14. Az
— ? —
Az
That Night
“Look at me.”
He does. Those ice-blue eyes that used to make me feel like the only person in any room, fixed on my face with an intensity that borders on painful.
We’re at Grandma June’s kitchen table. The same table where I sat days ago and found out he’d been calling every day. The same table where she taught me to press flowers and balance checkbooks and believe I deserved good things.
I wonder what she’d say about this. Probably something sharp and practical. Probably make him work for it, mija, but don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.
“You don’t sleep in the house,” I say.
“I won’t.”
“Your money doesn’t touch the farm. It doesn’t touch the shop. It doesn’t touch the baby.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Az-”
“I’m serious. No credit cards, no trust funds, no mysterious ‘gifts’ that turn out to be mortgage payments I didn’t ask for.” I hold his gaze. “I found out about my mother. That you’ve been paying her bills.”
He closes his eyes. “I was trying to help.”
“I know. But you didn’t tell me. And that’s-” I have to stop, breathe through the tightness in my chest. “I’m not a problem you can solve with money, Eli. Neither is our daughter.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because lately, money has fixed things. Money made your parents comfortable, money got you out of bad contracts, money got you a house big enough that you never had to see anyone you didn’t want to see.
” I lean forward. “Money can’t fix this.
The only thing that fixes this is showing up.
Every day. Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m still angry. ”
“I can do that.” He says it fast, like he’s been waiting to.
“I want no press within fifty miles. Start with keeping your team away.”
“Done. I’ve already talked to my team, what’s left of it. No interviews, no pap walks, no ‘sources close to the situation.’ Anyone leaks anything about where you are, they’re gone.”
“And if someone comes anyway? Some photographer with a long lens?” I watch his face.
“Then I deal with it. Not you. You shouldn’t have to-” He stops, swallows hard. “You shouldn’t have to live like that. You never should have had to.”
“No. I shouldn’t have.”
The silence stretches. Outside, I can hear Mateo’s dirt bike in the distance, the evening patrol he does without being asked. Lupe is somewhere in the house, definitely listening, definitely ready to intervene if needed.
“There’s one more thing,” I say.
“Anything.”
“If you choose something over us. A call, a show, a crisis that isn’t ours.” I make myself say it, make myself be clear. “I disappear on purpose this time. Not because I’m hurt. Because I’m done.”
He nods slowly. “I understand. And I… there are going to be things I can’t control. Emergencies. If something happens with my parents, or-”
“I’m not talking about real emergencies. I’m not a monster.” I almost smile at the relief that flickers across his face. “I’m talking about choices. About priorities. If your label calls with something ‘urgent’ and you take it instead of being here-”
“I won’t.”
“I need you to understand that I’m serious.”
“I understand.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, close enough that I can smell him, soap and coffee and something underneath that’s just him, familiar as breathing. “I understand, Az. And I’m not going to mess this up.”
I want to believe him. That’s the terrifying part. Even after everything, even with the anger still hot in my chest, some stupid hopeful part of me wants to believe that this time will be different. That he means it.
Maybe he does. Maybe people can change.
Or maybe I’m an idiot who’s about to get her heart broken again.
“This isn’t forgiveness,” I tell him. “I’m not even close. I need you to hear that.”
“I hear it.”
“This is a chance. That’s all it is. A chance to make up for what you did and to be here for her.” I press my hand to my belly, where our daughter is quiet for once, probably sleeping. “That’s it.”
“I’ll take it.” No hesitation. No negotiation. “Whatever you’re offering, Az, I’ll take it.”
“It’s going to be a lot of work. I’m not making it easy.”
“I don’t want easy.” He holds my gaze, and there’s a steadiness in his face I haven’t seen in months, not desperation, not performance. Something that looks almost like peace. “I want you. I want our daughter. I want to earn back what I almost threw away. Easy doesn’t get me there.”
I should say something cutting. Something that reminds him he’s in the doghouse, that he doesn’t get to be romantic yet, that we’re a long way from I want you meaning anything real.
Instead, I say: “There’s a crib. The one I actually wanted, before-” I stop, reorganize. “Maple. Converts to a toddler bed. I found it online.”
His whole body stills. “Okay.”
“I can buy it. But if you wanted to order that exact one and put it together yourself, that would mean something to me.” I pick at the edge of the table. “One exception, Eli. One crib I choose. Nothing else without asking.”
“I remember.”
“That would be…” I swallow. “That would be okay. If you wanted to. That crib, with permission. Putting it together yourself. It doesn’t change the other rules.”
“I want to.” His voice is rough. “Az, I want to so much-”
“Okay.” I cut him off before he can turn this into a moment. “Okay. We’ll figure out the details later.”
Footsteps in the hallway. Lupe appears in the doorway, face carefully neutral, dish towel over her shoulder.
“Five-fifteen,” she says, looking directly at Eli. “You’re up and working. I mean it.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“The seasonal crew starts at five-thirty. You’re there before them. You do what they do. You eat what they eat. You complain and I feed you to the mulcher.”
“Understood.”
She studies him for a long moment, this giant tattooed man sitting at her best friend’s kitchen table, waiting to be judged, and her expression softens. Just slightly. Just enough.
“June would’ve liked you,” she says finally. “She had terrible taste in men too.”
She disappears back down the hallway before either of us can respond.
Eli looks at me. “Was that-”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Right. Yeah, okay.” He stands, chair scraping against the worn linoleum. “I should… the bunkhouse. I should go.”
“You should.”
He hesitates at the door. Turns back. Opens his mouth like he’s going to say something. I love you, probably, or thank you, or some other thing I’m not ready to hear.
“Five-fifteen,” I remind him.
“Five-fifteen,” he echoes.
He goes.
I sit at my grandmother’s table for a long time after, hand on my belly, watching the stars through the kitchen window. The baby kicks, once, twice, strong and sure, like she’s trying to tell me something.
“I know,” I murmur. “I’m figuring it out.”
Lupe’s voice drifts from somewhere in the house: “You’re talking to your stomach again.”
“Mind your business.”
“You are my business, mija.”
I smile despite myself. It feels strange on my face, unfamiliar, like a muscle I forgot I had.
It’s not forgiveness. It’s not even close.
But it’s something.