Page 23 of Shame
His laugh is contagious. He’s so cute when he smiles, his blue eyes glittering, an even row of white teeth. I smile back. “Guess not. Are you from here?”
“Yeah. Grew up partly here and partly in Iowa.”
“What do your parents do?”
“Dad’s dead, and I haven’t talked to Mom in six years.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say about that.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Colombia?”
“That’s nice. From where?”
“Do you know Colombia?”
He shakes his head and a goofy expression settles on his features.
I laugh. “I’m from a little village in the mountains. Not much to speak of.”
“How’d you end up here?”
I study him, realizing we’re still holding hands. His touch warms me. I like it. “I guess I was looking for a better life…”
We grow silent. There’s not much to say about that. I didn’t find it.
“Ever think about going back?”
“I can’t.” My heart hurts, thinking of Mamá and Papá, and I close it against the pain, like so many times before.
“Why?”
I just shake my head.
“You don’t wanna talk about it?”
“No. Do you miss your mom?”
At first he puts on a mask of indifference. I’m good at reading people. There’s not one girl in my business who doesn’t become an expert on that. Then it drops, the mask, the pretenses and a young boy appears in its stead.
“Never had much of a mom.”
I hold his hand tighter.
“How’re your parents?” he asks.
Unwanted images of warmth and love snake into my mind, of Mamá cooking mondongo soup. I had love. Then I just left them. I was fifteen, headstrong, thought I knew everything. I hurt them so badly. I haven’t dared talk to them again. It was three years ago. I wonder what they’re doing? Do they miss me?
“They’re good people.”
“But you wanted something else?”
I nod.
“Did you find it?”
I scoff. “What do you think?”
