Chapter 59
fifty-nine
The smell of ajiaco meets me on the stairs. Tears flood my eyes, part shame and part gratitude.
I spent the night at the office, too scared and emotional to make it home after Dominic issued his ultimatum. Being the calculating piece of shit he is, my boss didn’t make me decide on the spot. He told me I had until Wednesday night.
And that he’d get us a room “somewhere nice.”
It didn’t help that, to my dismay, Graham called me back three times this morning. I let each one roll to voicemail, knowing the second I heard his voice, I would break and tell him everything.
And he would turn Dominic in—or kill him. Either of which would have the same result as letting the bastard go to Mr. Stryker.
Still, I must have picked up my phone to return his call over a hundred times. It feels wrong, not telling him. Not going to him with this huge problem—because that’s what we do .
When something is wrong, we tell each other. We plot together. We fight .
Partners in crime .
But if he knew, he would tear Dominic in two. And then Grayson would know.
I’d lose my job. Marco might, too. And Graham would lose his best friend.
I dash the bitter tears out of my eyes, wondering how Abuelita somehow knew I’d had the weekend from hell and decided to make my favorite meal.
Unless something else is wrong.
I push into the tiny apartment and pause on the threshold. There she is, tiny and stooped, at her cramped countertop, cooking.
It all feels so much smaller than ever before. And so do I.
Abuelita doesn’t glance up at me. I can tell from the tight set of her shoulders how angry she is that I’ve been gone for damn-near three days with no explanation. But she still ladles soup into two bowls and points her chin at our table. “You sit.”
All the fight I’ve spent hours storing up drains right out of me. I slump into my usual chair. “I should have called. Lo siento , Abuelita.” I stare down into my supper, wondering again how she knew I needed it. “Why did you make ajiaco ?”
Abuelita slowly lowers herself across from me. She picks up her spoon looking up. “ El pinchao call today. He say tu necesita .”
A scratchy lump lodges itself in my throat. My voice trembles. “What else did el pinchao say?”
“Same as you,” she mutters, then pins me with a searching look. “‘ Lo siento, Abuelita .’”