Page 15 of Dirty Lyrics
They’re everywhere in Jersey and New York, little pieces of history you barely notice until you’re standing in front of one, about to make the biggest mistake—or maybe the biggest decision—of your life.
The next, I’m inside the rectory, the smell of old wood and candle wax wrapping around me.
The priest’s office is cramped, lined with shelves of leather-bound books, but it doesn’t matter.
All I see is paper.
Documents.
Lines where I’m supposed to sign my name.
A pen in my hand.
Am I really doing this?
Don’t ask me how this all happened so quickly.
I know the world moves differently for the rich and famous—doors open, red tape vanishes, signatures appear where there should be weeks of waiting.
But Rico doesn’t know how I know that.
Not really.
At least he didn’t.
Not until he takes my phone from me—quick as a thief—and pries off the little magnetized wallet on the back.
My ID slips free.
So does my black American Express card.
He pauses, his intelligent dark eyes narrowing as he reads the name.
Maya Constanza Blanco Gold.
My full name.
And worse—my father’s address. A condo on Central Park West.
I see the storm gathering in Rico’s gaze.
Questions. Accusations. The truth about who I am hanging in the air between us.
But he doesn’t ask.
Not yet.
Instead, he tucks the cards away and says, “I need a moment with my bride.”
Preacher gives a knowing smile, gathering the papers.
“Sure. I have to make copies, anyway.”
He leaves with Chuy in tow, shutting the door behind them.
Suddenly it’s just us.
“Rico, you don’t even know it—” I start, desperate to put space between us, to explain, to breathe.
