Thompson was lucky—the homemade blade missed everything vital. He recovered.
The knowledge that Pearl was moving out—that I’d pulled her so close just to lose her forever—was a deep punch to the gut. A punch that in reality was a stab wound I might never recover from.
“Jesus, Pearl,” I whispered, more worship than curse.
When I angled above her, she drew me down for a long, deep kiss, her body growing restless as my hand slid from her neck to her chest, palming those perfect tits and tugging her nipples gently through the barely there tank I’d not had time to remove the first time. “Won’t be needing this tonight,” I said, lifting it over her head and tossing it to the floor. “These neither.” I drew the shorts down silky-smooth legs that would shortly be spread wide and then locked around me.
I paused to stare at the tempting little road to hell lying there in my bed for the two beats it took to ditch my own shorts and no longer. If loving her was gonna be the death of me, I saw no reason to dawdle.
Pearl
When I woke this morning, everything was the same—at first. I leaned to turn off my phone alarm, bleary-eyed. The bedroom door was shut and I was alone. I was also butt-naked.
As I pulled on the tank and shorts I’d worn for about ten minutes before Boyce stripped them off, the night came flooding back, not that it had far to go since it hadn’t ended until early morning. A shiver went through me at the thought, and my body temperature must have spiked several degrees because holy cow, that room was suddenly an oven.
I padded into the kitchen and poured a mug of coffee, then went back to Boyce’s bedroom and dragged my suitcases from the back of his closet. As I packed up everything I’d brought with me weeks ago, I replayed yesterday afternoon’s conversation with Mama in my head. I’d been too shocked to be angry at her confession, though I worried that bottled-up emotion could rise up and slap me silly any minute. She’d kept so much from me—evidence of how childlike I had still been in her eyes, college degree and all.
I’d perched on the edge of one of the chairs facing the water, anticipating a critical diagnosis and trusting it would be something highly treatable, caught early. Not fatal. Please God, not fatal. Her expression terrified me—eyes like dinner plates, chin quivering, hands knotted in her lap like they’d been superglued to each other.
“What did he mean by time to tell her?” I prompted. “Tell me what, Mama?”
She swallowed, flinching when Thomas pushed the sliding glass door aside to join us. I waited, tensely silent, as he handed glasses to each of us and took a seat next to her, across from me.
“Your father,” she began and then stopped, swallowing again. Thomas placed a hand over hers and she took a shaky breath. “The story I’ve led you to believe about your father is not… wholly true.”
I was so relieved that no one was dying that it took me a moment to absorb what she’d said. “What do you mean, not wholly true?”
“It is true that we grew up together. That we fell in love. That he was intelligent and had dreams of becoming a doctor. It is untrue that he died trying to escape Mexico.”
“How… how did he die?”
“He was executed by the drug cartel—”
I gasped.
“—which he belonged to.”
My mouth fell open, but I could only shake my head and think What?
“We were sixteen and seventeen when he was recruited. Boys of poor families follow the temptation of money all too easily, and we were from very poor families. The money, the power, the violence—they changed the boy I loved into someone I no longer recognized. But that transformation took place gradually. It took me too long to see it, and once I did, I thought I could change him back.” Her voice hitched. “The first time he hit me, I blamed myself.”
“Mama.” My eyes welled with tears.
“He appeared sickened at the mark of his hand on my face. He cried like a child and begged my forgiveness. I pled with him to leave the cartel. He swore that if he remained just a little longer, we would have enough money that he could go to university to follow his dream. I argued that the deeper he got, the more impossible leaving would be. But he was a charming, persuasive boy, and I loved him.
“The next time he hit me, I fell against a large urn and it toppled over onto my hand. My face scraped against a broken fragment.” She touched the scar at her temple. She’d cited a childhood accident for that mark and the little finger on her right hand that didn’t bend. Her aunt had set the broken bone with a stick, she’d said, shaking her head as if the whole incident was sad but funny.
Hot tears tracked down my face. This story didn’t fit the woman I knew.
“The last time, he brought me home unconscious and told mi abuela I had fainted and hit my head. I woke and said nothing to contradict him. I pretended I couldn’t remember his fist flying at my face. When he left, I collapsed at her feet in tears because I knew… I knew I was pregnant with you, and I thought there was no way out.
“‘Have you told him about the baby?’ Abuelita asked, and I shook my head. ‘Then you will never tell him. You will go to the United States and make a new life for yourself and your child. You will be safe, because you will never return.’
“She took me to the room she shared with mi tía and knelt by the bed. She pulled out a box covered in dust, filled with old papers. One was my birth certificate. My parents died, as I told you, in a car crash. But before that, they’d crossed the border into Texas with my brother Jasiel, found work, and had me.”