Page 116 of For Cowgirls and Kings

“Well, it does go both ways,” she chides, and I bite on my cheek to keep from screaming.

“I was hurt,” I hiss. “I’ve been hurting, and you’re supposed to be there for me. That’s what family does. Isn’t that what you’re always saying?”

“Yes, well, I don’t know how I can help when you’re so far away.”

“No!” I bite out, more tears falling over my cheeks. “When you love someone there are no ‘buts’, no excuses to not be there for them. Distance is no longer something I’m willing to feel guilty about. My life is here. My job and house and things that make me happy are here. My family is here. I just wish you could love me, no matter the distance.”

“This is ridiculous. You’re just being dramatic, hysterical even. How about you come here and we can try to clean you of your sins—of your sadness.”

Her tone’s demeaning, and even though I desperately want her to hear me, I realize she might never understand. I’m alone, and maybe always have been, when it comes to my mother. We’re too different, her stuck in the past, me running from a past I never want to be a part of.

“You hurt me,” I say with finality, the words a weight lifting from my chest. They’re met with silence. “You’ve hurt me for a very long time, and I don’t deserve it. I love you both, but I don’t want you in my life anymore, if you can’t learn to love me as I am.”

I picture my mother’s face contorting into rage or disgust as she stares at my father, expecting him to stand up for her against their ungrateful and vile daughter. And for the first time in my life, I feel sorry for her.

She can’t possibly know what love even feels like, if she thinks what she’s been giving me is love. And that’s the saddest travesty of them all.

Several moments pass with nothing but silencefilling the line, and lightness filling my chest. And then I stand, wiping the dried tears from my face. “Goodbye.”

February 18th, 2025

“Wake up, princessa.”

I blink hazy eyes toward the sound of the voice, somewhere between here and there. Where am I? How long have I been asleep? Am I asleep, or is this death?

“Wake up,” the voice says once more, harsher this time, pulling me from my stupor. I sit up straighter, straining away from the enormous form towering over me in the golden afternoon light.

It’s warmer now than it’s been, small beads of sweat clinging to the hairs at the nape of my neck. I’ve been baking in the sun, too far lost to my exhaustion to notice.

“What?” I croak, licking at my cracked lips.

He shifts, blocking the sun from my gaze, and I’m able to clearly make out the features of his face—the tattoos crawling up his neck like vines or snakes, bright green eyes piercing into my own, and a perfectly neutral expression that’s harder to read than a sign ten miles away.Rafael.

“Are you awake?” he asks, his voice filled with annoyance.

I shift, pulling against the ropes around my wrists and ankles, trying to sit up straighter, mustering any level of dignity. Not that I have much.

“Yes,” I grumble.

He drops down, making quick work of the ropes around myankles, followed by my hands, before returning to his full height. Rafael pulls a pack of crackers from his pocket and a gatorade, extending both to me. I eye the crackers first, my stomach grumbling at the sight of them, and then down at my hands. There’s a fresh layer of grime on the pads of my fingers, and I can all but see the filth caked beneath my fingertips.

I’m disgusting, and not for the first time, I wonder if I’ll ever be clean again.

Before I can say as much, Rafael drops the crackers and bottle into my lap, before pulling out a pack of wipes from his back pocket, extending it to me. “Here.”

I don’t hesitate as I reach for it with shaky fingers, taking two out and scrubbing at my hands until they feel raw, the potent scent of Clorox assaulting my nose.

“Eat,” Rafael grumbles as he sinks into the stair step across from me, and I suck in a ragged breath, before dropping the dirty cloths to the floor by my feet.

Tearing into the package, I bite into my first cracker before I meet his gaze. “How long have I been asleep?”

He watches me thoughtfully, before shifting, his elbows resting on his knees. “Only a few hours.”

A few hours? How can that be? I feel like days, months even have passed. But hours?

“Why are you keeping me alive if Marco is just going to kill me? Why not let me go?” I hate that my voice sounds so even. It’s easier to face the very probable likelihood that I’ll die here, versus being disappointed when I can’t escape. I don’t want to die, but I don’t know if I can take another disappointment either.

“You’re not going to die here,” he says gruffly, and I pause, cracker halfway to my mouth. He looks at me before rolling his eyes, like I’m some over dramatic child. But I’m not—I may have been willing to see myself that once, but now I know better.What I feel is very real, even if others aren’t so in-tune with their own emotions.