Chapter 12 #2
“When you’re growing up, you fuck up. It’s inevitable.
So you end up with regrets. Small ones that make you cringe.
Medium ones that keep you up at night. But the big ones?
Those are the ones that shape you. They carve you out of hurt, anger, and your own dumb decisions.
Thankfully, we don’t get too many—but when we do, they change everything.
And sometimes…” He trailed off, exhaling.
“Sometimes it would be fucking amazing if you hadn’t done the thing, you know? ”
I tapped ash and gave him a lopsided grin. “You’re getting real introspective.”
He burst out laughing.
I’d never really noticed the sound of it before. It was deep and a little raspy. Dad had smoked for years when he was younger—he only quit after I turned five. The rasp never left him. And when he laughed, really laughed, it was a rough, contagious sound. It made you want to smile too.
“You’ll understand when you grow up.”
“I’m nineteen.”
“That’s just a baby, hijo. Trust me on this.”
Was he right? I could think of a million things I regretted. All those fights with Mom. Ghosting people who tried to stay in touch after school. Kissing people I didn’t want to kiss.
“I’ve fucked up already, Dad. You just don’t know all of it.”
He turned toward me, green eyes narrowing—not with suspicion, but with focus.
“The fuckups you’ve had so far? Those were baby ones, Noah.
You’re entering the part of your life where mistakes start to count.
And you need to watch out for them. They’ll still happen—you can’t avoid them—but you can control how deep they cut.
Because sometimes they’re so big, you don’t come back from them. You understand what I’m saying?”
I nodded.
“You can have fun. Be young. But when something’s going to harm someone, or you, in a way you can’t fix with an ‘I’m sorry,’ you need to listen to that voice in your gut. Stop before you cross that line.”
Hadn’t I already crossed it? It felt like I had.
“So…what are your big five?”
He turned away again, lips pressed tight, humming to himself. Then he said, “I cheated on Teresa. That’s what ended my first marriage.”
I rolled over onto my stomach, eyes wide. “Shut the fuck up! You said it was because she didn’t want to move from Buenos Aires.”
“You weren’t old enough to hear the truth.”
“What, like there are age-appropriate truths now?”
“Yes, that’s a thing.”
I flopped onto my back on the floor, shaking my head. “Does Mom know? Was it Mom?” I asked, slightly horrified.
“As if your mother would ever be the other woman.”
I laughed. He wasn’t wrong about that. She could be a lot of things, but low-maintenance wasn’t one of them.
“Do Mati and Diego know?”
He nodded. “They were around your age when we got divorced. Teresa was never very quiet about it.”
“Wow,” I breathed. It was strange, getting this level of honesty from him. Nice, but still…odd.
Then it sort of struck me—those whispers I’d been hearing my whole life. About him. About the money. The kind of rumors that kept me too afraid to ask, because what if they were true? But if not now, when?
“Do any of the big five come from work?”
A pause. “A couple. But they’re not recent.”
My stomach twisted. “Kids at school say stuff sometimes. Not directly—just hints. Nothing explicit or to my face…” I trailed off, unsure how to keep going.
He sat up, and I followed, glancing up at him, sheepish and already worried I’d gone too far.
“What did they tell you?”
“Nothing, just…” I couldn’t finish it.
He nodded slowly. “I want to make something very clear to you, hijo.” His eyes locked on mine, steady and unflinching. “I have never, not once, broken the law.
My shoulders loosened at his words, shedding a weight I felt I’d been carrying for years.
“There have been choices I’ve made that might have bent it—but never broken.
I know where I stand, morally. And it’s never been about taking what isn’t mine.
So, whatever you’ve heard, this is the truth.
Some people resent success—especially when it comes from someone like me.
An immigrant. A man with an accent. Someone who built his own doors instead of waiting for one to open. ”
He paused, then added, “You’ll face that, too, eventually. Maybe on a smaller scale, but it’ll still be there. If the wave ever hits—don’t lose sight of what you know.”
“Okay.” The word felt small against the weight of everything he’d just given me.
He exhaled and leaned back against the desk chair. “People can be cruel. Especially the young ones. I’m sorry you had to hear that crap.”
I shrugged. “I’ve heard a lot worse from Mom.” The laugh that came with it didn’t sound half as convincing as I wanted it to.
His shoulders sagged, weariness written all over him. “You two need to work on that.”
I swallowed hard.
This was the line between us. He would always defend her. And I was never going to tell him the full truth. Not when he still looked at her like she was someone worth protecting. Like she was fragile, instead of the one who broke things.
“It’s not like you’ve made it easier.”
He nodded. “That’s fair. I just need you to protect them. Especially her—from her own instincts.”
I frowned. “What?”
“Your mother doesn’t understand money. Or responsibility. Or accountability. She’s going to have to learn—but not by holding your future in her hands. You might look like her, and act like her sometimes,” he added with a chuckle at the face I made, “but you’re my son too. And I see myself in you.
