If anything gives amateur craftsmanship away, it’s wonky stitches. Hand stitching is what made my brand stand out from mass-produced goods, so it was a skill I held regular workshops on. Anyone could attend, including the prisoners that I didn’t employ. I hoped that learning a new trade would help them when they got out. A lot of the lifers took the workshops too. It broke up the daily drudgery of prison life, and many of them ended up joining the production team afterwards. They used the money to buy small comforts that made their lives more bearable. Some of them were brute, hardened women, prone to fits of rage. I’d been plagued by second thoughts when I first started, and I’d had my fair share of panic attacks. There were times when I’d wanted to drop everything and run back to San Diego.
Now the guards welcomed me and the women were protective of me. I was showing them how to saddle stitch when I looked up and lost my train of thought. Damian was standing in the center of the compound, scanning the walls. He was the one constant, rooted thing in the middle of all the commotion. People were milling all around, but they gave him wide berth, clearing a small circle around him. His eyes were open, but he was lost to everyone and everything. I sensed it was the first time he had visited Valdemoros since the night he’d found out that MaMaLu was dead. Had he stood in the same spot then? Had my Esteban died there?
I wondered when my heart would stop aching for him, when my body would stop reacting to him, when my soul would stop humming around him. Why do we fall for people who are no good for us? Why, when we’ve been there, done that, and we know better? I was about to turn away when he shifted and stared straight at me. He could always freeze me with a single look, but he did something different then. He smiled. One minute, his face was frozen in the past, and the next he looked like he had found a ray of sunshine.
Damn. When Damian threw one of his rare smiles your way, it took a few moments to catch your breath.
I fumbled with my words, trying to recall what I’d been saying. It didn’t help that he made his way over, stood at the far end, and watched me interact with the women for the rest of the workshop.
“What are you doing here?” I asked when it was over.
“Opening my eyes. Seeing the bigger world around me.” He started picking up the scraps of rawhide that littered the floor, scraps that I saved for smaller projects like key chains and coin purses.
“I’ll give you a ride home,” he said, when I had bundled up all the material.
“I can manage.” I juggled four bulky bags, two on each hip, as we stepped outside.
He didn’t push it when I joined the line at the bus station. It often took two or three buses before I caught one that wasn’t brimming with passengers, leaning dangerously off the sides.
“Sierra stopped by after school today.” He stood next to me, on the side closest to the road, shielding me from the dust that stirred up as cars went by.
“Good.” I didn’t want any misgivings between Damian and me to affect her. “How was she?”
“Cocky. She said she was glad she kicked me in the balls the first time she saw me. I deserved it because her mama only has nine nails to paint instead of ten.”
“She kicked you in the balls?” My lips twitched at the thought.
“Damn near took out my junk. Today, she threatened me some more. Said she’d make it hurt worse if I did anything to hurt you again.”
“Typical father-daughter conversation, then?”
“She talked. I listened. Then I made her something to eat and dropped her home.”
I thought about the last time Damian had cooked for me. Plantains on hot stones, under an inky sky. When we’d been the only two people in the world.