Her eyes narrowed, but I saw in her expression that she recollected a man had accompanied me the day before. She nodded curtly.
The nurse who took me past the emergency room beds and into the ICU seemed to be having a better day than grumpy desk lady because she said cheerfully, “I’ll bring your husband back when he gets here.”
Darn it. Apparently, we would need to make this story stick. I texted Deck.
ME:By the way, you’re my husband
ME:Only family can visit
A minute went by, and I could visualize Deck frowning.
ARTURO DECKER:Got it. I’m your husband
Rolling my eyes at the name he’d punched into my phone, I changed it quickly to “DECK” before slipping the device into my pocket. The idea of Deck playacting as my husband would have made fourteen-year-old Cori spin out with excitement. But twenty-nine-year-old Cori smarted from him doing so only under duress.
Chapter eight
Deck - Age 17
FOURTEEN YEARS AGO
“I’m trying! I swear!”
“Don’t give me that bullshit!” Pop yelled as we faced off in the kitchen.
“But I am!”
He had pulled up my grades online after getting an email from my teacher.
“You’re never going to graduate with marks like this. And I’m not sure what you think you mean by ‘trying.’ I don’t see you putting in much effort. All I see is you going off in Cruz’s car to do god knows what!”
My blood boiled. Pop never believed that I tried. That I studied and read, and even told my friends I was busy playingvideo games when, in reality, I was in my room trying to make sense ofFahrenheit 451. He didn’t understand that pretty much everything about school was hard for me. Harder than it seemed to be for everyone else.
I slammed my hands down on the counter. “Well, I’m sorry, Pop. I’m sorry I can’t be college material like Nando or the twins. A wannabe cop like Emilio. Or a musical genius like Raymond! You had seven kids. At least one of us had to be a fuckup! Guess I drew the lucky number.”
“Stop telling me you’re a fuckup! You’re not! You just need to put your head down.”
He didn’t get it. I had put my damn head down. My classmates would clown on me if they found out how much I’d studied for that history exam. But when I sat down to do the multiple-choice part of the test, I couldn’t understand how to answer. Like those fucking questions were designed to trick you. And the essay part—¡mierda!—I knew what I wanted to say about the invasion of Normandy. I just didn’t have enough time to write it.
“Look, Pop. I said I’m sorry, and I am. I think I can still pass the class with some of the other assignments and stuff.” Luckily, this teacher gave high percentage points for attendance, and going to class was something I actually did.
“So that’s it?” Pop shook his head. “Your plan is to scrape by?”
“What the fuck more do you want from me? I said I’m trying!”
He sighed, slumping down into a chair at the table. “We’re talking in circles now, son.”
I hated his disappointed face. And I knew if Mamá were here, she’d be making the same one. I leaned my elbows back against the counter and watched as Pop rested his forehead in his hands.
Dios. I needed to get out of there.
The sound of shoes shuffling across the ancient linoleum sliced through the air. Marisol walked into the kitchen, wide-eyed.
“I heard shouting,” she said softly, scratching at her neck. She was always itching her bandages. “Is Artie okay?” She directed her question to Pop, but looked at me.
“I’m okay, little squirt.” Exhaling, I walked over and kissed the top of her head. “I was just leaving.”
“Deck—” Pop lifted his head to meet my eyes.
