Page 22

TWENTY-ONE

SARAH MORGAN

I clamp the metal tongs down on the sizzling bacon and pull each one from the hot pan, transferring them to a shallow bowl lined with paper towels. Two pieces of bread suddenly pop from the toaster, startling me. I’m worried about Summer, what this will do to her, what effect it will have on her. All I want to do is keep her safe.

Summer’s feet slap against the hardwood floor as she barrels down the hallway, racing to the kitchen. It’s my favorite sound in the world, and I cherish it more than anything because I know it’s temporary. One day, her steps will be sluggish, the excitement to see me having completely worn off. And then there will come a time when I won’t hear them at all. Dressed in a nightgown, Summer’s blond hair goes in all directions. She sleepily rubs at her eye with the back of her hand.

“Good morning, sweetie,” I say with a smile as I serve her up a plate of bacon, toast, and a slice of spinach-and-gouda quiche.

“Hi, Mom,” she croaks.

“Did you have a good night’s sleep?”

“I think so.” The chair skids across the floor as Summer settles at the table.

“Well, I hope so.” I carry a glass of orange juice and her plate of food to the table, setting them in front of her. “Are you hungry?”

“Starved. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“No, you haven’t.” I laugh. “Let me get you some silverware.” I cross the kitchen to fetch her a fork.

“Mom!” Summer screams.

My head whips around, and I see her arm extended, pointing at the glass sliding door.

“What? What is it?” I ask, racing to her side.

“There’s a man outside.”

I sigh with relief, following her gaze to Alejandro, dressed in jeans, work boots, and a tight white tee. He’s kneeling on the deck with his hands on a drill and the sun beating down on him. The power tool buzzes as he presses down, forcing a screw into a fresh wooden board.

“That’s Alejandro, honey. I hired him to fix the deck.”

She drops her arm and furrows her brow, watching him. “Why does he have so many tattoos, Mom?”

“Because he wanted them, and that’s his choice,” I say, handing her silverware.

Summer’s eyes light up as she takes the fork from me. “I want tattoos.”

“Maybe when you’re older.” I smile and leave her side, crossing the kitchen to plate my food.

“Like thirteen?”

“Not even close.”

“What about getting my ears pierced? Can I get that when I’m thirteen?”

“Maybe,” I say, returning to the table and taking a seat.

“But my friend Courtney got hers pierced when she was a baby. She doesn’t even remember it.” Summer pouts.

“I said maybe, sweetie. That’s not a no, so let’s not push it right now.”

She sighs and chews on a piece of bacon.

“Are you excited to spend the day with your dad in DC?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Kinda.”

“Why kind of?”

Summer tucks her chin in. “Because I wish you were coming too.”

I run a hand over her head, smoothing out her soft blond locks. As much as I’ve tried to keep her in the dark regarding Bob’s and my separation, on some level she already knows. Children are perceptive because they’re still developing and still trying to make sense of this world that can be so cruel and so beautiful at the same time.

“I know, sweetie. I wish I was too,” I lie. “But I have work to do.” Another lie. “Plus, it’ll be nice for you and your father to spend some time together, just the two of you.” That one’s the truth.

She stabs her fork into the quiche and takes too large of a bite. I encourage her to take a drink so she doesn’t choke. She’s nine years old, but it’s just a force of habit from her toddler years and a defect as a mother to always worry. My gaze falls on Alejandro again. He carries a board over his shoulder and sets it down, lining it up tightly against the one he just secured to the deck. He must feel me watching because he lifts his head and looks in my direction. I avert my eyes, refocusing my attention on Summer, who is shoving another massive bite of quiche into her mouth.

“Take a drink and take smaller bites next time,” I remind her.

She brings the glass of OJ to her mouth and chugs half of it, leaving behind a mustache of orange juice clinging to her top lip. I pick at my food, my eyes flicking back and forth between my daughter and the stranger outside. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to have him around as I don’t know what he’s capable of. I know what his file says, what he’s done, or at least what he was held legally responsible for. But that doesn’t mean it entails every horrible act he’s ever committed. After all, my record is clean as a whistle.

