“I’ll call her later.”
“You should probably let her call you.”
I take one last look at my angel before pushing out the door.
2
Angel
My arms are around Deacon’s waist, and I’m humming with the thrill of him being here at last. Tall and strong, he smiles, and I watch the muscle in his square jaw move as he banters with Lourdes.
It’s been a month since we were together, and I want to kiss him. I want to bury my face in his neck and inhale his clean scent of citrus and soap. I want him to lift me off my feet and take me away from this world like only he can do.
Then the baby barfs all over him.
Then my brother appears.
It’s like a bucket of ice water right in my face. Beto’s looking around the room, and I say a silent prayer as I step away from the group, going to meet him, hoping to avoid any questions.
When I was little, Mamá would say I had intuition. She would say I could sense things before they happened.
She also said family was the most important thing. She would say we had to love each other, have each other’s’ backs, but after she died and I came here to live with them, I didn’t even know them.
My brother was an angry mystery. When I was a little girl, before Mamá took me to Mexico, I remember him carrying me on his hip. I remember him smiling, and twirling my curls around his fingers. I remember him sweet.
Then I came here and he never smiled. He also didn’t stay.
I arrived, and a week later he left. I became a guest in my cousin’s home. She treated me like family, but I was very aware I was an extra mouth to feed, an extra person to clothe, a potential burden in her life…
I did my best to help with the chores, care for her two daughters, do as I was told, stay out of trouble.
“My little sister.” Beto pulls me into a hug, and I’m surrounded by leather and tobacco.
My brother takes after my dad—darkly handsome, with straight black hair that curls around his ears. His eyes are so brown, you can’t see the pupils, and his white teeth are straight behind full lips. His body is lean and hard, and he hugs me roughly, almost painfully. “How long has it been?”
“A long time.” I smile up at him, hoping he doesn’t see the fear in my eyes.
I had hoped his return would mean we could get to know each other again. I had hoped we might be close, like we were all those years ago when I was a little girl.
Now I’m not so sure. Now my intuition is twisting my stomach, and Beto returning to Plano the same day as Deacon feels like a bad omen.
He nods to where Lourdes is hustling Deacon out the door. “What’s up with the suit?”
“A local businessman.” I step between my brother and my friends. “Lourdes invites them to advise the residents on stuff.”
His brow lowers. “Why?”
“What do you mean why?” I force a laugh.
“We don’t need his kind here.”
“His kind?”
“Ivy league assholes. Easing their consciences handing out advice that only works if you’re white and privileged.”
My stomach is sick at this response, my voice quiet. Bad omen… “I know he means well. He does it for free.”
He studies me a little too long before easing up. “Nothing is free, mija. Somebody always pays.”
I don’t have time to argue before Lourdes rushes up to us.
“Beto!” She walks straight into a hug. “When did you get in town?”
“How you doing, Lor?” He gives her a one-armed hug.
“Why are you at the women’s shelter?”
“I came to get Carmie.”
“That’s not weird at all, is it Carm?” She makes a face at me and laughs.
My best friend’s superpower is diffusing tense situations. It’s what makes her perfect for her job here.
“Pot-stirrer.” He gives her shoulder a shove. “I’m taking care of Carmie now.”
He smiles at me proudly, and dread filters through my stomach.
“As a big brother should.” My bestie smiles, but she can sense my shift in mood. “So you’re back to stay?”
“I’m back to make things right.”
What the hell does that mean?
A strong hand closes over my shoulder. “You ready?”
“Sure… I have to be at my studio class at four—”
“Then we’d better get moving.” He starts for the door, speaking under his breath. “I don’t like you hanging out in this place.”
“I visit the girls and help Lourdes.”
He doesn’t respond, and I don’t know if he’s too far to hear me or if he doesn’t care.
Whatever. I turn to Lourdes. “Valeria’s killing the fatted calf for his homecoming meal. You should come for dinner.”
“I’ll try.” She hugs me, kissing my cheek. “I’ve got to finish up some paperwork, so I might be late.”
Leaning closer, I lower my voice. “What did Deacon say?”
Her worried eyes flicker over my shoulder. “He’s going to call you later.”
Nodding, I turn my phone to silent. “I’ll text him.”
“You’re going to have to come clean about him. Now that Beto’s back, it’s not going to be so easy to hide.”
“I will… I will.” Timing is everything.
She’s held my hand since the day I arrived in Plano, a sad, scared little orphan. She’s always been by my side, protecting me, taking up for me—not that anybody who knew him would mess with Roberto Treviño’s sister.
“I’m here if you need me.” Lourdes squeezes my hand, and I give her one last hug.
My phone buzzes a few times on the way to the studio, but I don’t take it out of my pocket. Leaning my head against the window, I close my eyes and let the morning wash over me.
After my shift at La Frida Java, I raced to New Hope, desperate to see Deacon, touch him, imagining what it will be to have him here in the city all the time, just a phone call or text away.
It makes me so happy.
Deacon is a decadent luxury I’ve kept close to my heart, a precious secret. My one true love.
When we were young, I’d be on edge every summer until I saw him again. My heart would beat so fast, and my chest would ache. I was sure he’d come to me and say it was over—or perhaps he wouldn’t come at all. He’d simply find some pretty rich girl, some debutante from his world and realize spending his time with a waif on the south side of town was beneath him.
Every year he proved me wrong.
He’d show up at the park or at baseball games or at the fair. He’d buy me snowballs and trace his finger along my cheek, twirling my crazy curls, squeezing my heart with his smiles.
I’d see him riding his motorcycle, caramel hair moving in the breeze. A crooked grin, a deep dimple in his cheek. He was a cocky rich boy, and when he stopped beside me, my body pulled to his like a magnet.
My hands wrapped around his waist, my cheek pressed to his shoulder, my thighs sliding against his with only thin fabric separating our bodies.
Being with him was deep blue and shining cerulean, it was a blanket of shimmering stars curling in the night sky. It was my mother’s portraits of moonshine tipping the edges of the mountains.