The Book of Broken Hearts (9 page)

In the words of John Wayne in
The Cowboys
, “We’re burning daylight.”

“I’ll clean up,” I said when Emilio brought me his dishes. “You get back to the bike.”

Emilio frowned. “No coffee? I thought you Argies were all about the coffee.”

“
Hacerte un café
, Juju,” Papi said.

“Make it yourself,” I told Emilio.

“Yours tastes better,” Papi and Emilio said simultaneously. They both laughed.
So clever, these biker boys!

“It’s just Dark Moon roast from Witch’s Brew.” I filled the pot with water and dug out a clean filter. “Ten bucks a pound, there for the taking.”

“Wow,” Emilio said. “You really know how to take the magic out of it.”

“Fine. It’s not
just
Dark Moon. It’s half dark, blended with thirty percent espresso and twenty percent Solstice Spice. That’s my special blend. Magic enough for you?”

“Abracadabra.”

“Someone is on a mission,” Papi said playfully, and I returned his smile. The bike would be finished this summer and Papi would be fine, and Janice and all the other concerned medical professionals could take their long-term care facility and shove it, while the rest of us ate empanadas and laughed about that one summer Papi almost lost his mind.

“We’ll be a few hours,” Mom said. “The doctor wants us to meet with another specialist.”

“What about Janice?”

Mom stiffened.

“Papi said something about a Janice,” I said quickly.

“She’s a new social worker. She’s helping with some of the . . .” Mom waved her hand around, searching for the right word, which I hoped wasn’t
transitions
, because that would make me lose my waffles, and then I’d seriously fa-
reak
, because they took an hour to cook perfectly and they were so delicious that I didn’t even mind when Papi smothered his with mayo instead of butter.

“ . . . adjustments,” Mom finally said.

Papi emerged from the upstairs bedroom, fumbling with his cuffs as he clomped down the stairs. The button-down shirts and khakis Mom dressed him in for appointments were a far cry from the mismatched flannels I let him get away with.

“These stupid things.” He was grumbling and mumbling, turning his wrists like there might be some yet-to-be-discovered secret to buttoning the sleeves.

“
Ay
, we’re late.” Mom reached for his cuffs, but he shook her off.

“Bear, there’s no time—”

“Then don’t dress me in these shirts.” If he remembered the shirt from yesterday’s nonexistent staff meeting, he didn’t say, and now his brow furrowed as his fingers tried unsuccessfully to push a tiny button through a tiny hole.

“Do it in the car,” Mom said. “We have to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere half dressed.” He squinted at the buttons; his fingers seemed to be getting fatter by the second.

Mom was a powerhouse. On an almost daily basis, she held colicky newborns, sang and rocked them for hours. She patiently inserted breathing tubes and changed diapers the size of cocktail napkins. She conducted important, lifesaving tasks amid entire nurseries of crying babies.

She’d birthed and raised four crying babies of her own.

But here in our living room, two little plastic buttons were about to wreck her; her eyes were wild and desperate, cheeks the waxy red of store-bought apples.

“What would Clint Eastwood say?” I stepped between them and steadied Papi’s hands. “Wear a fancy shirt like this, and people might think you’ve gone respectable.”

“Wouldn’t want that.”

“Your secret is safe with me,
viejito
.” I winked, and he
forgot his frustration with the buttons as I did them up. “Call me when you have news. I’m going down to Upstart Crow.”

“Oh? I thought you weren’t doing the play this year,” Mom said.

I scooped up my backpack, heavy with a bound manuscript Mari had sent last week—perks of being her authors’ target audience—and a bag of white cheddar popcorn. No telling how long I’d be sitting in the audience today, watching the same scenes on repeat. “Just helping Zoe.”

“Bueno, mi amor.”
Mom went about her daily search for sunglasses (on her head), purse (kitchen table where she’d set it five minutes ago), keys (in hand). She was more scattered than usual, her mind clearly on Papi and whatever the hospital had in store:
Draw a face, draw a clock, what’s your address, repeat this tongue twister, need more drugs?
Papi, on the other hand, was unfazed. Now that his shirt was all done up, he kneeled on the floor and called for Pancake.

But before Papi’d gotten his dose of pooch slobber, Emilio was rolling up the driveway. He met us at the door. Mom was on company behavior with a welcoming hello, and Papi followed with a fist bump, which Emilio gladly returned.

Oh, it’s like
that
now?

“Hey, Jude.” He tried to hit me with those dimples, but I was all,
Shields up
!

“Didn’t you get my text?” I asked. “I’m going out for a while, so . . .”

“
No problema.
Got everything I need in the barn.”

“It’s too beautiful to be cooped up today,” Mom said. “You guys should go on a hike or a picnic.”

“Good idea.” Papi winked at me. “Take a load off.”

Zoe used to tell me I was lucky to have such “liberal, cosmopolitan” parents. Now I just wished they’d send me to my room, forbid me to be home alone with any boys like normal parents did.

“Aren’t you late?” I said.

“Oh!” Mom’s eyes bugged out. “Yes! Bear, let’s go!
¡Vamos! ¡Vamos!
” She kissed me and made me promise to take the
ensalada rusa
from last night’s dinner on our picnic. “Have fun today,
querida
. Enough for all of us.”

Back in the house, the only sounds were Pancake’s nails on the linoleum and the endless ticking of the grandfather clock.

I dumped my cheddar popcorn into a turquoise bowl on the island counter between us and dug in. “Sorry if Mom got your hopes up, but I’m going into town. You’re on your own today.”

