Chapter 22
EMILIO
Five days of watching the Sox, beating Ryan’s ass at Grand Theft Auto, and listening to Mas mope around the house. That’s, like, thirty-five emotional years in Emilio time. I’m pretty sure my organs have started aging out of grief.
My heart shriveled up like a sad raisin.
My brain is dust. Absolute dust. My angel hasn’t texted.
Hasn’t responded to my dick pics or the video where Mas got pissed that I sent.
Hasn’t even sent me a picture of my son, and it’s my custody weekend in two days.
Actually, I should be getting him tomorrow since it is Thursday today.
I’m dying.
Massimo is dying too, except he dies quietly like a dramatic telenovela widow. Me? I die loud. VERY loud. He’s sitting on the couch now, staring at nothing with the intensity of a man watching his entire life circle the drain.
I swear the Red Sox are losing on purpose just to make it worse.
His stubble is stubbly-er. His hair is messy.
And he keeps sighing like he wants me to ask.
When I do, he glares at me from those hollowed-out eyes with dark bags under them.
He looks like that chick from that movie that looks like a raccoon.
I stand in the hallway, one crutch under my arm, my walking boot heavy as shit. I look at him. He looks at the floor for the trillionth time.
I clear my throat.
Nothing.
I clear it louder.
Nothing.
So I slam my crutch into the wall. Making another dent.
Most dents are from parties, but lately they’ve been from me and these fucking crutches.
Black scuff on the paint, proving it. Ryan went home hours ago after making me work out like a fucking monster.
My injured leg is all shriveled up, looking like a damn pirate.
That’s not gonna cut it. Ryan knows it. I know it.
Mas knows it. But he doesn’t care. Hasn’t worked out since she dropped that nasty word on us.
Space.
He blinks. Slow and fuzzy. Like waking from a coma. Maybe he is. He’s been in a haze all week. Barely able to cook my food and forget about leaving the house again. The ride with the boys is a distant memory.
He was even too sad and lazy to take the McDonald’s bike back to the dude. Paid extra to have them pick it up. Talk about being broken up over my angel. I haven’t even heard him jerk off. Not once all week. When I ask him about it, he says, “fuck off.”
“You good?” he asks without looking up from the floor. More reflex than caring.
“No,” I say, offended that he even asked. “I’m DE-CEASED, brother. Emotionally. Spiritually. My soul is on life support.”
I’ve asked him if she called or texted him back. She hasn’t. I would have known by his sad sack of shit finally talking to me or actually caring if I lived or died. I’m being dramatic, but whatever, he knows, I know it’s been silent on her side.
He rubs his face, not having showered today. I don’t think he showered yesterday, and his leg isn’t even broken. He doesn’t even have to deal with wrapping a cast every damn time like I did. He’s just unmotivated, undisciplined. Un-everything.
“Em, she asked for space.”
“SPACE IS STUPID. SPACE IS FOR ASTRONAUTS AND ELON MUSK!” I yell down the hall, wanting to walk faster than I can.
This accident was dumb as hell.
Glad the dog is okay though.
He sighs again. That one hurts my chest. It’s been days of seeing that look in Mas’s eyes. The one where he pretends he’s fine, but he’s dying inside, thinking he ruined everything.
“Bro,” I say, because somebody has to talk or we’re both going to sink through the hardwood and die in the crawl space. He doesn’t look up. “You wanna . . . I don’t know, go get ink or something?”
Nothing.
Not even a twitch.
“You always go get tattooed when you’re falling apart,” I add, leaning the crutch against the wall long enough to make an overly dramatic gesture. “Remember after Cecelia?”
That gets him. A tiny flicker. A flash of pain, old enough to vote. His jaw locks tight, but he still doesn’t look at me.
“We could go right now.” I try to keep the mood stupid and casual and very much not about whatever emotional black hole he’s spiraling into. “I’ll pick the design. I have excellent taste. Maybe a dragon across your whole back. Or a wolf on your hip. Or a baby angel with—”
“Em.”
That one word shuts me up, but only for a second.
“You sure? Because you’re giving very ‘sad divorced dad energy,’ and ink could—”
“Emilio.”
This time, he finally lifts his gaze, and holy hell, he wrecked. Eyes rimmed red with tears dripping out. Grief as dark as the Sox’s losing streak right now.
“I fucked it up. I got in too deep. I guess I told myself a story that wasn’t real. Wanted her more than she ever wanted me. I see that now. I’m such a fucking fool.”
