Chapter 21
SAM
Underestimated the hellacious beach traffic. Big time.
Although once I finally got going, I started to feel a little better. Windows down, music loud, just yelling along to the radio like I didn’t give a solitary shit and yeah, I got some ugly and bewildered stares from people at stoplights, but screw ‘em. They didn’t have the morning I had.
Angry at first, and then…less. As the miles wore on. Then sad. Or maybe something else, I don’t know.
I’m going through all five stages of grief in rapid succession and getting the worst whiplash, even worse than the drivers in this god-forsaken state are intent on giving me between the tailgating and the brake checking and cutting me off and forgetting how to even use their turn signals.
I didn’t realize how dog shit the drivers were here until I drove through like, ten other states where they were marginally less dog shit.
Driving by a few husks of palm trees from a recent fire I didn’t know about—don’t know terribly much what’s happening in this big-ass state, if I’m honest, because Miami is just its whole own thing.
And I don’t leave often. And man, I am fucking homesick for it like I never thought I would be.
All the time I’d been idealizing, romanticizing what life beyond Miami could be like and now there’s nothing more I want than to be home. I miss my friction-free life.
Well, except the whole part where I don’t want to sell cars for a living.
And Gabriel dying. And wondering, exactly, what it is that I am.
Why I feel like there’s something wrong with me, lapsing behind everyone I know, disappointing my parents, myself.
Unsure of what I really want out of this little life of mine.
One problem’s been solved, though: I’m bisexual for sure. I like both, and I guess that’s okay. And maybe by the millennium this sort of stuff will just be normal. Who knows? Suppose anything’s possible. Like humanity being on the cusp of something truly remarkable.
I guess that particular revelation is thanks to Ash and his complete and total acceptance of me.
I really think I am in love with him, as stupid and impossible as it sounds.
So are we over? Do I take him to Miami and kick him to the curb? Do I push past this, accept he never meant to hurt me? To lie the way that he did? Because I do believe that, I think.
He’s a hustler. It’s not even the most insane piece to this jacked up puzzle, but it’s certainly one of them. I’m not even sure how to process it. The thought of so many disgusting men having him and him hating every second of it, doing it because he has to—
No. I don’t want to think about that.
God, I wish I hadn’t said those awful things to him.
I miss my family right about now. Annoying and nagging and in my face as they are, I feel their absence. I wish I could talk to them about this. Even if their advice sucks, it’s better than nothing. Better than being totally alone with it.
I pull into a Publix and walk up to the payphone outside with a handful of change. I dial the dealership back home. “Rivero Ford Miami, Martina speaking.” It’s the desk girl. I swear she can’t work seven days a week, but it seems like she does. “How can I help you?”
“It’s Sam. Can you get my dad?”
“Oh, hey Sam. I think he’s with a customer. Do you mind holding?”
I say yes and I have to wait long enough for him to come to the damn phone that I have to feed another quarter into the slot, and then he finally graces me with his presence.
“Hola, mijo.” he says affably, accent thickening in real time.
I can picture him perfectly at the phone in the showroom, dressed in a suit as always.
He looks like me, but he’s got a big mustache and the hairline’s receding a little now, but he combs it in a way that you can’t tell.
Handsome dude. It’s his genes I have to thank.
I smile. “Hola, viejo.”
“And where’ve you been, eh? After disappearing for what, a week? I should fire you.” He’s joking. I can hear the smile in his voice. “What do you think about that? You can work for someone else. Make their schedule a nightmare.”
“You can’t fire me, Dad. I’m the nepo hire.”
“I don’t know what those words mean.” He does, of course. He speaks better English than a lot of people I know. “What do you need from me, huh? I thought you were in trouble when Martina said you called.”
“No trouble. Not exactly.”
“You home yet?”
“No,” I say sheepishly.
“Ay, still on the road? You’re supposed to be working for me tomorrow!”
“I know.” I reach out and grasp the phone’s metal cord. “But I…” Aaaand there it is again, the lump in my throat and the urge to cry. “I think I might need another day or two.”
“?Dónde estás?1”
“At a Publix. By the Speedway.”
“The Speedway? In Daytona.”
“Yeah.”
He sucks his teeth. I bet he’s got a cigar. “?Que pasa, hijo?2 Tell me what’s upsetting you. And don’t say nothing. Your viejo isn’t stupid.”
“I, um.” I’m gripping the cord so tightly it’s beginning to bite into my palm, but I don’t let it go.
My eyes cut sideways beyond the booth, out into the crowded parking lot.
