Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Chapter 10
Tinley
Grateful isn’t a word I’d normally associate with Ignacio Torres, but today I am. He didn’t have to text me and let me know that he was with Alex, assuring me in a second text that he’d never let anything bad happen to the boy. But he did. Within thirty minutes of Ignacio leaving my house, that text came through, and it is the only thing that keeps me sane until Alex walks back in the door several long hours later.
My kid doesn’t rush past me to his room the second he steps inside which is what I was expecting. He lingers in the kitchen, making himself something to eat before bringing a bowl of leftover spaghetti into the living room. In an effort to show he’s still pissed, he sits on the opposite end of the couch from me rather than his normal position in the middle.
“I want to know the truth,” he says before shoveling spaghetti into his mouth. “All of it.”
“I—” I focus on my hands, twisting my fingers around each other. “I don’t know where to start.”
“From the beginning,” he mumbles around a mouth full of food.
“The beginning,” I whisper, a small smile playing on my lips, because no matter how much I ended up hating Ignacio in the end, everything up to that point was incredible. “Ignacio Torres was a troubled teen. Before we moved here with my nanny, he did all sorts of bad things. He ran with the wrong crowd.”
“He dealt drugs,” Alex adds.
“Yes. He associated with the wrong people, but I never saw much of that. I mean, I knew people respected him. I knew people would walk away and keep their distance when he walked into a room, but I didn’t know the extent of his troubles for a very long time. Even when I heard things from people, girls whispering in the locker room or kids at school saying things about how he was, he wouldn’t confirm if they were spreading rumors or speaking the truth.
“He tried to get me to notice him for weeks, but those whispers were always swirling around me, and it was like the atmosphere changed whenever he was near. It took me a while before I gave him a chance, and once I did, I knew I was in love. I gave him—” I clear my throat, uneasy with having this conversation with my son, even though I know he’s grown up way too fast not to know about sex. “Everything. Two days before graduation, Pop told us that he got a new job in Dallas. It had the ability to change everything for our family. We wouldn’t have to live in this neighborhood. He would have insurance for the entire family. It was the break he’d been waiting for, for over two years, but I didn’t want to go. If I did go, I wanted Ignacio to go with us, but I knew asking was out of the question. Pop hated that man.”
“He didn’t.” I look at Alex. “He didn’t. I asked him once how he felt about my dad, and he told me that he was grateful for a man that gave him such a wonderful grandson.”
Tears well in my eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He chews another bite of spaghetti. “I was like five or six. We were at the park kicking the soccer ball around. I noticed another family there, a dad with three sons. I came home later that day and asked you about my father. I wanted to know if he was the type of man who would play at the park with me if he were still alive.”
His voice cracks on the last word and it multiplies my pain and regret.
“Keep going,” he urges.
“I didn’t want to tell Ignacio about us leaving. By that point, I figured I could convince Pop to let me stay behind and help take care of Nanny. I was graduating soon, and I didn’t think he could really stop me, but the idea of leaving south Houston for something better was nagging at me. When I told Igna—your dad—about the new job, he didn’t take it the way I thought he would. He didn’t feel for me that same way I felt for him. He said some mean things, and even though I knew about you that night, I didn’t tell him. I couldn’t.”
“So, because he didn’t love you, you didn’t want him to love me?”
Pain spears me once again. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“Uncomplicate it for me.” He places the fork in the empty bowl and situates it on the table in front of us. With one hundred percent of his focus on me, I can’t help but look away again.
How do I explain bitterness and years of anger to my son? How can I make him understand that I thought I was making the right decision back then?