I shake my head immediately, because no, he didn’t, and yes, he thinks he did, and both of those things are killing us slowly.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did.”
The way he says it chips something off my ribcage and sends it stabbing into my heart. I like my angel. He loves her. I have no doubt about it. But this seems worse than Cecelia, even though the time was much shorter.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands rubbing at his temples like he’s trying to erase the memory of ever meeting her.
“She asked for space because I wanted too much. Because I didn’t give her enough air. Because I—”
His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. I hobble closer, awkward as fuck but determined to be there for my twin like he always is for me.
“Who told you wanting someone is a crime? She’s perfect for us. Didn’t even balk at the sharing. I think she loved it. If anything, maybe that scared her off.”
He doesn’t respond, and that tells me everything I need to know, because the answer is obvious: somebody once did. Somebody carved that belief into him like a tattoo he never asked for. That wanting someone for yourself was wrong, and he’ll pay. Hell, he’s been paying.
He exhales slowly, like the truth is dragging itself up his throat on barbed wire.
“Yeah, I guess. But I think it’s me. I think when you blurted out how I felt, it freaked her out. More than the sharing.”
I feel guilty about that. Something I don’t ever feel. I don’t like it.
“Bro.”
I tap his knee with my crutch because I can’t reach his shoulder without falling over like a damn baby giraffe learning its legs.
“If she didn’t want you, she never would’ve let us in like that. She wouldn’t have stayed. She wouldn’t have opened her legs. Wouldn’t have shown me her Cinnamon Toast Crunch or damn. Now I’m thinking about her creamy donut holes. Fuck.”
He groans. For once, I don’t push it, because this is not about me or my horny brain that needs professional help. This is about him. And my angel. And how fucking stupid space is. Like, NASA-level stupidity.
He rakes a hand through his hair. The same way he used to when Cecelia left him standing in the rain outside our old apartment, except this time it’s deeper, heavier, like he’s not just sad but haunted.
I drag myself closer until I can drop down beside the couch, leaning the crutch against it.
“What if I never get another chance to show her?”
My chest goes tight because I hate this version of him. The defeated one. The one who doesn’t fight. The one who curls in on himself and forgets he’s Massimo-fucking-Dimas. The guy who once survived a two-man bar brawl while I hid behind a jukebox, eating nachos.
“You will. But you gotta shower first. You smell like shit. Smell like the inside of my old leg cast.”
He glares, but weakly. “Em.”
“Brother. You haven’t washed your ass in DAYS. Your nuts probably look like fossilized grapes.”
“Jesus Christ.”
I’m on a roll now. Got his attention and everything. I’m not wasting this.
“Your dick hasn’t felt water in almost a week.”
“EM!”
“You’re one more day away from smelling like a dying raccoon.”
His lips twitch. Barely. An almost-smile. A ghost of the old Massimo who picks on me for breathing wrong.
“I don’t have the energy,” he mutters, rubbing his face again, like the exhaustion is stuck to his skin and he can scrape it off.
“You don’t need energy,” I say, hooking the crook of the crutch around his ankle and tugging.
“You need water. And soap. And maybe shampoo if we’re being fancy.
Or if we’re aiming to get our woman back because I promise you, she is not fucking a sad and smelly raccoon with hard nuts and a moldy dick. ”
He shakes his head, but it’s weaker this time. The argument in his mouth dissolves.
“Trust the process.”
He doesn’t move, so I go for the kill shot.
“You think she’s sitting wherever she is, missing you, imagining you like . . . THIS?” I sweep my hand over him dramatically. “No. She’s imagining you smelling like cedar and manhood and those expensive soaps you hoard in your shower.”
A tiny huff, barely a breath.
“Fine, I’ll get the hose and rinse you off right here. You don’t even need to move.”
I start pushing myself upright on one leg and wobbling like a penguin. That gets him going.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he mutters, pushing up from the couch at last and groaning like standing is too much effort.
“So, you’ll shower?”
A long pause, then a ridiculous sigh.
“Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”
Victory. I give him a solemn nod.
“Do your thing, brother. Let the water rebirth you. Wash the sadness off your nipples.”
He flips me off, but half-heartedly, which is practically affection at this point. He walks down the hallway.
“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m in there,” he calls over his shoulder as if I wouldn’t do something stupid. I clutch my chest as he wounds me.
“I am the picture of maturity.”
His door slams and the lock clicks. I lie my head against the back of the chair, figuring out what to watch when I hear something. I turn my head, slow and dramatic. And there it is, sitting like an answered prayer.
Massi’s bike key.
