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Of course, there’s traffic on the causeway to the beach, it’s a Saturday night. Fuck! As we’re inching our way down the three-lane stretch of road, I’m antsy, nervous. With each minute that passes, it’s a minute for Sol to allow negative thoughts to creep in. For her to believe I lied to her, for her to feel unloved and unwanted.
Thirty minutes later I’m out front of Sol’s apartment. I don’t even bother to find parking and push the hazard light, leaving the Tahoe double parked. I’ll deal with it later. I sprint up the walkway and peer up at her windows. They’re dark. Did she not come home? Is she asleep? I take the steps up two at a time until I’m at her door. I want to bang loudly, but also don’t want to freak her out. Besides, it’s late and if I’m too loud her neighbors may wake up or call the police.
“¿Sol,estas ahí? It’s Amaury. Please, open the door.” I rest my ear against the wooden door but don’t hear anything. There are three glass panes across the upper middle of the door but it’s dark on the other side. Either she’s inside and ignoring me or she’s not home. I’m hoping it’s the latter because the thought of her ignoring me makes my skin crawl. But where would she have gone? I knock a few more times. “Sol,por favor. We need to talk, please.”
My pleas are met with silence and my heart is racing. Just thinking I may lose Sol is too much to bear right now—a mixture of anger and fear coursing through my veins. I grab my phone from my pocket and shoot her a text message.
Amaury:I’m at your house. We need to talk. Where are you?
I incessantly look at my phone in hopes I somehow missed the notification of an incoming text, but she hasn’t responded. After two hours of waiting in the silent darkness there’s no sign of her and I call it a night. “Pinga,” I shout, slamming my hands on the steering wheel before driving off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Soledad
Last night after I fled the party, I came home, changed, and took my scooter for a ride. I needed fresh air to clear my mind. After riding aimlessly around Miami Beach for over an hour, I ended up at the Big Pink for comfort food. They make killer milkshakes and bread pudding, and I needed to drown my sorrows. Plus, I couldn’t be home. The short time I’ve lived in this apartment is filled with memories of Amaury. Turns out it was a good decision to not be home because he texted me while he was waiting for me outside my place. I can’t deal with him, at least not yet.
I’m lying in bed, can’t force myself to pull back the covers and wake up as my mind swirls with questions I have no answers to. How is it possible he has a wife? What’s his story going to be, some lame excuse like we don’t live together anymore so it doesn’t matter? I cannot imagine what he’ll come up with. What is wrong with me that men find me unworthy and easy to lie to? How do I never pick up on it? I make the worst decisions when it comes to men. Must’ve inherited it from my mother because she’s had rotten luck with them her entire life.
I often asked my mother about my father and why he didn’t live with us. She never talked much about him and rarely answered my questions. I stopped asking her about him because she would get upset and we would end up arguing. I used to resent her about it, think she played a big role in my being fatherless. The older I got the more I realized that probably isn’t the case, but the truth is I’ll never know. I do still resent not knowing anything about him, and she refuses to talk about him. Luckily between Melida’s dad and my uncle Carlo, I had father figures to show me love, but they weren’t substitutes for the love I still wish I had received from my father. Despite their presence, I still felt unwanted and like I’m damaged goods. Those feelings creep in occasionally and cast shadows on my self-esteem.
My mother worked two jobs to maintain us, so I didn’t get to see her a lot and spent a lot of time at my aunts’ and uncle’s houses, or at Melida’s house. Watching my mother work tirelessly cleaning houses during the day and waiting on tables a few nights a week taught me I have to be self-sufficient, learn how to hold my own, and work hard to do and have the things I want. Growing up with a single mom taught me to be goal oriented and mature.
I’m not sure if growing up without a father is the reason I’m unable to read through the smokescreens men put up, but I do know I have to be better at it. I cannot continue to let myself and my heart be deceived the way it has been.