Emilio leaned across the counter, elbows resting on the white tile. “What about our picnic?”

“Have some popcorn.” I opened the fridge to scope out the beverage situation. Top shelf,
COLD DRINKS AND YOGURT
. “Want a Coke?”

“Nope.”

I felt him right behind me suddenly, and I turned to face him, holding two sodas like a double-fisted barrier at my chest.

He took the cans and put them back in the fridge. Shut the door. Leaned against it. His gaze swept my face and finally settled on my eyes. “Wanna get out of here for a while?”

He didn’t blink or look away, and the footprint of his words lingered in my ears, pressed pictures into my mind.
I’ll climb on the back of that black motorcycle and slide my arms around you, and you can take me away, over the mountain passes, through eons of rock and tree and all the ancient places, and the wheels will kick up red dust, and the wind will blow it from my hair, and we’ll outrun our yesterdays and tomorrows and I’ll never ever look back. . . .

“I don’t . . . Where?” I backed into the counter. He followed, keeping just enough space between us to confuse me. Was he hitting on me? Were we friends? Did friends flirt like this? Was he just looking for a way to pass the time, to get out of work today? “What about—”

“You’d be doing me a huge favor,” he said. “I need a bike lift from Duchess. Samuel was gonna bring it up in his truck later, but if you took me down there now, we’d save a bunch of time.”

A favor. Of course.

“Besides,” he continued, “what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t take you out?” Emilio’s eyes locked on mine, like,
Target acquired! Prepare to launch!
“We ain’t even had our first date, our first kiss. . . . I’m strikin’ out.”

“Surprising, considering how romantic you are, bringing a girl to the motorcycle garage.
And
making her drive. Nice first date.”

“You want me to drive,
princesa
? Take you for a spin on the bike?” He twirled the Puerto Rico key chain around his pinkie and smirked. Everything he did seemed like a dare, an invitation to some secret place where time didn’t exist and boredom didn’t stand a chance.

“I’ll pass,” I said.

“Thought we had something special, you and me.”

“Yeah. My father’s paying you to be here.
Super
special.”

He made a face like a wounded puppy, and I abandoned the popcorn bowl and most of my good judgment.

“I’ll take you,” I said. “But I only have an hour. And this isn’t a date; it’s a favor. Which means you owe me.”

“Any other conditions?” He raised an eyebrow. Only he still hadn’t quite mastered the trick, so it came out less charming and more menacing.

“You practice that eyebrow thing in your bedroom mirror, don’t you?”

That rascally eyebrow dropped, and I swear his face turned pink, but with the stubble it was hard to tell.

“That mean you’re stalking me? You been at my house? Maybe you snuck in my room?” He took a step closer, invading my space with his fabric softener scent, and for a second I imagined his room, how it must’ve looked when he woke up this morning . . . gray T-shirt tossed over the edge of the bed. Wild hair rumpled and crazy. His morning face, that deep sleep-scratchy voice, my fingers tracing the scars on his shoulder, his abdomen . . .

“Hey,” he whispered. “You don’t have to sneak around. I’d let you in.”

I almost choked. Was that a popcorn kernel? Those things could be pretty dangerous.

“Does that stuff actually work on other girls?” I asked. “I bet you practice
all
your favorite lines in the mirror, huh?”

Emilio shook his head. “Don’t need a mirror. I know how I look.”

“Yeah, like an idiot.” I called for Pancake and walked outside, Emilio trailing behind. Fresh air, that’s what the situation called for. Nothing a little sunshine couldn’t cure.

“Sure you don’t want a ride?” Emilio jerked his thumb toward the motorcycle.

“Positive.”

“Your pops was this trailblazer, right? And you won’t ride anything that ain’t got four wheels. You really his kid?”

I laughed, but the mention of Papi and his old life clawed my insides. I wish he’d wear his Arañas jacket to the doctor appointments instead of stuffy corporate shirts. He looked pretty hard core in the jacket, even all these years later. Maybe then the old A-heimer’s would get the memo and run the other way, like,
Oh, we’d better not mess with
this
muchacho!

“I roll with Pancake,” I said, “and he doesn’t do motorcycles. Right, boy?” Pancake totally agreed, evidenced by all the tongue lolling and tail wagging as I got him situated in the truck’s backseat.

Emilio and I climbed in front. As soon as he clicked his
seat belt, he noticed the shifter on the floor between us. “You drive stick?”

I pressed down the clutch, started her up, and revved the engine. Like, three times.

“
Ay, Dios mío
, this girl.” Emilio rolled his eyes and I shrugged, like,
Hells yeah! Motorcycle restoration, driving standard . . . nothing this girl can’t rock!

I caught my reflection in the rearview as I backed out of the driveway.

Pretty ridiculous.

The lift was a massive orange ramp with an adjustable platform, presumably for the motorcycle, and through the window I watched Emilio and Samuel haul it to the truck. Emilio caught me scoping him out, but instead of making a big show of it, he smiled, soft and sweet. I was the first to look away.

Moments later the big softy reappeared at the service counter where I’d been updating Duke on the restore progress. “All set,” Emilio said, and after we’d said good-bye to Duke, he led me and Pancake out the front door, his hand warm on my lower back.

The truck bumped down Fifth Street and past Old Town limits, but Emilio hadn’t spoken. He was fidgety, tapping his fingers on his thigh, bouncing his knee. He rolled the window down and back up again. Twice.

“You okay?” I asked.