Unbroken (8 page)

The restaurant looks mediocre, looks like any regular old restaurant from the outside, but inside, it’s spectacular.

I didn’t pay too much attention to the inside when I stopped by the other day. I was focused on one thing and one thing only: alcohol, and lots of it.

Besides the bar, the chandelier that hangs low from the ceiling the minute I enter the building, and the maitre d’s podium, I don’t pay attention to much else. Just like the other day, I’m only focused on one thing. I need to find Sabrina so I can make all this shit right.

The girl who greets me is tall, leggy, blonde, and all smiles. I take in the blonde hair that once was everything I could ever want, the enormous grin that welcomes me even though she doesn’t know me, the long legs showing beneath her shorts that appear to go on for miles, and I smile.

“Welcome to
Le Chateau D’If
,” she says. “My name is Tawny. How many are in your party?”

With a shake of my head and returning my grin, I reach up to rake my hair back. “I’m not here for dinner. A friend of mine works here and I wanted to speak with her.”

She recoils at the bite in my tone, and then she leans forward, squeezing her breasts together and giving me ample view of them. I almost roll my eyes, but I realize there’s no way I’ll get the information I need if I give her an attitude right now.

“Who? Eva? Nickayla?”

I laugh. “No, I could talk to Nickayla any time I want, trust me. I’m looking for Sabrina. Is she working today?”

Her eyes narrow, like this isn’t the answer she was hoping for, and she shoots me a glare. I know exactly how to work girls like this. She’s so easy to read, so easy to manipulate, and she doesn’t even know it. She doesn’t know that for the past five years, ever since I lost my virginity, I’ve learned how to deal with snakes, because I dealt with the worst of them.

I dealt with the master manipulator. Belinda Moreno.

First step, eye contact. I lean against the podium, raising an eyebrow and begging for her attention with one smolder from me. I watch as her breasts heave, her breath picking up speed the longer I keep my gaze locked with hers. Second step, touch. I reach across the piece of wood and run my thumb along the back of her hand. Her gaze drifts to my thumb, sliding back and forth over her hand, but that doesn’t last long. Third step, diversion. I take her chin in my spare hand and give her the smolder once again.

I lick my lips, and smile.

“Tawny, listen,” I tell her. “Sabrina’s a good friend of mine, and I wanted to surprise her at work today. See, I wanted to take her out during her lunch break. So, is she working today?”

She bites on her lower lip, and I all but puke in my mouth. The first thing I think is: she’s gonna chew her Goddamn lip off. I don’t know
why
in the Hell girls think that’s sexy. It’s fucking irritating if you ask me.

“N-no. She’s not.”

I raise an eyebrow, giving her the sternest look I can muster, even though I wish I didn’t have to waste another second on her.

“She’s not?”

“No. The high schoolers don’t work weekends. Plus, Sabrina said something yesterday about going out of town for a few days. So you likely won’t see her again until Wednesday.”

Damn it all to Hell.

I close my eyes to keep from going off on Tawny. With a muttered ‘thank you’, I turn around and storm out of the restaurant.

I lean against the building, closing my eyes and crossing my arms over my chest. I feel incredibly stupid, and ridiculous. I wasted my time trying to get information out of her, flirting with her, when all that time, she knew good and damn well Sabrina wasn’t in town.

I try to keep doing shit like this, especially since I decided last year to wipe my hands of Belinda.

She was the biggest mistake of my life.

One night being thirteen and stupid, and I was stuck with her. She was a leech, taking what little I had and sucking it right out of me. She was a vulture, circling me and the people I care about.

She was
easy
. The only reason what we had lasted as long as it did is because I knew she’d
always
come running the minute I called. If I said, “jump”, she would ask, “how high”. She would do whatever I asked, without question, with the incredulous idea that someday, I’d want her the way I once wanted Michele, the way I
now
want Sabrina.

When I lost Michele, I promised myself that I would give up all that. I lost the one who was good to me, all because I couldn’t tell her I loved her, because I would back off the minute she got too close. That was more my shit than it was hers. It always was.

And Belinda, she was just someone I used to pass the time. I’m not proud of who I was whenever I gave myself to her, but I’m different now. I don’t want someone I can call when I have an itch that needs scratching. I don’t want someone who will do any dirty thing I want, and then disappear before the sun comes up.

I want someone like Sabrina.

I don’t think about her at two in the morning, when I’m horny and lonely and wanting a good fuck. I thought about her today at six a.m., when I had hair to do and kids to get ready and lunches to pack. I thought about her at ten in the morning, in my A.P. English class, trying to decipher Shakespeare. I thought about her at noon, while I was waiting on the bus, so I could head to Hastings. I thought about her at two in the afternoon, when I was neck deep in cars to work on, and there were a million things on my mind.

She is the one worth fighting for, the one worth risking everything for, whereas I won’t even bother with anyone else.

Sabrina
is the one who breaks through my psyche.
Sabrina
is the diamond amongst cubic zirconia. And the fucked up part is, she doesn’t even know it, doesn’t see her worth. But someday she will. I’ll make sure of it. I would consider it an honor just to know her, and maybe to love her. And it’d be a Hell of an accomplishment if by some miracle I could come to deserve her.

With a deep breath, I shove off the wall and make my way back in the same direction I came, resolving to come back here on Wednesday, the minute I think she’s out of school.

There’s something about this one, something that tells me I shouldn’t let her go so easily. I shouldn’t let her go at all.

