Page 108 of Lessons in Forgiving
There might’ve been tears in my eyes. I couldn’t be sure because I was blinking like hell to keep them away. “No, papi,” I muttered in Spanish. My head shook lightly.
Nothing like Leonardo Nin, who wrote poems and fiction and whose books were scattered all over the place back home. Courtesy of Juan Castillo.
“More like…” I thought for a moment. “Like Rachel Nichols, Emily Longeretta. Edith Zimmerman.”
Dad nodded like he actually knew who they were when he obviously had no idea. “Alright,” he said, Mom still looked tense under his touch, her eyes continuing to jump between us. “Like Rachel Nichols.”
And I could tell it was all a bit much for him. Seeing me again, then adjusting to the fact I hadn’t told them everything about my life while I was away. Going over my mother’s head. Most of all that, probably.
He only cleared his throat, held onto Mom’s shoulder a little tighter, massaged the spot I knew she’d always been tense in, and took out his phone. An old little thing, but it had Internet. And a browser app that wasn’t Google. So he searched for Rachel Nichols, looked at pictures, read some of her Wikipedia page, then held the phone out for Mom to do the same.
“It looks like she makes good money, mi vida. No?” he whispered, close to her ear. And when I could see some of the tension rolling off her—shoulders relaxing, frown on her lips fading—I let go of a breath I must’ve been holding for so long, it was loud enough for Henry to give my hand an encouraging squeeze.
I’d forgotten he was still holding my hand until that happened.
Mom swallowed thickly, our eyes locked again—mine had never diverted. “And this is what you want?” she asked in English again.
I nodded. I thought I might squeal if I opened my mouth.
“It is done now. So.” And she shrugged.
I never really thought about what their reaction might be. About the fact that, really, they couldn’t do much but accept their—myfate. They loved me too much to disown me.
“I always thought you’d be a little too soft for negotiating, anyway.”
Exactly what I’d wanted to hear.
I rushed into their arms with so much force, my parents stumbled a few steps back. I mumbled so many versions ofThank yous andSorrys into their necks, I couldn’t remember all of them when I let go with the biggest smile on my face since Henry.
They seemed to remember the man behind me the same second I did.
“So you’re still here,” Mom assessed.
Which was weird for two reasons. I did not expect my parents to remember Henry, the stranger I’d forced into pretending to be my friend, so they’d let me stay at HBU. I’d also never mentioned him again, certainly not as a boyfriend.
I knew my dad would’ve emptied his entire account to get on the next flight down here and cross-examine the unlucky guy.
“I didn’t tell you—”
“Oh, please.” Mom waved me off. “You were halfway to married when you introduced us.” She was so sure of the fact, I didn’t have the heart to tell her we’d known each other for all of five seconds then. Plus, there was no need to reveal two lies in one sitting.
Dad’s eyes slid from Henry back to me. “¿Estás segura de que es uno de los buenos?”
Are you sure he’s one of the good ones?
I could feel Henry shift beside me—take a step toward them. He held his hand out for my dad to shake, and said in choppy, imperfect Spanish, “I try to be.”
And although he butchered the pronunciation, Juan took his hand, smiled, and said in imperfect, choppy English, “Good. Or I will kill you.”
The fact he did not laugh before, during or after the delivery didn’t make Henry sweat.
“I’d hope so, sir.”
Henry invited us to join his family for lunch, which—he begrudgingly told me when we led the way there—had been taken over by the McCarthys. Again.
On the way there, Marty had texted Henry, and Eddie had texted me. Three separate times, all about the profile.
>Sports Illustratedwants it.
