“No, she definitely isn’t,” I murmur.
Ronnie once told me she loves how Blondie doesn’t ever sugarcoat things. Honestly, it’s what I love most about her, too.
My father lets out a thoughtful hum. “We spoke about you, and she had quite a strong opinion on the matter. She gave us a rather impassioned speech, actually.”
I snort. “Yeah, she’s not really known for holding her punches.”
Figurativelyorliterally.
He nods. “I gathered as much.” Clearing his throat, Dad sets down the fork, then his hand disappears under the table as he reaches for something on the empty chair to his left. When itemerges from beneath the tablecloth a few seconds later, my heart nearly stops. “She also showed us this.”
My eyes lock on the black folder clutched in his hand—or rather, on the title page peeking through the transparent cover sleeve—and I have to will myself to believe what I’m seeing. It’s the proposal.Myproposal. But how? Blondie and I haven’t even finished compiling all the data we need to complete it, so how the hell is it here? Andwith my dad? Not to mention likethis—like a real, honest-to-god, professional document that someone like my eternally unimpressed father might actually take seriously?
I’m lost for words. Blondie did this. She not only organized all our research, but she printed it, bound it, and undoubtedly went beyond the limits of her comfort zone to present it to my parents. Forme. To fight when I couldn’t find the strength or courage to fight for myself.
My eyes burn as my father sets the folder on the table before him, but he doesn’t move to open it. He just gingerly places his palms flat on top of the cover and stares down at the backs of his hands, his usually stern expression unreadable.
His voice is quiet when he continues. “I spent the afternoon combing through this after she left yesterday, and I have to say…” He pauses, drawing in a deep breath. “This is tremendous, hijo.”
I blink, momentarily lost for words. At first, all I’m aware of is the fact that he just called me hijo again. That endearment, that familiarity, was so notably lacking in our previous conversation, and hearing it again eases some of that fear, that anxiety, that’s been eating away at me these last few days. But then something else grabs my attention, and my focus becomes singular—wholly consumed by one particular thing he just said. Something far more surprising.
My dad justcomplimentedme.
“You…read my proposal?” I manage past the lump of shock in my throat.
Meeting my gaze, Dad gives me a small, solemn nod. “I did.”
“Webothdid,” Mom adds before reaching across the table to take my hand. As her fingers wrap around mine, her eyes shine with an emotion I don’t recognize, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m being trolled. Or if I’ve somehow stepped into an alternate timeline where a benevolent alien race has abducted my parents and replaced them with more emotionally available doppelgängers. “And it’s a great idea, Damian.”
“The last few years, all we wanted was to see some initiative from you, but this?” A startled grunt escapes me when Dad lifts one hand and claps it against my back. “When you begin at Hallazgo this summer, I want you leading the team that?—”
“Wait,” I interrupt, needing a second to process. I tug my hand out from under my mother’s, and lean away from my father’s touch, casting a wary glance between them, uncertain. “You still want me to come work for Hallazgo? I’m not…cut off?”
Mom’s face instantly crumples at the strained vulnerability in my voice. “No.No, forget the ultimatum. Forget the vote,” she says to me, her tone thick with tears. “That was a mistake?—”
“We don’t want to lose another son.”
I stiffen at my father’s gruff baritone, my eyes moving in a sluggish crawl as they shift back to his, my reactions slowed by the lightning strike of shock jolting through me. Beside me, my mother is equally still.
Dad’s gaze is unwavering, and I register the slight bob of his Adam’s apple as he rasps, “We don’t want to loseyou, hijo.”
All the emotions I’ve bottled up these last four years threaten to spill out at his words. This is so fucked up. I feel like I’m living in Upside Down Land where the ground is above me, and I’m standing on nothing but sky, free-falling into an endless abyss.
They don’t want toloseme? After everything, what new mindfuckery is this?
I let out a derisive snort as I gesture to the dining room around me. “Then why ask me to meet youhereof all places?” Frustration hitches my tone up an octave.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Mom shaking her head.
“What are you talking about?” she asks.
I round on her, scowling. “You two only ever ask me to meet you here when you have bad news. Wednesday’s fun little hoedown at home being the one recent exception.” I scoff.
Her mouth pops open as she brings a hand to her chest and clutches the string of pearls around her neck. “Have we really done that?” she whispers, aghast.
I’m about to answer her when my father chokes out a humorless laugh. “I suppose we have.” When I turn to look at him again, his head is lowered, propped up by his hand, his fingers pressing into his eyelids. “Truthfully, I’ve always chosen this place for the difficult conversations because I used to come here with your abuelo. Being here helps me feel closer to him. And I needed that support to know how to be a good father to you.” He looks up at me then, his expression miserable. “Something I have clearly failed at.”
I…don’t know what to say. That is the most self-aware thing my father has ever admitted out loud—at least to me.
