Dominic
Two nights ago, Dario waited for me to charge a nonrefundable plane ticket for him to Cuba. Then the pendejo spewed out how much he hated Papi in the middle of the airport terminal. I flipped him off and left.
Seated in my childhood bedroom, I roll a soccer ball beneath my foot while staring at my phone. I called Aria when I arrived, and then again when checking Papi out of the hospital late on the first night.
Alejandra had a habit of not answering. I had equated it to her beautiful mind and her dedication to a degree. That was at first.
“How the fuck do I tell this woman my true feelings if her actions are starting to remind me of Alejandra?”
I punt the soccer ball out of the tiny bedroom. It hits the wood-panel wall in the hallway and skitters back over. I stop it with the tip of my loafers.
Standing up, I stride all of two steps before grabbing my iPhone from the dresser. The call goes straight to voicemail again.
“Hey, Aria. I’m staying a few days longer. Still haven’t convinced Papi to move yet.” I end the call and hang up.
Damn, I said she made me different. At the moment, it’s not in a good way.
I hustle out of my bedroom, past my abuela’s old room, and into the kitchen. Papi is seated, elbows on the table, nursing a can of beer.
I remove it from his hands and ignore the wildfire of cussing.
“Whatever you say, Papi.”
He stops, side-eyes me, and then laughs. “Be glad you’re my favorite.”
“Heh, it’s probably shit talk like that which pitted me against Dario.” I sigh, rubbing my eyes. “No. It’s not all your fault.”
“My fault? No, hijo. You are my good son. Always have been.”
Settling into a chair across from him, I reply, “Dario was in advanced classes―”
“What does reciting computer co . . . co . . .”
“Code?”
“Humph, book smarts don’t matter so much to me. I have more brains in my pinkie than Dario has altogether.”
“Papi,” I groan. “Mami valued education, and you beat my ass on those grounds, no backpedaling now.”
“You forgot how I beat Dario or how we had him prayed over after he cut the tails off cats too?”
Running a hand over my jaw, I mutter, “I don’t recall. What made him this way, Papi?”
“The two of you were so young when it happened.”
“What happened?”
“You had a cousin, Miguel. You had to be six when it happened. Miguel must’ve been nine, ten maybe. Mami was watching you one evening when you were sick. Miguel offered to take Dario outside to play. Aye Dios,” Papi pauses, gesturing to the can of beer I have yet to toss.
I slide it back over to him. “I still don’t remember.”
“Dario came home, quieter than he’d ever been. I found him in the bedroom. He had his toothbrush and was inserting it into the rectum of a dead mouse.”
I gag. He tips his beer back.
“I don’t know what was worse, mi hijo, the torture or the cigarette burns I found on Dario’s arms. Dario said that Miguel had taught him not to cry while hurting him. Superheroes don’t cry is what he said. One fucking day ruined Dario.”
“Jesucristo.”
“Since then, Dario had a sneaky, quiet rage about him. The hate in him at such an age. Aye Dios! He went on to setting fires to animals. You can’t recall it?” I shake my head. “I don’t remember an ounce of affection from my boy.” His bottom lip quivers. “No happy birthday since Mami was around to demand it. No, nada!”
Chapter Seventy
Aria
Rolling over onto my side, I reach for the pillow laced in Dominic’s scent. Even in sleep, I’ve cried for and because of him.
“Oye,” comes a feminine groan.
“Oh, sorry,” I mutter. Roslyn came over after I threw Dominic out. I sit up. A cornucopia of individual-sized tubs of Ben & Jerry’s is on the ground around the bed. We packed on a week’s worth of calories as we watched late-night breaking news.
The man being dubbed as El Santo had been released. I don’t know if that was my heart’s saving grace for not having to spill the beans to Roslyn about Dominic’s actions. My body shivers at how he’d held me facedown into the mattress.
“You good, chica?” Roslyn mumbles.
I shrug my shoulders.
“What did he do?” she asks, lacking her usual forceful insistence.
“We disagreed on a few things.” I grab the remote and turn up the television, which we had watched all night long and, apparently, for half the day. A reality court television show displays the time of 1 p.m.
Her gaze creeps across my skin for any telltale signs. “I’ll shower, Ros, then make us breakfast or lunch? What would you like? I can’t believe I keep sleeping so late into the day.”
“You? Cook? What the—I’m gonna beat his ass. He crossed the line!”
“Calm down. We had a verbal spat. I’ll zap a Pop-Tart for me. Some frozen waffles for you.”
“You do that, chica. Then we talk.”
I head toward my bathroom, going through the motions, and dress in jeans and a shirt. In the kitchen, I grab the box of Eggos from the freezer and place them into the stainless-steel toaster. I move around nonstop until my Pop-Tart has burnt edges, something which once brought out my inner happiness.
Sweets were my favorite pastime until Dominic. Damn, Aria, that’s where you went wrong. Men should never be our happy. I move the cookie jar, so I can grab the bamboo tray to place our breakfast and glasses of milk on it. Upon slinging the cookie jar back into place, I stare at it.
“I never did use you, did I? Same-day shipping with Amazon Prime, but you were expensive.” I roll my eyes, chuckling at myself for chiding an inanimate object.
I muse over how Dominic had come into the kitchen before flipping out. Why?
“Okay, Aria. You’re no detective, and clearly, you can’t pick ‘em.” I berate myself, hand clinging to my heart. From my jean pocket, I grab my cellphone. The 20% battery warning pops up. I click on the application, which I downloaded after purchasing the cookie jar to catch Messy Miranda in the act of consuming my food, long ago.
“What a liar,” I mutter, tears welling in my eyes. God, how I wish to point all the blame to her for no reason.
I scroll backward on the grainy video feed that I had never used since purchasing it from Amazon. I stop and watch Miranda enter the kitchen with Dominic. The muscles in my mouth twitch, teeth clenched. Across the way, the backlit signal above the elevator indicates that it’s active. I stalk over to the butcher block and grab a knife.
“Aria, stop. She ain’t worth it!” I tell myself, but the handle clings to my palm. I stalk around the island to the elevator doors, ready to, at the very least, threaten Miranda that I’m breaking the lease—no breach—because of her actions. The doors swoosh open.
“I should . . .” Instead of Miranda in last night’s club attire, I glare into mossy green pools. I roll my eyes at Dominic, repulsed by his green eyes, by all of him. A black suit covers his shoulders, hugging his biceps. Eye candy for any other woman. Not me. He has the nerve to smell so yummy too.