Chapter 14 #2
Rafael barks a low, rumbling laugh that has me smiling too. I catch myself and immediately press my lips together.
I shift my gaze to my hands and remind myself we’ve gotten off track. Way off track. “If your grandmother is correct about priests and prayers, I have no clue where to start,” I admit.
“Luckily for you, I have a few connections,” Rafael says. “A priest, a rabbi, maybe a couple monks.”
“All of them?” I try not to break out in a sweat.
“Nothing but the best for Evie Pope.”
I roll my eyes, despite the lack of sarcasm in his voice. “You’re making it hard not to think you didn’t have something to do with my untimely demise.”
“One: You haven’t demised. And two—”
“Conditions! I didn’t forget.”
“Have to make sure. Head injury and all.” Rafael looks sidelong at me, face too serious to be actually serious, and I bite my cheek against another smile.
“I’m still obsessed with rules, thank you very much.”
“Oh, good. Otherwise, we’d be in real trouble.”
It’s hard to know what to make of this new thing between us. So I say nothing.
We’re quiet, long enough the crickets and breeze fill the silence. I know we should be going, but there’s something about this moment that makes me feel like the old us, that makes me want to draw it out a little longer. Learn more about him. Make the most of his guards being down.
“Did you spend a lot of time here as a kid?” I dare.
He’s close enough I could lean in and our shoulders would brush.
I lean the other way.
“Most evenings. We lived two streets away. Me and the girls would walk here after school. Abuela would cook for us while my mom took care of other stuff. Carting us to sports and activities, grocery shopping, chores, whatever was needed.”
“And your dad?” I shouldn’t go there, but I can’t help myself.
Rafael clasps his hands together. “He worked a lot, built up his business from a young age and made it his life because a lot of people depended on him. It was important to be counted on—relied on—and that meant having direction and stability to him.” I could relate to that part.
I don’t say anything. “From a young age, I knew he was counting on me to shoulder that burden. We had to, as the men of the family. I was going to go to law school and take over the family business, and he was going to slow down and take more trips with my mom. But when it came to it, I couldn’t do it.
” He shrugs, looking down at his hands. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do, not for a long time, but I knew I had to like what I was doing.
He didn’t agree. He also thought college would change my mind about law, and it didn’t.
It made me realize it wasn’t for me, that no matter how much I wanted it to be different, none of his dreams were mine.
I let him down.” The way he says those four words makes my breath catch.
“No, you didn’t,” I say, surprising myself … and him. His gaze meets mine. I freeze, holding my breath, desperately wanting to kick myself for interrupting him.
His chuckle sounds forced. “You and my mom share the same opinion, but I know my dad. He had his entire life mapped out—and I couldn’t even be counted on to continue what he started.
How was I going to provide for a family?
Be someone others could count on to be there?
And by the time I had a better sense of what I wanted to do with my life, he was … gone.”
Rafael’s honesty is a battering ram, and it leaves me at a loss. The vulnerability in his gaze makes me want to course-correct this moment and say something more in line with what one mortal enemy would say to the other. Only I don’t.
“I think you’re wrong,” I start. “For one, maybe you needed some more time to figure things out, but you’re always there for your family.
If listening in on your family calls over the years taught me anything, it’s that they adore you and count on you.
And two—if you needed to prove to your dad that you had direction, you should have brought him to Media Lab.
Don’t take this as a compliment, but you’ve done okay for yourself.
I’m sure he knew it too—he just didn’t say it.
Sometimes men can be obtuse and difficult …
and not know how to communicate when it really matters. ”
A look flits over Rafael’s features and leaves him looking at me in a way that makes me feel like I’ve undressed.
I bite my lips to keep more words from spilling out.
He clears his throat. “I … we need to make a pit stop,” he says, holding up a paper bag I didn’t notice before. “Some leftovers to drop off.”
Oh.
The abrupt change of topic has a dowsing effect. It recalibrates things. Reminds me that we are not friends or allies.
I swallow. “Sure,” I say, pushing to my feet. I should thank him for the reminder.
Without looking at him, I head for his truck, feeling like a stupid fool.
We take our seats, the leftovers safely in the back seat, a manila envelope shoved between his seat and the center console.
I look from the folder to Rafael, who starts the engine, reverses, and doesn’t say anything as he steers his truck down the street.
Like he’s thinking about how I tried to pry into parts of his life I had no right prying into.
Like I made an enormous mistake that could potentially break our deal.
I shouldn’t have gone into the backyard. I should have left and … prayed. I glance out the window, up to the handful of stars in the dark sky.
If you’re not going to bring me back, at least split the ground open wide enough to swallow me whole.
The road doesn’t crack apart.
Rafael doesn’t fill the silence either.