“All done,” Summer declares. Only the crusts from her quiche and toast are left on the plate.

“Why don’t you go shower and pack?” I say, glancing down at my watch. “Your dad should be here soon.”

She jumps from her chair and takes off down the hall. The bathroom door closes, and a moment later, I hear the shower turn on. I should have canceled this sleepover after Bob threatened me, but it wouldn’t be fair to punish our daughter for her father’s erratic behavior. I just hope he can pull it together and, at the very least, provide Summer with an enjoyable and memorable night in the city.

My eyes are on Alejandro again. He tugs his shirt up to wipe his face, revealing wet, chiseled abs. I pull myself away, collecting the dishes and bringing them to the sink. But I can still see him through the window above it, screwing a wooden board onto the deck, his forearms bulging, his skin perspiring. I’ve never really watched anyone work with their hands. Adam never did any manual labor, and Bob wouldn’t even know what a screwdriver is. Alejandro pauses to take a drink of water, finishing off the bottle. He’s been out there for a couple hours now, and I’m sure he must be hungry. I prepare him a plate, pour him a glass of OJ, and walk to the sliding door, pushing it open. Alejandro lifts his head and smiles as soon as he hears me.

“I figured you might be hungry,” I say, extending the food and orange juice to him.

“You figured right.” He crosses over the hole in the deck where the boards have been removed, awaiting replacements, and takes the plate and glass, thanking me.

I pull the sliding door closed and carefully cross over the area with the missing deck boards. “It’s looking good,” I say.

“Thanks. I should be finished in a few days.” Alejandro pops a piece of bacon in his mouth and chews.

“There’s no rush.”

He nods and continues eating, clearing his plate in less than a minute. “You must have been starving,” I say, collecting it from him.

Alejandro licks his upper lip. “Sorry, force of habit. If you didn’t eat fast, you didn’t eat.” He polishes his OJ off in one big gulp.

“What was it like on the inside?”

His eyes lock with mine, and he’s quiet for a moment as though he’s trying to decide how to answer my question. “Let’s just say I never wanna go back.”

I’ve noticed Alejandro’s not much of a talker, or at least not with me. But he does like to ask questions. I extend my hand, taking the glass from him.

“Well, that choice is yours.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I think of Adam. He didn’t have a choice because I made it for him. Sometimes we suffer the consequences of our own actions, and sometimes we suffer the consequences of others’. Then again, in a way, Adam sealed his own fate.

“Ya know”—Alejandro crosses his arms over his chest—“I don’t think I had a choice the first time around.”

I tilt my head, intrigued by his answer. “And why’s that?”

“I was young. My father had run out on us, and my mother wasn’t capable of being a mother. She chose her own vices over her children, and it left me looking for a place to fit in, to be accepted, to feel like a part of something. People looking for belonging find it fast and easy within a gang,” he says, barely able to meet my gaze.

His answer reminds me of my own upbringing. My father passing. My mother spiraling, using drugs to cope. Losing everything. Being forced to live in motels. Her bringing strange men back to our room, ones that would give her a fix in return for the only thing she had left to offer them... herself. And sometimes, even that wasn’t enough. They would look to me after she’d passed out, like I was some sort of a bonus. I always fought them off... one way or another. You do what you have to do to survive. Most of us have never had to make a choice between life and death. But I can tell you, once you do, once you’re forced to make that choice, it changes you forever.

“It’s a shame that’s what I fell into,” he adds, his gaze meeting mine.

“Yeah,” I say. “You and I aren’t so different after all. We just fell into different things.”

Alejandro offers a tight smile. “And what did you fall into, Sarah?”

“Survival.”

I don’t have to elaborate because I can see it in his eyes. He knows exactly what I mean.