Chapter 39
The music isn’t hitting tonight. No matter how many chords I strum or songs I start, none of it feels right. I set the guitar aside, and the sudden silence in the studio amplifies the noise in my head. All of my thoughts are centered on Lexie.
She’s only been gone nine hours, but the ache in my chest feels bigger than the last time she left.
Bigger because now I know she loves me and worries I can’t love her back with my whole heart.
That my hate and anger are too much for me—too much for us.
That it will be the third wheel in our relationship.
I glance over at the pictures of my dad and me hanging on the wall. Almost all our time spent together involved music. He worked so hard to put me into a private arts and music school, but he missed most of my performances.
Sorry, I had to work. That was his usual refrain. It was his excuse for not being home for dinner, for being on his computer during vacations, for not showing up where we needed him to be.
I remember the fights between him and my mom, their voices carrying late into the night.
“You work for a tyrant, Miguel,” my mother would say. “He’s bleeding you dry, but you’re letting him. Say no. Quit. Choose us.”
“How can you say that I’m not choosing my family?” he’d shoot back. “This is all for you and C. For our baby girl on the way.”
“No! It’s not,” she’d argue. “We want you here, but you choose to be a martyr instead.”
I was so mad at her for saying that. My dad was a hero to me, like Captain America in the comic books that I devoured as a kid. Solid, honorable, fighting even when the odds were stacked against him.
As an Afro-Latino man, he carried the weight of expectations on his shoulders, believing there was no room for error, no allowance to ease up.
He often said, “Our people don’t get second chances, mijo.
We work twice as hard for half as much, and even then, it’s not always enough.
I want better for you. I want you to have the world. ”
He lived by that code—providing for his family at any cost.
And then there was the villain, Theodore Townsen—a real-life Kingpin. Ruthless. Greedy. Pulling strings from his ivory tower while men like my father broke their backs to make him richer.
My dad sacrificed everything, and Townsen took it all without so much as a second thought.
I’ve spent years blaming him for my father’s death, for the life that was stolen from us.
And I still believe that. Could my father have made a different choice?
Yes. But that doesn’t let Townsen off the hook.
Yet, Lexie’s words stick with me. I love you, Chaz. You are the best man I have ever known. You deserve to live a life free of my father. Free of that anger.
Have I let my hatred for him define too much of my life? Would it keep me from loving Lexie fully? Would I look at her and always see her father? I don’t think so. I looked at her today, soaking her in, and I didn’t see Townsen’s daughter. I saw her. Just Lexie. My Blue.
But I circle back to the question: Are anger and grief cement blocks that have kept me stuck in the past?
If I’m being completely honest with myself, the answer is yes.
I just don’t know how to let it go.
Dice is behind the bar, midway through a story, captivating a couple of women who hang on to his every word. He’s a showman—exaggerated gestures, well-timed pauses, cocky grin.
“. . . and that’s how I ended up in a wet T-shirt contest,” he finishes with a wink.
“Did you win?” The one with black bangs asks.
“What do you think, mama?”
She looks him over like he’s a snack and giggles. “Of course you did.”
“I’m not one to brag, but yeah.”
I roll my eyes and take a seat at the far end of the bar, far enough to make it clear I’m not here to compete for attention.
He whips up their cocktails, making a whole routine with the shaker like it’s some kind of choreography before he finally slides the enamored women their drinks. “Let me know if you need anything else,” he says with another wink, then saunters down the bar to me.
“Scotch? Beer? A tub of ice cream to cry into?”
“Thanks for the sympathy,” I snort. “I’ll take a scotch without the commentary.”
“Commentary’s free, bruh. Part of the entertainment.” Dice pours the amber liquor into a glass and leans on the bar, crossing his arms. “She’ll be back, man.”
“I know. It’s not that.”
“What then? Soph okay?”
“She’s actually good, all things considered.” I fill him in on Lexie taking on the battle.
“Guess she’s not as sweet and demure as she appears.”
“She is, but she’s tough too.”
“So, what’s got you looking like someone pissed on your favorite guitar?”
“You do have a way with words,” I say wryly.
“You’re the poet, not me. What’s up?”
“Just thinking. About my dad. About Townsen.”
“That’s progress. You’re saying his name now.”
“That’s the thing, man. I’ve been carrying all this anger. It’s like it’s taken up permanent residence. And now, with what happened to Soph. It just adds to it. I have all this rage inside me that’s been festering for twenty years. It’s not good.”
“Sounds like you might be ready to evict that shit.”
“Easier said than done. But I don’t want it to get in the way of what I could have with Lexie.” I pause, swirling my scotch. “She and Soph have banded together, trying to get me into therapy.”
“And?”
I shrug. “Pouring my shit out to a stranger. I don’t know. It has its pros, but grief counseling didn’t help when Moms made me go.”
“Yeah, I remember. But you’re not the same dude you were at twelve. Hell, you’re not even the same as you were a month ago. People grow. Or so I’m told.” He smirks. “But listen, man, if you’re serious about letting go of all this anger, maybe therapy’s the way.”
“Have you ever thought about it?”
“Naw. I’m not looking to dig up all that. My father was a deadbeat, and my mom, well, she did what she did. I’m over it.”
He isn’t, but I don’t push. He’ll deal with his past when he’s ready.
“Have you seen Lot yet?” I ask, shifting the subject.
“She was here last night, looking fine as hell with her bad attitude. Walked by like I didn’t exist, and I’m not fucking with that.
If she wants to act like a grown-up, she knows where to find me.
” He blows it off, but I’m not fooled by his feigned indifference.
Whether he or Lot knows it or not, she hurt him by cutting off ties without any explanation.
“So, back to you,” he says. “Whatcha gonna do?”
“Try therapy, I guess.”
“Aw-right.” He taps his fist to mine. “Just like Peabo sang—What you won’t do for love.”