“Smart-aleck humor, it’s a gift I give to those who matter,” she told him.
“And I matter.”
It wasn’t a question, but the serious timbre in his voice told her that her response carried special weight with him. And with everything they had shared, she owed him the truth. “Yes, you do.”
He held her gaze. She didn’t blink. Wasn’t sure if she even breathed, sensing that there was something he wanted to tell her, but he struggled to do so.
Patricio threw in the towel in their staring contest with a flutter of his eyelids and a weary sigh.
He sat up, bending forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. He glanced at her, indecision and then inevitability darkening his eyes to black before he dropped his gaze to his hands.
“I hold back when I’m performing because of my father,” he said, surprising her with his candor. “Because the first time I held a note longer than him when we were onstage together, he didn’t talk to me for a week. And when he did, he made it clear: He is El Rey. And it was not, is not, my place to outshine him.”
She stared at Patricio in shocked disbelief. Questions screamed in her head, so loud and piercing that she couldn’t make sense of any of them, much less pluck one out of the shrieking crowd to ask. It didn’t matter, though. Head still bowed, Patricio continued in a tired, browbeaten tone that had her aching for him.
“I didn’t mind. Not at first. As a kid, all I wanted was his approval. To win his love. Earn his respect by making him proud. If I stayed just good enough, never more, that might do the trick. But he was always there with a dig, a well-placed jab, reminding me of the rightful order of things.” He expelled a harsh breath that shuddered through his torso. His brow furrowed with pain, and she yearned to go to him, smooth the lines marring his handsome face with her fingertips, and tell him his piece of mierda of a father was wrong. So selfishly, hatefully wrong.
“The pop album was for me. A way to finally push myself, outside of his shadow. Show fans the real me, not the almost me they think they know. Prove to myself that I could do it. But . . .”
“You did!” She leaned forward on the piano bench, willing him to believe her. “You did prove it. To millions around the globe.”
Patricio slowly shook his head. And for the first time, underneath the strong, commanding figure he showed the world, she saw the little boy in him, hungry for his father’s love and approval.
“Not to him,” Patricio said softly. “To El Rey, I sold out.”
“He’s wrong.” The words she had kept to herself moments ago burst from her.
White-hot anger ignited inside her like a line of fire racing toward a powder keg. Anger for the child who’d been held down instead of lifted up. Anger for the man who secretly made himself less than for a father who didn’t deserve the courtesy.
“He thinks I jumped to pop because I’m afraid I can’t make it long-term with mariachi like he has.”
“Bullshit!” Confronted with this discouraged, disconsolate version of the man whose confidence often bordered on cocky, driven to this low point by his father’s selfish behavior, Catalina hopped off the bench and raced to the sofa. She sidled up to Patricio, her thigh pressing against his as she leaned close to cover his clenched hands with both of hers. “That’s Vicente’s ego talking. Messed up as it is. For whatever reason, he can’t stand the idea of you being better than him. So he tries to dull your shine. Bottle up your potential. That’s not right, Patricio. It’s not how a parent is supposed to treat their child.”
Patricio looked up at her, a sad smile trembling on his lips, shadowing his eyes. “I’m not lucky enough to have Arturo and Berta Capuleta as role models. You and your sisters hit the jackpot with them.”
“We did. But we also had to go through our own pretty painful shit before we found ourselves at Casa Capuleta’s front door.”
Unclasping his hands, Patricio twisted a wrist to weave the fingers of one hand with hers. “I didn’t mean to disregard what happened to you. Or any of your sisters.”
“I didn’t take it that way.” She squeezed his hand, letting him know it was okay.
“Actually, I don’t really know what happened with you and Blanca. But I can imagine. And I’m thankful the details have been kept out of the tabloids.”
“Most DFAS documents aren’t public information. But even if something leaked to the press, there’s no way anyone can find out the one piece of our history I’m determined to erase.”
Catalina expected Patricio to ask what she meant. Hell, she hadn’t tiptoed into his private life with her own nosiness. She had steamrolled right in, practically badgering him to spill his secret. But he didn’t press her for details. Instead, he gently caressed her forearm with soft back-and-forth brushes, creating a warmth that seeped up her arm, into her heart, and the last vestige of her protective wall crumbled.
Blanca and only four other people in the entire world knew Catalina’s secret—Mamá, Papo, Mariana, and Cat’s therapist. Now, it felt right to add one more. Like she needed to share this with Patricio.
Swallowing her nervousness, she cleared her throat and pulled back the curtain hiding the monster that tormented her. “I have to succeed in this business and take care of my familia the right way because my birth father was a sinvergüenza who treated my birth mom like one of his groupies—a cheap pit stop when he passed through San Antonio on his going-nowhere tours with a no-name mariachi band.”
“Cat, you don’t have to—”
“He was a liar,” she continued, unable to stop the flood of words now that she had released the safety valve. “Telling her he’d eventually settle down, but never sticking around long enough to even pretend to play house. Breaking her heart with each broken promise. And even when she got deported, and Blanca and I were thrown into the system, he didn’t bother coming back for us. His unfulfilled pipe dream meant more than his familia did. Than I did.”
She didn’t realize she was crying until Patricio gently cupped her face and swiped her tears with his thumbs.
“These are tears of anger. I don’t care about him. I haven’t for a long time. I’m not—” She broke off on a hiccup.
Patricio ducked down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Whatever you’re feeling, it’s okay.”
“I don’t want to feel anything when it comes to him.”
Tucking her head to his chest, Patricio leaned back on the sofa, bringing her with him and wrapping his arms around her. “That’s not always easy. Trust me, I speak from experience.”
“Tell me about it. Years of therapy and I still get pissed.” She sniffled. “I still cry, even when I try not to.”
“Cry, rail, punch something. A pillow is preferable, not a wall. That hurts. I’ve tried.”
“Who punches a wall? You might break a nail or something,” she muttered.
Beneath her cheek, his chest rumbled with soft laughter. She burrowed closer, breathing in the scent of sun, sweat, and the dregs of his spiced, earthy cologne that still clung to his skin.
His palm drew slow circles on her back. Soothing her pain. Stoking her awareness of him. She should scoot away, put a friendly distance between them. Instead, she slid her left arm around his waist, hugging him closer.