Page 43

I started crying from the moment he realized his dad wasn’t really his dad at all. From the words of adoration he spoke about his sister, the love he had for his mother. And by the time he got to Ana’s death, I had to hold back gross sobs. The thought of this man, this . . . wonderful, amazing, loving man, going through anything like that breaks my heart. He didn’t cry as he told his story, his hand just gripped mine harder at the rough parts, his arm wrapped around me a little snugger. So I cried for him. And cried, and cried.

When he tells me about the demon grabbing him, I notice the scars on his arm, beautifully hidden beneath the faces of Rosa and Ana and Javier. A face for the three claw-like marks that ultimately tore him apart.

My finger grazes the marks now, over and over, as he finishes telling me.

“After that, the deaths were ruled murder suicide. The media said my dad snapped and killed my mom and sister, tried to kill me too, but killed himself instead. Only Rodrigo and I knew what really happened that night. Only we knew my dad was innocent.”

I swallow hard. I can’t even imagine what that feels like, for his father’s name to be sullied while dealing with the loss.

“I was moved around in foster care for a bit after that, but it didn’t even last two months before Rodrigo worked it so I could live with him. That’s when I got closer to Willow and Rowan. We had already been friends from Mass, but the two were always at the church, spending time in the little playground, helping Rodrigo with his gardening. After he took me in, the three of us became inseparable.” I can see Marcelo’s in a different place. He’s not in this car with me right now, but maybe on that playground from his memories, maybe in the halls of the church in Miami.

“Of course, everything came back to me. By the time I was sixteen, I was a full blown ass. I rebelled and fought and partied. But one night, Willow and I got into trouble. We got into a fight and the guys tried to grab her. One fucker had a knife and used it on me before I could stop them. Thankfully, Rowan, the snitch that he was, told Rodrigo where we were going that night. The bastard showed up, exactly when I needed him—just like that night in August.”

Marcelo twirls his finger around a lock of my hair, focusing on it. “Thankfully, seeing a bishop in full Catholic garb emerge from the darkness at three in the morning is terrifying as shit. He scared off the little twats and took Willow and I home. Willow put the party life behind her, and I shoved my demons as far down as they were willing to go. The next morning, Rowan convinced me to work toward priesthood and . . . at the time it sounded like a really good idea.”

He chuckles as his eyes meet mine. “Now? Not so much. I think if I would’ve met you then, songbird, I would’ve dropped everything to be with you.”

I giggle. “Well then maybe it’s for the best you’ve found me now. What happened after that?”

He shrugs. “Rodrigo helped me get my GED, then I went to seminary school and double majored in psychology. I knew I wanted to be an exorcist. I knew I wanted to be to others what Rodrigo was to me. Only, I hoped I’d be quicker. It made sense to learn about the human brain, to decipher what was mental illness and what was demonic influence. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sense the same kind of ‘otherness’ I sensed from my dad that night with just any random stranger. I only sensed it because I knew him. So instead, I studied the brain.”

“And that’s how you became an exorcist?” I ask.

Marcelo shakes his head. “Rodrigo had been secretly teaching me from the day he adopted me. He thought it would help comfort me if I could protect myself. And maybe I abused his guilt a little bit, because it more than protected me. It filled me with purpose. I knew from that first night of learning with him what I wanted to do. I just didn’t know how to get there. And, for a while, I didn’t think I deserved to get there. But Rowan talked me out of that. And now, years later, I’m here. With you.”

“Not part of the plan?” I smirk.

“Not really. But a more than welcome addition.” Marcelo pinches my nose and then leans forward to kiss my forehead.

I huff out a long breath and finally sit up, stretching my back as Marcelo follows. His chest touches me as he wraps his arms around my waist again. Leaning his cheek against the top of my head, he mumbles, “I think that’s why I got so mad earlier. I . . . I hate to see you treated that way, by people who are supposed to love you.”

Marcelo’s parents seemed like saints compared to mine, they were so loving and close and supportive. It feels like the polar opposite of my mother and Daren.

“I just want you to feel loved and adored and cared for, songbird. And if I have to make up for your fucked up parents, I will.” His hands tighten on my stomach, and he places another kiss on my head.

I turn in his arms, facing him, and place my palm on his cheek. “Thank you for telling me your story, Marcelo. I know it was hard, and I only wish I could’ve been there to support you then. But . . . I’m here now. Just as much for you as you are for me.” I lean up and kiss his lips. “I love you.”

He tucks hair behind my ear, which I’m slowly discovering may just be a new comfort to him. “I love you, June.” He pulls me against him, and kisses me soft and sweetly.

After we got home—and after he fingerfucked me with soapy hands in the shower (“Let me clean you up, little songbird, you’re absolutely filthy”)—Marcelo wanted to have a proper movie night. We ordered pizza, again, and he ran out to get some M&M’s and popcorn as I put on my pjs. By the time he was back, I made our little living room into a nest of blankets and pillows, Diablo already perched on the tallest pillow he could find.

Marcelo’s eyes dazzle as he takes in the room, and I grab the ingredients for movie goodness from his hands, heating up the popcorn and melting butter on it just as he described his dad would do.

“Who picks the movie tonight?” I ask as I carry the bowl into the room. He’s already lounged on the pillow nest, his head resting on the cushions of the couch.

“Mmm, you pick,” he grins, and my God, does it make me want to melt into his arms.

I bite my lip, thinking about the movies he mentioned in his story. His dad loved horror. Ana loved John Carpenter. And just like that, I have it. “How about The Fog . It’s my favorite Carpenter movie.”

He raised an eyebrow, but that grin threatens to end world hunger again as he nods and pulls me down onto his lap.

“Great choice, my little horror queen.” He chuckles and opens his mouth to be fed popcorn. I happily oblige.