaning his back against the concrete wall again. “Expect the bullshit, but never accept it, kid.”

* * *

The push to find a new job has taken priority. Without knowing what my pay from the internship will be, I have to find something.

It’s nearly midnight when I arrive at the last bar in the neighborhood. I’ve walked from bar to bar tonight, asking if they are hiring, but none have an open position. And the financial pressure is almost suffocating.

Tomorrow is my birthday, and my tattoo appointment is right after my shift at the NYPD. Yet again, I find myself questioning whether I should go through with it, but I know I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I put someone else in a bind.

Afterward, I’ll have to walk and visit the bars farther away. I had hoped to find something near our apartment so I wouldn’t have to walk too far and lose even more sleep from my schedule, but it seems that isn’t in the cards.

I push open the door to the bar. It’s not overly crowded. Patrons are sitting around tables, sipping on their beers. This is the bar Roberto frequents, so I’m definitely not here to ask for work.

I’ve come for a different reason.

I walk up to the bar where Bernie is wiping glasses with a cloth. He looks up from his task, offering a smile. “Hey, short stack. How are you? What are you doing here?” Bernie puts down the glass and cloth, leaning on the counter.

He is a middle-aged man with a round beer belly and a receding hairline, but he’s one of the nicest guys around.

“Hey, Bernie. I’m fine, thank you. How about you? How’s Elisabeth and the kids?” I ask.

“Great, thanks. Simon just finished middle school. Smart kid. And Willa has started taking guitar lessons,” he says.

“That sounds lovely. Please say hi to them for me,” I say.

“Sure, I will. But that’s not why you’re here,” he states, tilting his head while looking at me.

“I’m here because of Roberto,” I admit, cringing a bit.

“Ah, what about him?” Bernie asks.

“I’m a bit short on money at the moment since I lost my job, but I’m already searching for a new one and will get back on track—” I start explaining, but Bernie interrupts me.

“Carolina, don’t worry. He can drink on the tab. You can come pay me whenever the situation is back to normal,” Bernie assures me.

“You would do that?” I ask, my heart pounding in my chest. The relief I feel is like a stone dropping off my shoulders.

“I haven’t forgotten that you looked after Simon while we were in the hospital with Willa. The neighborhood looks out for each other. And I know I can count on your word,” he says.

I try my best to maintain my composure, but tears well up in my eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper, locking eyes with him and trying to convey everything I want to say through that gaze.

Afraid my emotions will get the better of me, I turn and walk out of the bar.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

---