Please?
Minutes pass. No act of God occurs.
I take a deep breath, determined to fix this. “What’s in the envelope?” I point to it. “Hush money?”
Rafael’s hand twitches on the steering wheel. “Something like that,” he says, but offers nothing else. Just more silence.
It doesn’t take a social science expert to know I ruined whatever fragile truce was between us, and it makes me feel helpless—even more helpless.
I’m open to fully transitioning to ghost mode at this point! I close my eyes and send the thought into the prayer-verse.
I wait.
“I’ve been thinking.” Rafael startles me from fantasies of disappearing.
“Wish I could make a note in my planner,” I say, my tone betraying my relief as opposed to sarcasm.
“I bet that old thing misses you.” His tone hints at amusement, like he might be edging back into Evie vs. Rafael territory, like maybe this prayer thing has merit.
“Some of us like organization. I know it’s a foreign concept,” I quip, trying to do my part in getting us back to familiar ground. “And do you plan on telling me your bright idea anytime this century?”
Rafael is quiet a second too long for comfort, so I look at him. He meets my gaze, his face creasing with a smile. “Doesn’t look like you’re seeing Operation Ghostbuster in the same light as me.”
I gape at him. “That’s what you were thinking about?”
“Too on-the-nose?”
“How are you in marketing?”
“Good looks. Great sense of humor. Impeccable persuasion skills.”
I groan at his smug grin. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Remarkable, you mean?”
“No. I mean ridiculous. Absurd. Ludicrous.”
The grin doesn’t slip. “Since you’re the word expert, why don’t you name it?”
“It doesn’t need a name!”
“Every great mission needs a name, E.” His eyes slide to mine. It takes willpower (and mostly pride) not to squeal at him to look at the road. Because spirit me may survive a crash, but flesh-and-bone Rafael? He wouldn’t make it, and despite my best efforts, I need him.
“One-letter nicknames work only for really close friends.” I gesture to the road. “Who keep their eyes on the road.”
He glances at me a second too long for comfort, and the queasiness I’ve attempted to keep at bay spreads into my chest and throat.
Can ghosts puke?
I imagine Rafael’s reaction to me throwing up all over his shiny truck. Some of the queasiness eases at the thought of him having to clean the leather and chrome. Tears would be involved for certain. How’s that for a mission?
“I’m keeping them.” Rafael returns his focus to the road. “Both names.”
“Of course you are,” I mutter. If this all falls apart and I don’t make it back, I make a mental note to extend my haunting to at least three Vela generations, because that’s exactly what he deserves.
Only I really need this to work, for us to be on the same page and try whatever idea we come across, however kooky.
It’s what I tell myself when I say, “What about a medium? What if we tried that?” The words tumble out in a strangled rush because I’m embarrassed to suggest it.
“If I’m a spirit or ghost or whatever, then a medium would be able to help.
Or so I’ve heard.” The moment the words are out, I want to shove them back in. Bad idea.
“Not a bad idea,” Rafael says. His phone dings, lighting up, but he doesn’t even glance at it. “I’m surprised I didn’t think of it.”
I scan his face for a smirk or a hint he’s joking. I detect nothing. “You’re … being serious?”
He flicks a gaze my way. “Yeah, I said we’d try everything—and that’s a good idea.”
“Oh,” I say, trying not let on that I’m stupidly relieved that he didn’t tell me it’s a dumb idea. Because I would tell me it’s a dumb idea. Because I don’t actually think sane people can speak to ghosts.
I keep my reservations to myself, turning my attention to our surroundings, deciding it’s easier to focus on anything but the fact that Rafael Vela, of all people, is taking this more seriously than I am. That he may actually be sticking to a plan.
We’re on the outskirts of downtown, where the buildings aren’t so tightly packed together. Several restaurants here. A few bars there. A smattering of coffee shops. We turn down an alley, garden lights strung along the length of it. He pulls the truck to a stop right beside a back-alley door.
A massive, leather-clad man, looking like the love child of Sasquatch and Tony Soprano, leans against it, cigarette between his lips. His dark gaze cuts to us and creases into a menacing scowl.
“Where are we?” I mask the swell of uneasiness with a glare.
“Our pit stop.” Rafael reaches for the leftovers, then grabs the envelope.
“Which is what? An underground fighting ring?”
Rafael chuckles. “Only on weekends.” He opens the door and slides out of the truck.
“Hang on … you expect me to wait here? With him?” I gesture to the behemoth of a man.
Rafael doesn’t seem fazed. “I won’t be long. And if anyone bothers you …” He leans in, his smile positively wicked. “Just say boo.” He winks and closes the door before I can curse him with a lifetime of incontinence and unsatisfied lovers.