Page 35 of Trick of the Flesh
“Caleb—” I start, but he doesn’t let me finish. He presses harder, his mouth frantic, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he slows down.
I’m not going anywhere.
The taste of him—sweat, sugar, cheap beer—burns through me. The years I’ve spent wanting him, watching him fold himself small, and watching him suffer in silence all break loose in this one brutal kiss.
And then?—
“¿Miguel? ¿Caleb?”
My mother’s voice.
We rip apart like we’ve been struck by lightning.
“Shit,” Caleb gasps, his eyes wide, wild. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, breath coming too fast. Then he bolts. Stumbling up the stairs, footsteps loud in the silence, until his bedroom door slams shut.
The echo rattles through my ribs. I turn—and there she is.
My mother. Standing at the end of the hall with her robe belted tight and a mug in her hand, steam still curling from it. Her eyes are steady on me, sharp as glass.
Fuck.
I don’t breathe.
She sets the mug down on the mail table with a soft clink.“Miguel.”
“Mamá.”I try to avoid her eyes. It’s like I’m five years old again, getting caught taking a sweet from myAbuelita’scandy dish.
Her gaze flicks toward the stairs, then back. “¿Qué fue eso?”
My mouth is dry. “Nada.”
Her eyebrow arches. “No me mientas.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing my voice even. “It’s complicated.”
Her eyes soften, but her voice doesn’t. “¿Son pareja?”
I shake my head too fast. “No. We’re not?—”
“¿Entonces qué?” She folds her arms. “Porque no me digas que vi mal. No soy ciega.”
Shit. What the fuck were we thinking?
The floor feels unsteady beneath me. I look away, stare at the stairs like maybe I can call Caleb back down, make him share this weight. But he’s gone.
Her sigh is soft but heavy with years of watching without being told. “Ese niño…” She shakes her head. “Ha cargado tanto dolor. Lo esconde, pero yo lo veo.”
I clench my fists.
She steps closer, her voice lowering. “Cuídalo, hijo. Ha sufrido demasiado. Necesita amor.”
Her words gut me. They’re not condemnation. Not disgust—they’re a command. My mother doesn’t care that we’re doing what we’re doing. She just wants me to take care of him and his heart.
“Mamá—” My throat tightens. I want to ask what she knows, what Caleb has told her in whispered confessions when I wasn’t around. But something in her expression warns me not to.Not tonight.
Instead, she touches my cheek, her thumb brushing once across my jaw like she used to when I was a boy. “Él confía en ti. No lo hagas arrepentirse.”
I swallow hard. “I won’t.”
