The moment I closed my bedroom door, I couldn’t help the sobs that racked my chest.
I peeled my shirt off and stared at the dark mark forming on my upper arm. If I had thicker skin, this wouldn’t have fazed me; I would be over the pain already. Yet everything about me was sensitive. The growingbruise throbbed, hot to the touch, and it stung when I grazed it with my fingertips.
Moving on autopilot, I changed into a white cami and some black leggings before pulling on the pink fuzzy bunny slippers that my abuelita got me last Christmas. She must be out; my father was usually more cautious around her, his own mother, curbing his temper when she was near.
My study books and laptop called to me from the desk. I had disappointed him, so now I should study, be a good daughter to him. It was what he would expect.
Instead, lip quivering, I found myself sinking onto my bed. Trying to blink back my tears, I picked up my phone, opened it, and scrolled through the contacts. Tristian’s name blinked alongside his number. I’d saved him to my phonebook after that first night clashing with my father and Camila, but hadn’t dared to reach out.
The encounter with my father had left me feeling hollow and shaken. I wanted to speak to Tristian. I just wanted to hear his voice—something grounded and safe to wash away the fear.
My finger lingered over the call button.
Call him,a desperate part of me pleaded.
But then the doubt crept in. I bit my lip, staring at his name. What if I was reading this all wrong? What if he was just being polite, and I was the desperate girl projecting a romance onto a simple friendship? I remembered the way he looked at me, the way he touched me, but was that attraction, or just pity? And what about his hoodie? Guys did that in romance stories, gave them to women they liked. Was that Tristian’s angle? Or had he just given it to me simply because I was cold, and after I upset him he felt too awkward to ask for it back? Maybe I’d even tainted it somehow by wearing it. Maybe he didn’twantit back—didn’t want me. Maybe I ruined everything…
It’s late, and he’s probably busy,I told myself, my thumb pulling away.He has a life, Ingrid. He doesn’t need you calling him crying about your daddy issues.
Besides, even if somehow the brooding man could still my anxious heart, the thought of him answering and hearing the wobble in my voice was too much. I didn’t want him to know how broken things were here. I didn’t want him to see the baggage… see me and decide I wasn’t worth the trouble.
With a heavy heart, I locked the phone and set it face down on the desk. He probably wasn’t attracted to me like I was to him, anyway. It was better to stay silent than to humiliate myself even more than I already did.
A sharp knock at the door made me jump.
“Come in,” I called out, quickly wiping a stray tear from my cheek.
The door opened, and my abuelita came in. She had a few health issues and often had to use her cane or walker, but today she carried a couple of bags instead. Seeing her stable always brought a small sliver of joy to my day.
“Hola, bebita,” she greeted, then moved to accented English. “How was your day?”
I stood and walked over to her, needing her warmth. Giving her a hug, I sighed into her shoulder.
“It was… OK,”I whispered, trying not to break down.
She slowly ran her hand up and down my back, soothing me. She could probably imagine exactly how my day had gone; she knew what Papa was like.
“I got you a few things while at the mall.”
“Really?” I asked, my voice lifting just the tiniest bit.
She nodded against me. “Mhmm. Come see.”
I pulled away from her and sat on the edge of the bed. She sat beside me, her eyes twinkling as I opened the first bag. I pulled out a soft,light pink sweater. Looking into the bag, I saw the exact same sweater in burgundy, white, black, and yellow.
“Did you really need to buy all of these?” I asked, a genuine smile finally touching my lips.
She rolled her eyes playfully. “Why can’t I make sure mynietais warm?”
I laughed, and she joined me, a sweet sound that filled the room. But as I leaned down to grab the next bag, the movement caused my cami to shift. Before I could move the sleeve back down, my abuelita’s face shifted instantly. She grabbed my elbow softly, her eyes glued to the bruise on my arm.
She looked up at me, her expression shifting to deadly seriousness. “Did your father do this to you?” she asked, instinctually reverting to Spanish.
Shame washed over me.
“I-I’m sure he didn’t mean to…” I said quickly. I didn’t want to cause a scene or get in trouble with him again.
She stood abruptly, her movement defying her age. She speed-walked toward the door with a fury I rarely saw. For an old lady, she could move… fast.
