“Is Mom coming?” It’s a fucking stupid question.
“Of course, she’s coming.” She says it with an airy laugh, trying to lighten the mood. Even through the phone, I know she can sense my unease. “Matty, you gotta let this go. She’s trying to accept you.”
“Ally, don’t,” I warn.
Yanking open the fridge, I grab a beer, twisting the top off, and downing a few swigs.
“Mateo, it’s been years,” she pleads. “Can we please put all this behind us?”
I know she means well, that she isn’t trying to be insensitive. “You have no fucking clue about the shit they put me through, Alondra.”
“So, tell me,” she shouts into the phone, followed by an unmistakable sigh. “Just talk to me for once about it, Mateo.”
Pressure builds behind my eyes, and it pisses me off even more. Running a shaky hand through my hair, I grab the bottle, downing what’s left of it before tossing it in the trash. That’s not going to do it tonight.
“I gotta go, Ally.” My voice comes out dry. Clearing my throat again, I try to muster up as much pep as I can manage as I add, “Congrats on your engagement. I’m so fucking happy for you.” I fail, of course, sounding despondent instead of genuine.
Not bothering to wait for a response, which would most likely turn into an argument, I hang up the phone, tossing it onto the counter, and reaching into the freezer to grab the tequila. Foregoing a glass altogether, I twist off the cap, taking a pull, and then another.
With the bottle in hand, I amble into my room, heading straight for the window. It’s too damn cold to go outside, but I need to smoke, so this’ll have to do. I grab the pack of smokes out of my pocket, placing one between my teeth. Igniting the red lighter, I hold it to the end of the cigarette until it glows in the dark room, toxic smoke filling my lungs.
I don’t know why I’ve never told Ally what went down with me and my parents and that fucking camp. It’s like no matter how much I hated them, I just couldn’t do that to her. I couldn’t destroy the stars in her eyes that she had when she looked up to them. They don’t deserve her love, but she doesn’t deserve to have the image of them shattered either. I guess, in my own fucked-up way, I was—am—trying to protect her.
And trust me, I want to look past it all. I want to be able to look at my mom and not rage inside. But I just… can’t. I can’t look at her and forget everything that happened.
I can’t forget the way they locked me in a room at that camp, and starved me for days, giving me only enough water to keep me alive.
I can’t forget the hateful speech they tried to preach to all of us, going on and on about God’s will, and how we’re supposed to be made in his image, and bullshit about how we’re sinners, and going to Hell. Yet, their entire program was based on bigotry and abuse.
And above all, I can’t forget the way my own goddamn mother stood there and watched as her husband beat me when I got home. She watched and didnothingto stop him. To help me. I can’t forget it and, frankly, I don’t fucking want to. I don’t want to forgive. She doesn’t deserve my forgiveness.
I’m not a what-if type of guy. What’s the fucking point, am I right? Dwelling on what could’ve been doesn’t change the present, it doesn’t change what’s happened. But every now and again, I do wonder what my life would’ve been like had my parents been a bit more accepting. What the rest of my adolescent years would’ve looked like. Would my relationships have been a bit healthier? Would I hold on to less anger inside of me?
Who fucking knows.
I lift the bottle to my lips, filling my mouth with the chilled, smooth liquid. It burns as I swallow, and I fucking relish it. Tears spring to my eyes as I down a little more, replacing the lip of bottle with my cigarette.
Forcing myself to drag my thoughts away from my fucked-up family, my mind shifts to this afternoon. To the call the shop received about the flat tire and the tow needed. To how I showed up, only to find an angry Travis shooting daggers at me when he realized it was me who needed to help him.
Fuck, that was rich.
Highlight of my entire week.
Now, listen, I can understand—and even respect—why he’s so pissed. I would be too, I’m sure. But he’s directing his anger in the wrong direction. Frankly, it’s about damn time he gets over it, too. Watching him seethe as I loaded his car onto my truck was fucking satisfying. Then, on the drive to his office, watching him sit as far away as humanly possible was even better.
Fuck...The way the scent of him filled the cab of my truck, intoxicating and fresh. It was a shame his work was so close to where I picked him up from. I shamelessly spent the entire rest of the afternoon social media stalking him in between cars. Even went as far back as his college days on his Instagram.
Inhaling one last drag off the cigarette, I put it out in the ashtray before taking another pull off the tequila bottle, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as I wonder what that little angry fucker is up to. Bet he’s sitting in his apartment, envisioning killing me. The thought makes me snort out a laugh as my feet carry me into the hallway.
I’m at the front door, pulling it open before my tequila riddled mind can even try to tell me it’s a bad idea. My fist comes up, pounding on his door, probably harder than necessary, but it does the trick, because a moment later, he’s standing in front of me in a pair of plaid pajama shorts and a white tank top.
A large ball of fur steps up beside him, my gaze dropping to take in the creature I vaguely recognize from the day I was at Nathaniel’s house. He immediately put the dog out back.
Dropping down into a squat, I hold out my hand for the dog to sniff me. “Hi, puppy.”
The sniffs quickly turn into licks before he or she lets me pet them.
I glance up at Travis, finding him watching us intently, an emotion passing through his features I can’t quite figure out. “What’s his name?” I ask.
