Page 123 of Outspoken

“Bueno.”

I pet the cat and watch as Mom makes quick work of breakfast. As she fries two eggs next to some salsa from the fridge, my mind goes where it always does: straight to Amber. I think about how she’s doing, how her work is going, if she went back to school, and how absolutely beautiful she was our last night together over a week ago. I thought I knew love, and I thought I could handle emotions, but what I experienced with her—what my heart felt—was beyond intense. It was an intimate, deeply loving connection beyond anything I had ever imagined.

After something like that, I’ll never be convinced that Amber and I aren’t soulmates.

How can we not belong together?

I sag against the archway, letting it support my weight since I’m struggling to. Love means letting go and not possessing. I understand that now, but it still feels like cruel Santa Muerte stuck her bony hand in my chest and ripped out my heart.

All I can do is think about Amber and miss her. Long for her. Hope that she’s doing okay and dealing with this better than I am. She’s always been resilient like that. For me, it’s times like this where being in touch with my emotions and feeling everything intensely is torture.

When the eggs are almost ready, Mom grabs a second pan to fry a small tortilla. Then she slips it all onto a plate and sprinkles everything with cilantro.

“This way,” she says, inching slowly toward the dining room and making me sit at the dining table for a proper meal.

We haven’t sat in the dining room for a while, so there’s a thin layer of dust on the rectangular wooden table and the round turquoise place mats. I know this entire place needs cleaning, and I’ve been putting it off. I need to stop moping and get back to my normal routine.

Mom takes Preciosa from me since the cat is light enough for her to carry, and I lift my fork.

“Gracias, Mamá.”

Sitting at the head of the table like the matriarch she is, she looks pleased, stroking Preciosa on her lap. After a few moments of silence, she adjusts a dusty place mat and asks, “How is your love doing?”

I poke an egg yolk glumly with my fork, watching the yellow insides bleed onto the tortilla. “I told you. We no longer talk. You should stop asking about her and reminding me. It makes me sad.” I chew my food with bitterness, which compliments the salsa’s acidic taste.

Since I talk to my mom about most everything, I came home from star gazing with Amber and spilled my heart out. Mom still makes me light candles and insists I need to relax and trust the greater plan, but it’s only irritating me more and more. I lost the greatest love I’ll ever know because we were born on different paths. The idea of a greater plan is a joke.

“I’m not trying to make you sad, mi cielito. I want to give you hope.”

I groan. “What hope? She doesn’t want kids.”

Mom moves from the head of the table to sit next to me, shooing the cat away. “I lit another candle.”

“Why?” I say through a mouth of eggs. They’re really damn good. It’s been so long since Mom made me breakfast. I’ve missed it, another weight dragging on my heart.

“You know why. You can’t give up. I admit that this plan for you isn’t what I thought either, but you need to keep your faith. It always works out. I had a dream about you. I didn’t tell you.”

“Was the dream of me as a lonely old man crying into my menudo or something?”

She laughs. “No, no. I saw you happy with your family. Amber was with you.”

I shove the rest of breakfast into my mouth because I need to leave for work. “Sounds like a nice dream,” I say as I chew, standing to take the plate to the kitchen.

“Ay, you’re not listening,” she calls after me. “It was a vision Santa Muerte sent to reassure you.”

As I rinse the plate and fork, then drop them into the dishwasher, Mom appears next to me.

“Everything is fine, mijo.”

I hear the front door open and close.Patty must be here.I touch Mom’s shoulders. “I hear you, but if Amber doesn’t want kids, how is it supposed to work between us? She’s right that it would be unfair for either of us to sacrifice what we want in life. One of us would grow bitter.”

Mom gives me a sweet, reassuring smile. “I don’t know. But I feel deeply that it will. Faith, mijo. When will you listen?”

I kiss the tangle of black and gray hair on her head. “I gotta go. I’m telling Patty not to let you cook anything and to stop you from pulling weeds like you tried to do last week. I bought you more novels to read as a bribe, but you only get them if you rest today.” I walk to the archway.

Mom’s voice is firm and stops me dead in my tracks. “Miguel Reynolds Cuevas. You come back here. You need to listen.”

My muscles tense.Damn, she used my whole name.

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