I’m unable to hold back the steady stream of tears running down my face. The man in front of me is not my Gabriel, my protector. No, the man in front of me is the Gabriel that everyone else knows him to be. Had I known all I was to him was a fuck, I never would have gone through with it. That’s a lie. Being with Gabriel last night was the best night of my life. It breaks my heart knowing the feelings are one-sided.
Climbing out of bed, I drop the sheet I had clutched to my body. I feel so humiliated I’d even broached the subject of me staying. I was naïve enough to think last night meant anything. Pulling my shirt over my head, I refuse to look at him. I open the door to his room when he calls out, "Cariño Sweetheart."
Without turning around, I respond in a shaky voice, "I’m not your Cariño," and walk out of his room. I ignore the sound of Gabriel’s roar and the sound of shattering glass hitting the wall.
Three weeks later, my sister and I are in my room packing the last of my things to take to college. I never told Bella what happened that morning after I slept with Gabriel. When I came banging on her and Logan’s door, asking her to take me home, she begged me to tell her. I never want to speak of what happened. And I haven’t seen him since that morning. I refuse to go to the clubhouse anymore. Though I know she suspects it’s something to do with a certain asshole Cuban. Bella knows I’ll tell her when I’m ready.
"Alba, do you seriously need all these books? Why don’t you leave them here?"
"I need my books, Bella," I huff. She doesn’t understand my love of books runs deep.
Snickering, "Fine, you win, sis."
"Are you two finished yet? We need to get on the road." Logan asks from the doorway of my room.
"Yup, these are the last two boxes." I tell him.
Roughly four hours later we arrive in Bozeman, where I’ll be attending Montana State University studying graphic design.
My sister rode with me in my new truck while Logan followed. Bella wanted to spend as much time with me as possible. And what better way to spend four hours than listening to our favorite 80’s and 90’s music.
Once Logan has finished hauling my boxes up to my dorm room, my sister and I prepare to say our goodbyes, which include endless tears. Logan literally had to pry us apart. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but it almost came to that. Bella and I have never spent time apart. We’ve always been each other’s crutch. But it’s time for me to grow up. She’ll be married soon, and I need to learn to stand on my own two feet.
Chapter Two
Gabriel
I haven’t slept in two days. Fuckin’ insomnia. It’s why I’m sitting on the roof of the clubhouse at 3:00am smokin’ mota weed. I can’t remember the last time I slept a solid six hours. Shit, that’s a lie. I remember, I just don’t want to. If I do, I’ll start thinking about her. The roof is my spot. Everyone knows if I’m up here, leave me the fuck alone. Being up here, staring up at the star covered sky takes me back. Back to home. When I close my eyes, I can almost see it. The orange and purple sky transforms into darkness allowing a canopy of stars to light up the streets where my sister and I played. When night falls in Cuba, parents don’t send their children to bed. No, children play in the streets as the neighbors play music and catch up on town gossip. Such an innocent time.
Now when the sun goes down and the moon takes over, there is nothing but darkness. I like the dark, it hides all my imperfections. Nighttime is when my demons come out to play. The voices have been quiet lately. The demons are never gone, only hiding in the shadows allowing me peace for a few brief moments. Now that she’s gone, they’ll be back. Reminding me of who I am and of my past.
I still remember the day my father and I left Cuba. I was ten years old. My father came into the room I shared with my sister, waking me up. It wasn’t unusual for him to wake me up early and take me with him t
o go fishing. Only this time was different. There were no fishing poles, only a small suitcase. Arriving at a secluded part of the beach, we met up with five other men. As soon as I saw the makeshift raft, I knew what was happening. This is a Cuban’s way of finding a better life. It’s scary and dangerous, but being desperate will lead a person to do the unthinkable. Now my father and I were about to become those desperate people. At the time I didn’t understand why. I pleaded with him to take me home. Why were we doing this, leaving the country we love, leaving my mother and my sister? Along with those five men, my father and I spent seven days in The Gulf with the sun on our backs. The nights were so dark you could sometimes see the glow of the creatures living beneath the sea. To say I was scared out of my fuckin’ mind would be an understatement. Miles on top of miles of nothing but the sea.
I’ll never forget the first time I stepped foot on U.S. soil. It was the start of a new life. Not a life I wanted, but one my father chose for me. While the other men were celebrating freedom, all I could think about was how much I wanted to go home. As a young boy, I didn’t understand why my father would do this. Why would he take me and leave our home? What were my mother and sister going to do without my father to take care of them? My sister Leyna is four years younger than me. It was my job to always look out for her. Who was going to do that now?
It wasn’t till several weeks later he told me the reason for leaving. He got himself into some trouble. He was caught skimming money from his job. My father was facing fifty years in prison. Cuban laws are much harsher than U.S. laws. He explained to me that coming to the U.S. was his only option. At least this way he could find work and then send money home to my mother and sister.
I was so angry with him. I asked him why he had to steal. If not for him taking from his job, we wouldn’t have had to leave. Once I got older, I realized my father did what he had to do to take care of his family. He didn’t want to steal. He only wanted to give us a good life and keep food on the table. I knew we were poor, I just didn’t realize the struggles my parents faced at the time. What kid does?
We settled in Miami with a cousin of my father’s. After about a year of working two jobs, things started to change. In the beginning, we were pinching pennies just to buy bread and milk and our lights were frequently being cut off. Then one day we were eating endless amounts of takeout and my father was buying a new car. Soon after that, he up and quit both jobs. Money began flowing freely. He was sending plenty of money to my mother and sister in Cuba. With the amount he was providing, they no doubt didn’t want for anything.
We moved into our own house in a better neighborhood. I started a new school, a better school, and I was making friends. Overall, I adjusted well. The only part that worried me was how my father was making his money. I may have been a kid, but I wasn’t stupid. Whatever my father was involved in, definitely wasn’t legal. We had to leave our family and home in Cuba because of his illegal activity, only for him to come to the U.S. and do the same. I guess he didn’t learn his lesson. For the most part, he kept his business away from me...until I was sixteen. That’s when my father’s sins caught up to him—to us.
One night my father came home in an unusual mood. He seemed somber, almost defeated. When I asked him what was up, I never expected what he was about to tell me.
"I fucked up, hijo son," he told me. Some men were going to come for him, and that they would be here soon. I told him we could run, leave town. He explained it wasn’t that easy.
"You can’t run from these people. They have eyes everywhere," he barely got the words out of his mouth before three men walked into our house. My father hadn’t even bothered to lock the door. Like he knew there was no use. One of the men was wearing a suit. He was lean and tall, I’d put him at a little over six feet with black hair. This man carried himself with confidence. The other two men were in normal looking street clothes, both tall and stocky.
"Martinez," suit regarded my father using his last name as he sat across from him at our kitchen table, "You know why I’m here." It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
That was the night I watch my father die. The guy in the suit, who I later learned his name was Santino, gave a signal allowing one of his men to shoot my father in the chest. I rushed over to him, catching his limp body as we both fell to the floor of our kitchen.
"Lo siento I’m sorry," were the last words my father spoke to me before taking his last breath.
I’m not sure how long I sat on the floor holding my father. Minutes? Hours? All I know is by the time I snapped out of my daze, Santino and his men were gone. The motherfucker just left. As if taking a life was all in a day’s work. Like he hadn’t just destroyed the life of a young man. Part of me understood why he did it. My father stole from him. You get yourself mixed up with the wrong kinds of people, only to double cross them, and you’re bound to end up with a bullet in your head. But at the end of the day, I loved my father—faults and all.