SIX

HER EYES WERE GREEN. Not that “smoldering” green they talk about in books, but that light, airy, sea foam green. Whenever I looked her in the eyes, I couldn’t lock gazes with her for more than a few seconds. They were so hypnotic that at four years old, they scared the shit out of me.

She always wore Chanel No. 5. Her hair was long, wavy, and chestnut brown. When she smiled, it was as bright as the letters on the Hollywood sign. She liked to make French toast, because it’s my favorite thing to eat for breakfast. Her favorite song was
My Heart Will Go On
by Celine Dion. Her favorite movie was
The Little Mermaid
. She
loved
to dance, especially to
cumbias
. She loved my dad. She loved my sister and me.

Those are the things I remember about my mother. It’s not much, but it’s what I have to hold on to.

I know a little more about her, stuff that Daddy has told me over the years. Like how she was addicted to gummy bears. Like how she thought all of life’s problems could be cured by an evening of watching
When Harry Met Sally
and an endless supply of root beer floats. Like how she would whistle in the shower, because she would sing so loudly and off-key, she didn’t want to disturb anyone. Or how for the entire ten years they were together, no one ever saw her without a disposable camera in her hand. Or how she loved nature so much that whenever she and Daddy had a fight, he could always find her in the grass in our backyard, lying on her back and looking up at the trees. Or how she loved to go camping, and whenever they did, you couldn’t pay her to get out of the lake unless it was time to eat or time for bed.

I run through the list in my head, making sure that they remain etched in my memory for future reference, for when—or if—Bianca ever wants to know what I do.

My fingers trace over the the words on her headstone.

Catalina Yadira Matteo

Loving wife and mother

I was only four when we lost our mother. And today is the thirteenth anniversary of her death. Normally, I come to the cemetery alone, and every once in a blue moon, I can cajole Bianca into coming with me. But this time, it’s a whole family affair. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ve never driven long distances before.

We got a babysitter for Gracie and Mila so that Mom and Daddy could drive down with us. Even though I don’t know why this time they choose to accompany us, I’m kind of glad they did.

We decided to make this a weekend affair, but Ms. Archer gave me two days off, since I told her I was dealing with a family matter. We got two hotel rooms, one for Mom and Daddy, and one for me and Bee, so that we can stay up here until Wednesday morning. It’s rare that Daddy can stay away from his job this long, so we’re taking full advantage of it.

We’ve been here for two hours, telling stories about her and laughing, eating
really
bad Little Caesar’s pizza and drinking apple juice.

We’re enjoying ourselves, even though we probably shouldn’t be.

Daddy looks solemn, and I can tell that thirteen years, another wife, and two new kids later, he still misses my mother something fierce.

“Your mother was very beautiful, Sabrina,” Mom says. “You look just like her. You could have been her twin.”

I smile at her, and she smiles back, pulling a box out from her purse. It’s small, but it’s lovely. She hands it to me, and I scoot over to my sister so that she can look with me. I’ve never seen this box before.

I lift the lid and gingerly pull out a stack of pictures. Running through them, I watch her life through her eyes.

The day she met Daddy: she’s grinning like a fool and dancing in the water fountain at Chapman. The day he proposed: she’s sobbing into his shirt as he presses a kiss to her forehead. The day they moved into our old house: she’s shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand—the other is on her hip as she stares at the moving truck from the front porch. The day she told Daddy she was pregnant for the first time: it’s Christmas day, and he’s holding a baby sleeper that he’s just pulled out of a gift-wrapped box. Her painting my nursery: her hair is in a bun, a paintbrush in one hand and the other rests affectionately on her baby bump. The day she gave birth to me—this one is my favorite: Daddy has his arms around her, and he’s looking at the camera, smiling at whoever’s taking the picture; she can’t take her eyes off of me.

There are a plethora of pictures from my childhood. My first steps, all my Christmases, birthdays, and Easters. My first school assembly. I flip through them like they’re nothing, and I stop at the only one Bianca wants to see, and I hand it to her. I know this picture well, because it’s the one that was up in our living room. She and Daddy are in a warm embrace. I’m sitting in Daddy’s lap, and I’m holding a newborn Bianca. We’re all staring down at Bee like she’s God’s gift to humankind.

I look over at my sister, and there are tears in her eyes. She can’t stop staring at the picture of the day she was born.

“You can keep it if you want to, Bee,” Mom says. “I’ve always felt guilty, you know? I got to raise the both of you. I got to be with your dad. I got to spend the past thirteen years with her family, and she’s missing it all.”

I look over at my sister, and she has her lips pursed. She hands the picture to Mom, and then stands up. Brushing the grass off her pants, she says, “Well that’s certainly not your fault. It’s hers. I’ll be in the car.”

Mom looks like she’s about to cry, and Daddy puts his arms around her. She leans into his embrace, and I know he’s trying to relieve her of some of her guilt.

Mom showed up at the cemetery the day we buried my mother. She and Daddy were high school sweethearts, but they broke up a few weeks after graduation. They lost contact through college, and somehow she found him during the worst possible time—the death of his wife. She wanted to be his shoulder to lean on in his time of need. And that’s exactly what she was. She healed him. She came in and took over where our bio-mom left off. She took me to school, stayed home with Bee. She gave us normalcy where we had none. Somewhere between her falling in love with my sister and me, Daddy fell in love with her all over again. They married within the year, and Mom moved into our home. Mom was only 25 when she and Daddy married. She wanted children and lots of them. Daddy was all for it—in time. They both decided they should wait until we were stable and adjusted mentally before even considering it. It wasn’t until seven years later that they decided to have a baby. Grecia came along when I was eleven, and Mila came later.