Sitting in the ceramic bowl by the door.
In a beam of late-afternoon sunlight, like the universe itself is winking at me.
A grin cracks across my face so fast my cheeks ache.
If my brother can’t fix us. And Sof isn’t returning our calls or texts, so I’ll go to her.
Mountain and that dude story I once heard.
Something about mountains moving when people don’t.
“I’m coming, my angel,” I whisper to no one, limping forward.
Trying to keep my walking boot thud quiet on the hardwood floor. My heart pounds with purpose. He may have lost her, but I’ll get her back. It’s up to me to fix us.
I grab the key like I’m in the real-life Grand Theft Auto, about to steal my brother’s bike. Race it across town to Sof’s house and demand she take him back. Take us back.
Because fuck space.
We’re done with it. And this feels like destiny-level shit. I sneak as quietly as this fucking boot and crunch let me. Stop at the door. Listen to make sure he’s still in there, scrubbing his sad nipples.
He is.
I get outside as fast as possible, which is still slow as fuck.
And there she sits. Gleaming in the sunshine like a sinner in church.
Mas’s bike is clean, polished, and ready for destiny.
Like she’s been sitting there ready for me to take her.
Ride her to save my angel. To rescue her from sadness like my big bro.
Everyone needs me now.
I feel like a fucking superhero. I’d wear my Superman cape if it weren’t back inside my bedroom. This is happening. I have made it to the bike. My injured leg throbs, swelling inside the walking boot. I ignore it.
DSLs, fat asses, and thick thighs require sacrifice. And sometimes that sacrifice is ignoring medical orders and common sense. I grab the handlebars for balance. Nearly face-plant when the bike tips half an inch. But I’m no bitch.
I steady myself like a damn gladiator dipped in armor. Breathing through the pain while my pulse hammers in my ears, not to get caught.
“My name is Emilio Maximus Decimus Meridius Dimas. Commander of the Armies of the North, East, South, and West. General of the Fallopian Region. Loyal servant to the true empress, Sofia Santiago. Father to my ugly ass son, Paco Santiago. Oh Dimas. Duh. Father to my ugly ass son Paco Dimas.”
I crush the grips in my palms. My cock surges with the power of having the seat under my ass again.
“Boyfriend of a murdered pussy and small tits I want to bite. Husband . . . fuck that part. And I will have my vengeance, in this life and the next TO REUNITE MY FAMILY!”
I raise my fist in salute. My body races with adrenaline. I jam the key in and turn it. The bike roars to life. I slam Mas’s helmet over my fat noggin and slap the visor down. Ready to go to war! I scream a battle cry into the mic and jam my walking boot on the peg.
Pain is temporary.
Love is forever.
Backing out of the driveway is its own catastrophe. My walking boot slips. The bike swerves. Then I get it straight, pointed in the right direction, ready to fly.
And when I hit the throttle, when the bike lurches forward like a freed demon, when the wind smacks me in the face hard enough to blur my vision, when my leg pulses with a level of agony my doctor would absolutely faint over.
I laugh out loud. Unhinged and joyful. I’m doing something good. Fixing something good.
Getting both my brother and my angel back together. I ride reckless, wild, free, wobbling like a drunk flamingo on a tightrope but absolutely determined.
Five days is too long to be without her. Too long to watch my twin die a slow emotional death. Too long to pretend I’m okay when I’m absolutely not okay.
The city blurs around me. Cars honking, people pointing, someone yelling something I don’t understand. My booted foot keeps slipping, and every bump shoots lightning through my bones, but I lean into it. I push harder. I go faster.
I’m almost to her block. Almost to her. Almost to everything that matters.
And when I turn onto her street, the thrill spikes so high I swear I’m vibrating. I can almost see her building through the gaps between houses. Can imagine her walking out. Can imagine her seeing me and knowing we’re cool. She can come back now.
I grin so wide my face hurts. And then it happens. I hit that last curve, lean too hard on a leg that isn’t ready, and the bike skids from under me like life hates my ass.
The world flips.
The pavement rushes up. My helmet cracks against something that isn’t pavement at all. Maybe a parked car, a mailbox, a trash can, or possibly the universe that’s trying to kill me every time I leave my house without Mas.
My ribs slam.
My leg screams.
Everything goes sideways. I land on my back in someone’s yard with a plastic flamingo staring down at me like it’s judging all my life choices. For a second, I just lie there, blinking, breathing, existing. Pain searing through the adrenaline. Until everything goes white. Then black.
“Sofia, help me.”