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Chapter 20
Forever Child
“Ionce had a friend who looked like you,” said Sofia. “Her name was Sara.”
“Ha-ha.” Sara rolled her eyes.
I had forced Sara to go out with me toLa Oficinafor a drink. In the two years since that piece of shit had beaten her to a pulp, and she dumped him to the curb, Sara had become a recluse. Her way of putting herself back together was to start her master’s program in the evenings while continuing to work full time. I understood that her need to work to a point of exhaustion meant there was no energy left to think and dwell—I’d done the same thing.
It also meant we’d hardly seen each other except for fleeting moments at work. I wasn’t serious about leaving Heartland, but if I got the right offer, I might consider it. Now was the time to reconnect with my friends, just in case.
But the universewasn’t on my side. Almost as soon as I sat down, my phone dinged with a text from Hector.
Hector:Do you have a minute? Can you call?
Me:I’m actually out with friends.
Hector:It’s important.
Me:One sec. Let me step outside.
He sounded off when he answered the call.
“Hi,” I said.
“Can you come over?”
“Yeah, I’m just across the street at—”
“No. Not the office. My house,” he corrected.
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
“I promise no one will know.”
“Is everything okay?”
“No. I need stitches.”
His voice was calm. Too calm. “Hector, why do you need stitches?”
“I cut myself picking up some broken glass.”
“Go to the emergency room, you big oaf.”
He chuckled. “Don’t want them to see me like this. I, um, had a few drinks earlier. And it’s really not that bad. I’d do it myself if I didn’t have to stitch left-handed.”
I let out a sigh. “Fine. Put pressure on it until I get there.”
“Yes, Doctor,” he teased.
When Hector opened the door,I couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped me. His grey shirt was stained with—something. He wore grey sweatpants, which I’d never, not once, seen him wearing, and he had dark circles under his eyes.
“Thanks for coming,” he said and led me to his kitchen. He held a towel firmly around his right hand.
He had been right. The cut was minor and only needed three stitches on the outer hand under his pinky finger line. He was a fool to refuse topical anesthetic, and while I could smell the alcohol on him from earlier in the night, he seemed sober now and would feel every stitch. Not to mention the hand is very sensitive to pain.
We didn’t speak as I worked, and I was done quickly. He barely winced. His gaze was far off, miles away and in another time.
