I felt them sometimes, roaring in my ears and pulsing at the tips of my fingers. They tapped at my chest, begging to come back home, but where they were now was where they belonged.
Alone.
I bent and pressed a palm to the old, tarnished carpeting. It smelled of regret and unvoiced pleas. There was an uneven circle where the cotton fibers had split and worn away. They were three shades duller than the ones that touched it, and I traced the bold line with my thumb, rubbing as though it were an eraser capable of expelling poor decisions.
The dismal shape it made was just big enough for a ten-year-old Marcos and a handful of crayons.
There was still a red one wedged between the cracked baseboard and the pliable steel of a 1990s filing cabinet. The old drawers held folders of transaction notices, an undertaking that was supposed to set my father free but kept him as a prisoner instead.
Cobwebs and a layer of dust covered the wall behind the cabinet, but there were hints of color still fighting to be noticed. The drawings came off the wall somehow, offering me both a warm hug and a sharp hit.
My ribs grew tight, and I pressed a hand to my stomach as my eyes found the little Manny I’d made of crayon. His proportions were embarrassingly uneven, his arm too long as it stretched just to hold mine. Our eyes were a couple of crooked, brown dots with too many lashes, and the smiles I’d given us stretched toward our foreheads.
“Do you ever regret it?”
My voice was low, but it touched the quiet like the tip of a sharpened blade and tore it wide open.
Luis shifted like it tore at him too. “You knew I was behind you?”
“You forget how good I was at watching shadows.”
Hand on the back of my neck, I rose. My chest lifted with an inhale, but the rest of me,the pieces that could still feel, slammed shut. My heart seized against the iron that surrounded it, readying itself for disappointment.
It was fucked up.
The way we could anticipate something and still be hurt by it.
Over and over and over again.
“Do you ever regret ruining all our lives?”
His neck shrank as he lowered his head, and he feigned an apologetic stance, crumpling against my scrutiny the same way he always did. Luis had turned emotional manipulation into an art, and I wore it all over my body.
“I made an impossible choice. One I didn’t fully understand the consequences of.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
I bit down on my bottom lip, turning away from him. A rough breath pulled at my lungs, and in the back of my throat was a knot of hurt waiting to be noticed.
“Do I regret borrowing money from that man?”
For fuck’s sake.
“Do you regret choosing this business over me?”
I looked at him then. His stare was detached and unblinking. Chest steady, as though my words weren’t strong enough to reach what was inside of it.
The indifference nearly killed me, and I was so fucking sad, it hurt.
Physically… and everywhere.
“I did choose you, Marcos. I saved you from bankrupt, homeless parents.”
“Thanks so fucking much for that. The boy that hid in this corner definitely preferred the distant mother and terrorized father combo.”
“Mijo.” He poked his tongue into his cheek, nostrils flaring with a heavy breath. “You aren’t the boy that hid in this corner. Not anymore. You’re twenty-three years old. A man. Strong enough to fight our battles and smart enough to understand.”
“And how fucking old were you, Luis? When you borrowed money from a man that wore knives on his belt?”
