Page 80 of Blackbeard
Baby Doll cackled and bolted out the door with Blackbeard close on her heels. I smiled to myself, returning back to the bar.
Someone cleared their throat. I glanced up to see Crash stiffly standing off to one side.
“Could I…?” he faltered with a vague gesture. He looked so tense, like he wanted to be anywhere else but here. “Could I get a drink?”
I raised my eyebrows and nodded.
“Sure. What would you like? A cold beer?”
He shrugged.
“That’s fine.”
I hurried to grab one from the refrigerator, popped the top off, and set it on the bar, sliding it toward him. After Crash accepted it, I expected he would sit somewhere far away from me.
Instead, he tentatively perched on a bar stool.
“I don’t hate you, by the way,” he said in a tired, rough voice. “Just…so that’s clear. It’s your dad who’s the piece of shit for killing my brother.”
“That’s fair,” I replied. “To be honest, I’m not exactly a fan of him either.”
A beat of silence settled between us.
“And I’m sorry,” I added. “About Digger. I know an apology won’t bring him back. But it’s the least I can offer.”
Crash nodded, scratching at the label of his beer with his thumbnail. I wiped my palms on my jeans, wishing I had something to do.
“Would you tell me about him?” I prompted. “Diego talks about his family all the time. I love hearing his stories. I’d like to hear yours, too, if that’s…um…well, if that’s okay with you.”
Crash sat up a little straighter, but he didn’t say anything right away. I braced myself, preparing for him to refuse.
After nearly a minute of consideration, he spoke.
“No one has ever asked me that before.”
Was that a good sign? Or would he shut down, protecting what little he had left of his deceased brother?
Then Crash started to talk.
“We were thick as thieves growing up together. I always thought he was so cool, and I wanted to be just like him…”
I propped my chin on my hand, resting my elbow on the counter, and I listened, watching Crash’s face light up with memories.
Epilogue
Blackbeard - One Year Later
When I returned from my monthly meeting at Church, I found my house had been invaded while I was gone. Voices chattered in my kitchen, accompanied by the smell of mouthwatering food.
Softening my footsteps, I made my way down the hall and peeked through the kitchen door.
“Am I doing this right?”
Leigh stood at the stove, spatula in hand, while she tentatively poked at something in a pan. Abuela stood beside her, doling out instructions, while she absently stroked Luisa’s wispy curls. Luisa clung to Abuela’s apron, singing nonsense to herself quietly.
My siblings were crowded around the kitchen island, piling food onto their plates from an afternoon buffet. Five of my cousins were seated at the table, locked in a heated board game. Mama leaned back against the counter, rocking a baby in her arms, while Papa helped Claudia to shape cookies and set them on baking sheets.
I smiled and stayed back, watching for a minute or two. Leigh had begged me to teach her how to cook six months ago. I taught her a few basics, but it was good to see her learning from Abuela, who taught me everything I know.
