Taking Care Of The Mobster

I feel my cheeks heat up as memories of the night before replay in my head. My heart starts a rapid, irregular thrum as I remember the feeling of being held in his strong arms against the muscular walls of his chest and surrounded by his heady scent. He’d held me in his arms until I pulled back, embarrassed and self-conscious.

I still don’t understand why I broke down like that.

I still don’t understand at what point I went from thinking of him as a fearful mobster boss to someone whose pain I feel the need to share.

Last night...It felt like his pain was projected, and I could feel his agony as the helpless eleven year old kid who meant so little to his mother and as a forty-two year old man who’s still lost in the abyss of his past.

I think back to the moment before I woke him up. His face had been wrought with a heartbreaking agony that pulled tightly at the strings of my heart. He kept muttering incoherently in his sleep. Then a tear slides down his right eye as he seemed to struggle against an invisible force. It was at that point that I couldn’t take anymore and shook him awake.

Suddenly, I had broken him out of that dark place he seemed stuck in. Then, just moments later, he related his deepest hurt to me in such a detached tone, as if it was the most normal thing to happen to an eleven year old boy. It was at that moment that I realized just how deeply traumatized Carlos is. I wonder how he gets up every day and faces the world with such a strong front when he suffers so deeply.

I sit up in bed and stretch a little. I run a hand through my hair to try and untangle the matted mess and let my gaze linger on my reflection...It’s been a very long time since I’ve stared at myself in the mirror. And like always, a feeling of discontent and disgust sneaks up in my chest.

Why can’t I be more slender like Beth?

My whole life, I’ve been burdened with these curves that nobody seems to want – least of all, me. Maybe if I felt pretty, not beautiful just pretty enough, I would have the confidence to act on the budding attraction I feel for Carlos.

Where’d that thought come from?

I snap my gaze away from the mirror. I quickly get dressed and leave my room to check on Carlos. I knock curtly on his door and wait for a response. I knock again when I don’t get a reply, but still nothing. I turn the knob and peek into his room.

I’m surprised to find the bed empty, albeit ruffled – an indication that someone vacated the space.

“Carlos?” I call out, walking further into the room. He probably ventured downstairs again. I start to turn around, but suddenly I hear a suspicious thud followed by a muffled curse from the direction of his bathroom. I move closer to the bathroom.

“Carlos?” I call hesitantly. “Is that you? Are you okay?”.

He says something that I don’t quite catch. I feel my stomach squeeze in worry. What if he slipped and hit his head? What if….

“I’m coming in, alright?” I say in a loud voice. “I’m going to close my eyes and walk right in...I just need to be sure you’re alright.”

I shut my eyes and turned the knob, slowly navigating my way into the bathroom, careful, so I don’t slip and split my head in the process.

“Abby?” Carlos sounds shocked. “What...What are you doing?”

“I can’t see anything. I promise,” I say, holding my hands out in front of me to reassure him. “I just wanted to be sure you’re alright. Do you need any help?... Carlos?”

It takes me a moment to realize that the sudden roaring sound is him laughing his head off...At me! I snap my eyes open. “What...?”

Carlos is sitting on a chair by the sink, an opened bottle of shampoo in his hands. His dark eyes are filled with humor as he watches me shift around uncomfortably on my feet. I feel my cheeks burn as it dawns on me that I might have totally overreacted, and look like an idiot now.

“I’m sorry...,” I mutter bashfully. “I thought...I didn’t think at all. Obviously.” I quickly turn around to leave.

“I need you,” Carlos says quickly, his voice stopping me in my tracks.

My heart stops in my chest and picks up again at an unnaturally fast pace. Did he just say those words to me?

“What?” I say, almost breathlessly. I turn back to him, praying I don’t trip on my feet in my rush and compound my embarrassment further. “What did you say?”

“I meant, I need your help,” Carlos says and gestures at the shampoo bottle. “I want to wash my hair, but I can’t seem to raise my hands past my shoulders.”