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Our last name is a blessing and a curse. A weight we carry and a stigma we can never escape.
“The drive is about two hours.” Emiliano slips into the driver’s seat and presses the keyless start beside the steering wheel. He’s not looking at me. Instead, he’s frowning at Lourdes through the rearview mirror. “Do you need to stop for anything?”
“No.” At my curt response, he looks over with a questioning look, but I shake my head at him. “Does he know I’m here?”
“Are you okay?” Christ, men can be dense at times. It’s obvious his sister is uncomfortable and doesn’t trust me—she doesn’t know me—and shouldn’t be expected to open her arms easily. Not in our world. “You seem upset, Mariah.”
“Please answer the question, Emiliano.”
“Can you answer mine?” His expression is one of a lost puppy, but before I can respond, Lourdes takes her seatbelt off and leans forward.
“Oh, dear God!” she grits out, her head is closer to mine than his, and I see the moment her glare turns to tears. “She’s just saying lay off with the reprimanding looks my way. I’m not talking because I dislike her, but because I don’t have the energy. It’s all too much...” Her hiccupping pause is filled with pain and before the first tear falls, I’m jumping from the front to the back and hugging her tight. Thank God I’m small and flexible. A shuddering breath escapes her, and the small hands clenched at my sides open and grip; she’s holding on to me while letting go of what’s eating her inside.
“Lourdes, please. Not now, sis.” Emiliano pulls out from the curb, his voice tense as are his shoulders. “Just keep it together until—”
“Just drive. I’ll handle her.” If he’s inclined to argue, I don’t know. He simply zips his lips and nods. However, a few minutes later I catch the thankful expression at a red light when he turns to look at us.
His eyes soften when he sees his little sister’s tears and the way my arms embrace her. Thank you, he mouths, and I know at that moment I’ve made a friend in him.
After a while, when the sobs turn into sniffles, Lourdes tries to move back. Her face is blotchy, expression embarrassed. “My apologies. I don’t know what—”
“Stop.” Gently, I wipe my fingers under her eyes. “You have every right to be upset. Javi told me what happened, and I’m so sorry for what you’ve gone through.” At the mention of his name, another round of tears fall. Her chest heaves and her tiny frame trembles, and it breaks my heart. “Breathe, Lourdes. No one is upset with you.”
“I should’ve done more to save Mama Ida.” It’s low, a whisper full of recrimination and pain that leaves her exposed. Lourdes blames herself because she’s here and my Javi’s mother isn’t.
“How?” Tipping her face up to meet my eyes, I raise a brow. “Sweetie, they sent men there with high-round capacity weapons and one goal. There was nothing you could’ve done, and it’s a blessing you weren’t harmed.”
“But Javi won’t even look at me!”
“Because he feels guilty for not being here.” That makes her pause. Her watery eyes are stunned and mouth open, as if to speak. She doesn’t, though. For the next few minutes, nothing comes out except the occasional sniffle and I leave her alone to dissect my words.
In all her guilt, Lourdes never paused to analyze what others might think, and she just accepted the worst. Especially about her cousin. A cousin, who in my understanding, is sometimes closer to her than her brothers.
“Does he really?” she asks after a while, leaning into me, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders, hugging her tight. My response is a sad smile, and her brows scrunch up. “But that makes no sense. How can he protect us when we were ambushed and—”
“Apply that same explanation to your situation, kiddo. You did nothing wrong.” Lourdes gives me a minute nod. “Good. Now rest up until we get there. Javi needs us to be strong and give him space when needed.”
“You’re good for him.”
“I hope I’ll be.”
“You will.” Her conviction warms my heart, and the sucker gives a harsh thump in agreement. This—us—is crazy and unpredictable and dangerous, but I wouldn’t change a single thing about it. In not making sense, we fit. In not being afraid to be who we are, we become stronger.
That man has become my person.
Mine.
“Thank you,” I say, and we both close our eyes after. She’s lost within her thoughts, and I vow to let him know how I feel soon.
Because I love him. Completely and unequivocally, I’m head over heels for that murderous sweetheart.
I’m shaken awake by a hand on my arm. The movement jostles me, pulling me from the nap the car’s movements lulled me into and my eyes snap open.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Lourdes smiles, and it’s genuine and she looks sweet. Nothing like the hurt girl from a little while ago. “Are you ready to see him, or want to freshen up first?”
“What has you in a sudden good mood?” I ask, stretching a bit before stepping out in front of a beautiful two-story home where armed guards stand at every corner with rifles strapped across their chests. “It’s a good look on you.”
“He’s going to flip when he sees you.”
