Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“I’ll tell you what I can,” I say.
“What you can?” he asks.
I run my fingers down my face. “Vinnie.”
“Robin, what does that mean?”
“It means I’m exhausted, and I’ve been through hell, and I can’t do this part yet.”
“Then don’t,” Raven cuts in. “Not right now.”
A lump rises in my throat. “Thank you.”
“No one’s going to push you the second you get home,” she says.
I close my eyes. “I know,” I whisper.
And I break.
I cry.
I fucking sob.
“Oh, honey.” From Raven.
I fold over the table with the phone pressed to my ear and bawl.
Hard.
Ugly.
Uncontrollable.
“Robin, it’s okay,” Raven says. “You’re coming home.”
I nod even though she can’t see me. “I know.”
“You’re safe now.”
I nod again. “I know.”
“We’ve got you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I know.”
But that isn’t why I’m crying.
Not entirely.
Yes, I’m relieved. Yes, I’m grateful. Yes, hearing my family’s voices after thinking I might never hear them again makes me joyful.
But deep down, in the place I can’t let anyone see, I know the real reason I just broke down is because of Cruz.
The thought of never seeing him again.
The thought of him walking toward that stolen car alone.
The thought of Vega’s men finding him.
The thought of Adriana finding him.
I cry because I’m going home.
I cry because he isn’t.
I cry because I should hate him.
I cry because I don’t.
Raven keeps murmuring into the phone. “It’s okay, Robbie. I understand. We all understand.”
I let her think my reaction is tears of relief. “I can’t wait to see you,” I manage.
“We can’t wait to see you either,” Raven says.
“Hold on a little longer, okay?” From Vinnie.
I wipe my face with the ruined tissue. “Okay.”
“You’re almost home.”
Home.
Home is waiting for me. Home is where I want to be more than anywhere else in the world.
But I’m also leaving something behind.
38
CRUZ
When I was twelve years old, I asked my mother who my father was.
We were in the kitchen, late afternoon, sunlight coming through the window in dusty gold stripes. Mamá stood at the stove, stirring rice. She smelled like soap, onions, and the orange blossom lotion one of the women had given her for her birthday.
I sat at the table with homework spread in front of me, but I had not written a single answer in twenty minutes.
The question had been gnawing at me all day.
I was out on an errand for Señora, and two boys I didn’t know made fun of me, asked me which of my mother’s customers was my father.
I got into a fight.
Not a bad one. Not enough for blood. Enough that the store owner grabbed me by the collar and told me to get the fuck out of his place.
When I came home, Mamá looked at my split lip and sighed. “Why did you fight?”
“Some boys said something.”
“People always say something,” she said. “But words are just words. They aren’t worth a split lip.”
At twelve, I thought that sounded like nonsense.
I stared at my homework until the numbers blurred.
Then I said, “Who is he?”
Mamá did not turn around. “Who is who?”
“My father.”
She continued stirring. “You know what I’ve told you.” She glanced over her shoulder. “He’s a very important man and he loves you very much.”
I looked at her.
Really looked.
I was twelve.
Old enough to understand about customers.
Old enough to understand about accidents.
Old enough to understand that women in our house sometimes got pregnant, and men with money didn’t always come back.
“That’s not true,” I said.
Mamá turned fully then. “What did you say?”
“He probably doesn’t love me.”
She furrowed her brow. “Cruz.”
“He probably doesn’t even know I exist.”
Pain flashed across her face.
“He was probably just some man who paid you and got you pregnant.”
Her hand tightened around the spoon.
“I know what people say,” I continued. “I’m not stupid.”
“I never said you were.”
“If he loved me, he would come for me.”
Mamá set the spoon down.
“If he loved me,” I repeated, “wouldn’t he come?”
She walked to the table and sat beside me. “He might someday,” she said.
I gave a harsh laugh. “Someday.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
She reached for my hand.
I almost pulled away.
I didn’t.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“That means never.”
She frowned. “No. It means I don’t know.”
“Do you know who he is?”
Her fingers closed around mine. “Yes.”
That surprised me.
I had expected another lie. “You do?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then tell me.”
She looked away. “I can’t.”
Anger surged again. “Why?”
“Because I just can’t.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Maybe.”
I pounded a fist on the table. “It is.”
“Maybe,” she said again. She lifted my hand and kissed my knuckles. “Do you know why I named you Cruz?”
I rolled my eyes. “No.”
“Because it means cross.”
I groaned. “Mamá.”
“Like the cross Jesus died on.”
“I know what a cross is.”
“Do you?”
“I’m hardly going to be the savior of humanity.”
She laughed.
That laugh. God.
I would cut off my own hand to hear it again.
“Never say never,” she said.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You think I’m going to save humanity?”
“No.” She touched my cheek. “That’s not why I loved the name.”