There are dark clouds gathering on the horizon, lightning flickering throughout; one of Florida’s frequent summer storms. It’ll come and go within a matter of minutes.
They almost never linger long enough to ruin the day.
“Out with it,” my dad says, not unkindly. Just his typical bluntness. “Tell me if you killed someone or not. Did you run someone over with the Mustang? We can detail it.”
I smile in spite of myself. “That’s your first concern, huh.”
“Have to hide the evidence somehow, eh? Good thing we can do it right here.”
“Hah.” I stare at the thunderheads. “I dunno. I guess I’ve been feeling a little lost these days.”
“Lost? You? ?Por qué?”
“Like…who I am. You know?”
“Bullshit. I know exactly who you are. Sam Rivero, from prime stock. Conceived in Little Havana on the Calle Ocho in the back of a ’64 Ford Fairlane—”
“Okay, ew,” I say hastily. “I don’t need to know that.”
“Does it answer your question?”
“No, not really.” I hesitate. “Dad, if I…if I wasn’t who you thought I was, would you still, you know. Love me?” And I realize this question, as it slips from me, isn’t hypothetical. I’m not asking for a friend or for Ash. I’m asking for me.
There’s a beat. “Sam, did you kill someone or not?”
“No, no. Nothing like that.”
“Drugs, then? You one of those dope heads?”
“Dad, no.”
“Then what? I can’t think of anything else very bad.”
“If I was different. In a way that wasn’t…really acceptable.”
Another pause, and this one longer. “Is this about Gabriel?” he says finally.
My heart stops. I think it actually does. Like five whole skipped beats and I’m about to pass right out on the sidewalk in front of a lady with three kids piled in her shopping cart before it finally stutter-starts to life again. “What? What about Gabriel? I mean—you know about Gabriel?”
“Mijo.” He says this in a wry but affectionate sort of way. “Do you think your tía Vivi and I don’t talk?”
“What do you mean?” I’m bewildered. Flabbergasted, even. I grope for words. “What the hell does she know? What are you talking about?”
“You know she’s—” And I can practically hear him flailing his hands before he lowers his voice, hissing into the phone. “Gay.”
“I didn’t,” I say. “What? No one told me that.”
“Si, claro, why do you think she came over?”
“Because you guys did?” I feel crazy. Actually. “Plus all the other five million reasons Cubans leave Cuba?”
“Well, that, but also the other part, same as Gabriel. Did you think she lived with Lucia all these years as friends?”
“You said they were roommates.”
“Ah, Sam.” He’s laughing sort of helplessly. “It’s just, you know, how we presented it when you were kids. We didn’t know how to explain back then.”
“Okay, cool, so I’ve got a lesbian aunt. What the hell does that have to do with Gabe?” Now I’m playing dumb.
“They talk, and we talk, so…”
Oh my fucking god. My face is burning. I imagine it must be a very interesting shade of puce to anyone who happens to be observing me. I glance around before huddling closer to the booth. “You knew about that? And you didn’t say anything?”
“I wanted to, but Vivi said to leave it alone unless you said something. Let you figure it out for yourself. But yes, your mother and I knew. Know.” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “When we found out about his illness, we wanted to say something. To say sorry. And ask if you were okay. But you never brought it up and we didn’t want to make it worse. ”
My throat goes tight again. “Yeah. I…yeah. Thanks. It sucks.” I’m prompted for another quarter and I hastily shove it into the slot. “Dad—this whole time you knew that I’m…”
“Gay? It’s why we were surprised you went after Adriana.”
“No. Bisexual.”
“?Qué cono es eso?3”
“It means I like both. Guys and girls.”
“Oh.” He sucks his teeth again. “You’re always making up new things, eh? Kids these days. I can’t keep up.”
I laugh weakly. I feel like my knees are going to give out. “So you don’t care? You’re not gonna like…I dunno, kick me out of the family or something?”
“I grew up knowing my big sister was different and I would’ve killed anyone who tried to fuck with her.
No different with you. However you are, or want to be, I love you.
Your mother and I both. Your sisters too, probably, I don’t know.
Call them and ask.” He laughs. “Olivia especially gets her own ideas now. That fancy education of hers.”
Those thunderheads have made their slow and steady encroaching way towards the Publix parking lot and I know at any moment I’m going to get drenched, so I try to wrap up the conversation. “Hey, um, I guess I should say I met someone. On the road. We’ve sort of been together this whole time.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Um, he’s really important to me. And he’s coming to Miami. I dunno, it’s all kind of a mess right now.”