“You’re smart with this stuff, Noah. You know how to make tough decisions. You’ve got the stomach for it. But you’re kind too. Compassionate. Your instincts are solid—you just don’t trust them yet. You ignore them instead.”
Of course I do. I was taught not to trust them. My eyes prickled, and I cleared my throat.
He kept doing this—again and again. Talking like he wouldn’t be here. Like he was starting to give up.
I fucking hated it.
Maybe this was the moment. The one where I told him everything.
That I’d always been scared of her. That the fear never left, even when I was older, making me monitor her moods like weather patterns.
That I was terrified of him dying—and the selfish part of me didn’t want to be left alone with her.
Because it was the worst kind of alone—the kind that felt like it was your fault.
But he looked tired. And I couldn’t bring myself to add more to his weight.
“Lucky you’re here to teach me, then,” I said instead, forcing a smile and tipping my head toward the desk.
Another pause.
“Yes. It’s lucky.” He glanced at the desk, too, running a hand down his face. “It’s late, hijo. Let’s head to bed.”
He pushed off the floor and stumbled. I caught his forearm and helped him up, rising with him.
His arm felt different. Brittle. Something I had never—not once in my life—felt from him.
He’d always been solid. Unshakable. A steady rock in the middle of everything else cracking.
And now he was the one splintering at the edges.
As I settled into bed, I reminded myself for the hundredth time today: this isn’t about me. I’m okay. Nothing is happening to me. Everything is fine.
A single tear slid down my cheek, warm and slow, until it reached my lip. I licked it away.
Then I turned my face into the pillow, rubbed it against the fabric, and pretended I didn’t know exactly why it was wet.
The morning after, I went to say goodbye before heading out. He was in the office. I knocked a couple of times, and when he didn’t answer, I pushed the door open.
He wasn’t in his chair.
I stepped inside, phone in hand, about to text him—then I heard it.
A gagging sound came from the bathroom. Then a cough. A few seconds later, the toilet flushed.
My insides turned to ice.
I backed out of the room quickly and closed the door behind me as quietly as I could. Then I waited. A few minutes passed before I knocked again.
We said goodbye. But the entire ride to the airport—and all through the flight—I couldn’t shake the dread that had taken root in my chest. I was tired as fuck, but I couldn’t sleep. Not even for a second. My brain wouldn’t shut up. My body wouldn’t stop buzzing. My chest felt like a tight fist.
Anthony, my dealer, was having a party at a friend’s place. I went, mostly to get more weed. Hoping it would help. Hoping something would.
I rubbed my face in my hands as I sat on the couch beside him.
“You look like shit,” he said. “Why don’t you have a drink? Stay a while. Forget whatever’s messing with your head.”
His friends were usually wasted, but harmless.
I shook my head. “I need sleep. I’m so fucking tired I can’t think.”
“And you’re smoking? That’s not going to be enough.” He grinned. “Try something different. I’ve got Adderall, if you’re falling behind in class.”
“Nah, man.” I was already digging in my pocket for my phone so I could pay and leave.
“Or blow, if that’s more your style.”
My hand paused.
“It’s the good shit too,” he added with a sly smile. “Give it a try. I know you’re good for it.” He pulled out a small plastic bag filled with white powder and held it toward me.
I stared at it.
And then I thought—
About my dad. The big five. That conversation we had in my room when I was fifteen.
About tomorrow’s class, where I didn’t even know what we were doing—plus the paper I hadn’t started.
About how nothing was slowing down, and I was expected to carry everything, hold it all together, when I could barely stay upright.
I thought about the fear. That old, bone-deep kind. The one that lived under my skin. The one that made me freeze. That made me feel small.
I thought about how long it had been since I’d felt wanted. Since I’d been touched. Since I hadn’t felt invisible in a room full of people.
He started to pull his hand back. “You’ve never had any?”
I reached for the bag before he could and held it between my fingers like it might answer something.
He offered me a key. “Here.”
I thought about my dad’s face. Stern. Tired.
Then the flash of his forearm. The gagging sounds.
Something cracked open inside me and I snatched the key.
Took a bump. Held my hand to my nose.
The bitter trail burned down my throat, and my heart kicked up like it was waking from a long sleep.
I took another.
And another.
The fear slipped out through the cracks, replaced by something colder. Not joy—power. Clarity. Like I could finally breathe again. Like nothing could touch me.
It didn’t make me happy, but it made me sure. Sure I could handle the pressure. Sure I could outrun the dread. Sure I could make it through the night, and the day after that.
It made me feel alive. Untouchable. Like I was the one in control.
It was the kind of high that kept you moving. That got you dancing. Grinning. Pulling someone into your mouth just to forget why you needed to.
That kind.
I took a few more when I finally made it home. Showered. Got dressed and went to class like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t just crossed a line I swore I never would.
No sleep? No problem.
I didn’t need it anymore.
I was fucking invincible now.