The Book of Broken Hearts (34 page)

No regrets . . .

Was that even possible? I had lots of regrets. Regrets that I wasn’t with him on the road right now. Regrets that I didn’t get to spend more time with Papi before he got sick or that I didn’t ask my sisters to come home sooner so we could all be together. I even had regrets about how things had changed with Zoe and Christina.

But my biggest regret was that I never told Emilio how I really felt about him.

He was right—we only had this one life. We could wish for the past all day long. We could look at old pictures and tell ourselves the same old stories, but they were just that—stories. Memories. They happened. And maybe they were wonderful and amazing, and maybe they changed our lives in ways we’d never be changed again, but they no longer existed. By the time we stopped to reflect on one moment, it was gone, and another one was instantly upon us, also destined to pass.

I miss us, Jude. I miss the old days, the “us” in your scrapbook.

Zoe’d said it the other day as if the “us” in the scrapbook was somehow different from the “us” in reality, a better version we could jump back to at will. I missed her too, missed our carefree times together, but I’d spent my whole summer waiting on that time machine, and time just didn’t work
that way. The old days didn’t exist. No matter how long you waited, no matter how hard you wished, no matter how much you missed the past, time marched forward. Everything ended eventually—storms, friendships, days, health, love, life. And Zoe and me, maybe our friendship didn’t have to end this summer, but our past—the way things used to be between us—had to end. Those moments had already happened, had already ended. We were just too busy wishing otherwise to notice.

I was done wishing.

Done waiting.

Done being scared.

Done ignoring the fact that Papi wouldn’t get better.

Done running from my feelings for Emilio, pretending I could say good-bye like it didn’t kill me to see him go.

Done letting my sisters tell me how to live.

Done living in the past.

I turned off the engine and uncurled my fingers like a flower. I stared at the flag key chain, red and blue standing out against the silver, and it hit me all at once, like all the force of the wind and the river and the sun.

There was no going back to the way things
were
, because all you ever got was the way things
are
. One moment. Then another. What you did with that moment was up to you.

No regrets.

“We’re not selling the bike!” I burst through the kitchen door panting like the dog, and Celi and Mari looked up from their
newspapers and released a coordinated sigh, which Pancake helpfully mimicked.

“We talked about this,” Celi said. She and Mari exchanged a glance, like,
Here we go again.
“What the hell are you wearing? Are those my shorts?”

“You guys don’t understand. Where’s Papi?” I peeked into the living room, but the television was silent.

“Lourdes is helping him sort clothes upstairs,” Mari said. “Mom wants us to start paring down his stuff.”

I tried not to think about what that meant. “We’re keeping the bike.”

Celi folded up the arts section and set it gently on the table, smoothed out the crease.

Mari shook her head. “Juju, sit down. It’s—”

“I’m not letting you sell the bike. We worked really hard on it this summer. Papi never wanted to sell it.”

Celi rolled her eyes. “Juju, you’re being a little crazy. He can’t ride it. Ever.”

“He practically burned the house down!” Mari said.

“We don’t even know if it’s safe,” Celi said. “Just because you hired some guy—”

“He’s not some guy,” I said.

Mari cleared her throat.
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
“The point is, Papi can’t ride it.”

“He’s not some guy,” I said again. Emilio may have been finished with Valentina, on the road, out of our lives, but my heart knew the truth. I’d violated the oath by getting involved
with a Vargas, and I’d fallen in love with him. And even if I never got the chance to kiss him again, breaking the oath to be with him was something I
didn’t
regret.

“He’s Emilio Vargas,” I said.

Celi sucked in a breath, her eyes wide with shock, and I pressed on.

“Emilio Vargas is the one who restored the bike. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, and I’m sorry that his brother hurt you, but that’s got nothing to do with Emilio. He’s been helping us all summer and we finally got the bike running and there’s no way I’m letting you sell it.”

“What’s going on?” Lourdes appeared in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, a towel wrapped around her head. “Hey, is that my Van Halen shirt? Where did you—”

“Not now, Lourdes,” Mari said.

“Are you all fighting without me?” Lourdes’s teasing smirk faded as soon as she realized that we
were
fighting without her.

“Tell me I heard that wrong.” Celi’s voice trembled, as if just mentioning the Vargas name unleashed all the memories she’d spent so long repressing.

“You didn’t,” I said. “I—”

“Juju!” Mari stared at me hard. “This isn’t the time—”

“When would be better?” I asked. “Next week? Next year?”

“Stop,” Lourdes said. “Whatever it is, let’s talk it out. Come on, Juju. Sit down.”

“I’m not sitting down,” I said.

“You knew about this?” Celi asked Mari.

“Knew what?” Lourdes said.

“Long story,” Mari said.

“It’s my story,” I said. “And I’m saying—”

“Stop.” Celi held up her hands, her jaw clenching and unclenching. “Will someone please tell me what Emilio
fucking
Vargas has to do with our family?”

Lourdes scrunched up her face. “Emilio Vargas? What?”

“Juju . . .” Mari slumped backward in her chair. “Maybe you should sit down.”

“I’m not sitting. I’m in love with him.” The words were out of my mouth, running around like ants on the kitchen floor.

“Aw, Juju’s in love?” Lourdes said. “But you were just . . . Wait, who are we talking about?”

Mari, Celi, and I all spit it out. “Emilio fucking Vargas!”