Between barely sleeping and crying most of the night, I feel awful, like I’ve been hit by a truck. There isn’t enough caffeine to snap me out of my funk this morning. After drinking three cups of coffee, I draw a bath and sink into the warm lavender scented water, yearning to shake this feeling that’s overtaken me.
Deceived.
Duped.
Dejected.
I feel alone and those feelings intensify as I soak in the warm tub. How fitting, considering my name is Soledad, which means loneliness in Spanish. I’ve learned to be comfortable in my own skin and welcome the solitude and the peacefulness that accompanies it. For a while it seemed everything was working out with this move to Miami, but now, I’m not so sure. I miss my friends, more than I care to admit. I miss my mother, and I miss my family. Other than Dayi, the only friend I’ve made since moving here, I have no one, and right now the isolation is overbearing.
As I lie there, attempting to rid myself of the negative thoughts racing through my mind, loud knocks resonate through the apartment.
“Sol.Abre le puerta, please! I know you’re home. I just want to talk, please. Open the door!” I rest my head back on the tub and feel the tears gliding down my cheeks. After a minute he starts again. “Sol, please. I deserve the chance to explain.” He sounds as desperate as I feel.
The sound of his voice slices open the wound all over again, causing the tears to gush down my face. Deserve a chance to explain? After hearing he has a wife, he deserves nothing! Those words have played over repeatedly since last night, like a broken record playing the same few notes over and over. I know opening the door and listening to what he has to say is probably the right thing to do, but I’ve been burned one too many times and need to be emotionally ready for the conversation we will inevitably have.
Work has me in Fort Myers for the next week. I have to interpret at a federal trial, and it couldn’t come at a better time. I need the distraction away from here, away from my apartment, and away from Amaury. When I get back, I’ll deal with this mess. Once I hear the knocking let up, I get out of the tub, get dressed and pack my bag. It’s best if I leave early this way I won’t be home when Amaury comes by later, like I’m sure he will.
As I descend the stairs, he comes into my purview. Amaury is leaning against his motorcycle, head dropped. When he hears my footsteps approaching, he raises his head and removes his sunglasses, meeting my gaze. Even from a distance, I can see his eyes are red and puffy. Seems neither of us got much sleep last night.
“Muñeca, we need to talk.” He’s right, we do but I can’t. I’m not ready to hear what he has to say. I need time away from him to clear my head and process the last twenty-four hours.
“Don’t call me that.” I lift my chin and adjust the straps of the bag on my shoulder.
“Sol,te pido por favor, you have to listen to me.” He pushes himself up and steps closer to me, to which my response is to take two steps back.
I swallow the lump in my throat and force the words. “Amaury, first of all, I don’t have to do anything! Second, I knew—” I throw my hands up “—there was a reason I was holding back with you. I finally let my guard down and let you in and it blows up in my face. I should’ve known better! I don’t want to see you.” I step around him and scurry to my car parked across the street. “If I’m ever ready to see you, I’ll let you know.” I don’t turn around but can hear his footsteps behind me.
“I’m sorry. I never mean to hurt you. Believe me, por favor.” That’s rich. He wants me to believe he didn’t intend to cause harm, yet he lied about being married. I huff and shake my head. I can feel the anger brewing and before I say something I regret, I unlock my car, toss my bag in the back seat before opening the driver’s door and climbing in. “Al menos merezco la oportunidad de explicar,” he shouts as I’m shutting the door. Is this guy listening to himself?
After starting the engine, I open the window and yell, “You deserve? You don’t deserve jack shit after what happened last night. Asshole! Spare me the lies you’re about to spew and go back to your wife!” I crank the music, pull the button to close my window, and start maneuvering out of my parking spot. I don’t know what song is streaming through the speakers, but it doesn’t matter, I just need something to drown him out. I can see Amaury is still speaking but I’m done listening to him. As I drive down Euclid Avenue, I can see him through my rearview mirror through the tears. I turn onto Fourteenth Street and again on Meridian and then pull over until I can gain composure.
The drive across Alligator Alley was drab—little to see, no cell phone service, and somber with a deep ache in my chest.
