She means well, but her words are like a kick to the chest. “I don’t know if that’s true,” I mutter. “If she did, she wouldn’t have left.”
“It’s because she loves you that she did leave, and the reason she’s keeping her distance―”
I lift my palm up, stopping her. “Don’t. I heard the same thing from her and it doesn’t make sense.”
“Finn, it may not make sense to you because you want her with you, but you can’t blame her for how she feels. Her mother’s actions triggered your depression, anxiety, and accelerated your trauma.”
“But that’s not on Sol.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” I snap. “She didn’t cause it.”
I don’t typically talk about my assault. I bury it deep where I think it belongs. Acid burns its way up my gut, warning me I need to shove that shit back down, except Sofia isn’t done talking.
“She wasn’t the cause of your pain. But her mother was the cause of the trauma that triggered yours.” She moves forward to stand in front of me. “Sol has liked you for a while. I’d always catch her eyeing you from afar, at my wedding, at Teo’s. She’s always been attracted to you, Finn.”
Yeah. Same here. I just never knew what it would lead to, or that I’d end up loving her like I do. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I ask.
“Because unlike Evie, I didn’t want to encourage you to be together,” she admits.
“Because I’m so fucked up?”
“No. It’s more like I wasn’t sure you were ready for each other.”
A few beats pass when there’s only silence between us. “I guess you were right,” I finally agree.
“I don’t know if I was,” she confesses, closing the distance between us and wrapping her arms around my waist.
I hug her, too, more for her than me, tucking her head beneath my chin. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, Finn,” she says. “I only know that you’re in very dark place, and that it scares me.”
I keep her against me, reassuring her with my body even though my mind is telling me she’s right. I am in a dark place, and right now, there’s no light in sight.
CHAPTER 27
Sol
“Hi, Mami,” I say. Like always, she’s sitting in the sunroom, looking in the direction of the small lake, though it doesn’t appear she can really see it.
“Hello, Sol,” the nurse says, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. “It was a little cold out here so I wanted to keep her warm.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to smile. She’s an older nurse, from the South, and while it appears she’s worked here a while, she’s only recently been assigned to my mother’s care. I’m embarrassed to say I forgot her name.
“It’s Violet,” she says, holding onto her smile.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Thank you, Violet.”
She nods and steps out to give me time with my mother. But like Violet says, it’s cold here in the Pocono Mountains. I unbutton my light coat, but leave it on. As I sit beside Mami, I lower my heavy cloth bag to the floor. I found an old album, one stuffed with pictures of me and my cousins when we were children―memories from a time she once cherished.
I’m hoping the pictures will trigger a thought, or at least focus her back into reality . . . if only for a little while.
“Did you just finish lunch?” I ask her in Spanish, working not to lose my smile when she doesn’t answer. “I had some leftover paella Tía made. It was good, almost as good as you used to make.” I laugh a little. “Remember how you and her used to sit in the kitchen, arguing which country made the best adobo? You insisted it was Colombia, but Tía said the best blend came from El Salvador.”
“I like adobo,” she says.
My heart lifts, like it always does when she seems to be listening. Maybe that song I played for her the other day, the one Papi said they played at their wedding, helped her somehow.
“Yes, you do,” I answer quietly, worried that if I speak too loudly, I’ll somehow spook her back into that place in her head where I don’t belong. “It’s your favorite seasoning to cook with.”
“I like to cook,” she says, turning my way.
That flicker of hope surges. “I know. You used to fret over every meal, wanting it to be perfect and hot for Papi when he came home.”
She nods, like she’s listening. I say a silent prayer of thanks. It’s working . . . after all this time I’m finally reaching her!
I lift my hand, covering the one she’s resting against the white wicker chair. The wrinkles and veins are so pronounced, yet so familiar. I relish the feel of her warmth.
She looks at the way I hold her, analyzing the gesture as if it’s something of significance, and perhaps realizing that I’m more than just the young woman who visits her every day.