The Holy Trinity stared me down, Lourdes with utter confusion, Celi with a scary mix of pain and anger, and Mari with that subtle I-told-you-so flare. The clock ticked away as my sisters burned holes through my face with their eyes.

Celi finally rose from her chair. She crossed the kitchen and boxed me in at the counter, but before she could speak or scream or pull my hair, Pancake yelped and shot out through his doggy door.

Mari’s eyes widened. “Guys, where’s Papi?”

Lourdes shrugged. “I thought he was down here with you.”

“You were supposed to be sorting his clothes,” Mari said.

“We finished,” Lourdes said. “He didn’t feel like doing any more, and I wanted a shower, so—”

“You can’t leave him alone!” Mari said.

“But I thought . . . and then the fighting . . . I’m sorry.”

I pushed through Celi’s arms. “You guys! Shut up!”

Pancake yelped again, louder than before, and Valentina’s helicopter sputter cut through the air.

All four Hernandez sisters tumbled out through the newly repaired kitchen door, tearing it off the hinges for the second time this summer, and bolted for the barn.

Papi sat on the Harley like the king of the road in his old helmet and Las Arañas Blancas jacket, rockin’ the best smile ever.

My heart did a backflip. He’d snuck out while we were bickering, went straight for Valentina. He belonged on that bike, and thirty years had vanished from his face with the turn of that little brass key and a jump on the kickstart, and now he looked at us like Clint Eastwood in
The Outlaw Josey Wales
when he was all,
Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle “Dixie”?

Papi didn’t actually say that, but still. It was a very kick-ass cowboy moment all around. Yeah, it was scary. I didn’t know if he could handle it, if he’d fall, if he’d forget some crucial step and zoom off into the wall. But it was his choice.

All along, Papi’d wanted his last ride. And now he’d get it.

My sisters were speechless; they stood at my side with big
gaping mouths and eyes, and I knew they’d seen it too. That glow. That timelessness.

Fuck yeah.
Our father was so, so badass.

Valentina growled beneath him, roaring louder as Papi cranked the throttle. He seemed to melt into the bike, as if the machine were merely an extension of his limbs, the thrumming engine his heart and soul. My stomach flooded with butterflies.

Papi winked at me.

If any of my sisters meant to challenge him, she’d lost her voice. We all stood aside, utterly mute as he lifted his feet from the ground. The bike rolled through the barn doorway and zoomed off, joy floating on the air behind him.

Pancake led the charge out of the barn, and we watched as Papi circled the property, Valentina rocketing around the house, back down the driveway, across the front lawn, behind the barn, back around again. He was moving too fast for us to see his face, but in my heart, I knew he was smiling. Valentina and Papi were one, a blur of chrome and black leather, the sun shining down on all of us, and for just a moment I wondered if maybe he’d found a way to outrun El Demonio after all.

I wish Emilio were here.

The thought climbed up and attached itself to my heart. I missed him. I needed him. He should’ve been there to see Papi take his ride.

On the third loop, Papi and Valentina dipped behind the barn again, our heads turning all at once to watch. Seconds
later the bike shot out in another blur. Blue and white and chrome, no leather.

The angle was all wrong.

The speed was off.

Almost instantly Valentina sputtered and conked out in the grass, dropped down on her side.

Papi wasn’t with her.

The doctor didn’t want to give us any information until Mom arrived, but in our short time at Blackfeather General, Mari had already developed a reputation among the staff. All she had to do was raise her eyebrows, and that fresh-off-the-med-school-boat doctor was singing the whole tale.

Papi had a dislocated shoulder, bruised ribs, and a bunch of scrapes and cuts. On that last trip around the barn, he must’ve blanked out, forgot where he was, let go of the bike. It rode on without him and sputtered out quickly, but not before throwing him off. He’d thudded onto the earth, landed on his side. He was lucky, the young doc said.

Lucky it was grass and dirt and not concrete or gravel.

Lucky he was wearing a helmet and leather.

Lucky he wasn’t going very fast at the time.

It was my fault Papi was here, laid up in a hospital bed not unlike the one he’d probably die in. It was my fault he’d dug up the yard. My fault he’d started that fire. All I wanted to do
was help him, make him happy, make him well. It seemed I’d only managed to advance his disease, to shove him a few steps closer to Death’s door.

It didn’t matter what my sisters threw at me next; no words or threats could make me feel any worse. I tugged the Van Halen shirt over my knees and folded in on myself, wishing I could disappear, wishing I could turn into a tumbleweed and blow on down the road.

I am dust.

“It’s okay, Juju,” Mari whispered into my hair. I was enveloped by her scent, lavender and cigarettes, as she rubbed my back. “Papi’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

I looked into her face. She offered a tiny smile and wiped my tears with her thumbs.

“I think maybe you were right,” she said. “Papi deserved that ride.”

Celi and Lourdes nodded too, though Celi had her legs crossed away from me, arms folded over her chest.

“It was stupid and dangerous and crazy,” Mari said. “He could’ve killed himself. But it’s not your fault. It was his choice.”

Lourdes ditched her chair and knelt before me. She squeezed my hands. “Our father is really sick, baby. Some days he seems fine, other days he doesn’t, but either way, he’s still sick. We’re at the point now where every day could be like today. He’s deteriorating.”

A whisper was all I could manage. “I know.”