Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Christopher, you can’t come over here with cuts and bruises on your face.” I scold him once he comes back downstairs from talking with Marcus. “Maybe when he was younger you could get away with it, but he’s like you. He doesn’t miss anything. I don’t want him to be around you when you look like this.”

I see him clench his jaw, his eyes snapping, but then soften, because he knows I’m right. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, his knuckles on both hands obviously busted and bloody under his bandages. He has a cut under his right eye like somebody with a ring punched him. A bruise on his chin. And even though he’s trying to hide it, I can see the way he winces as he adjusts his left side, probably bandaged under his thick thermal shirt and the pea coat he took off when he got here.

“I just needed to see my son, Rhea. I didn’t plan for him to see me like this. But I just needed to see him.” I see his shoulders slump and see that his age and the stress he’s constantly under are finally catching up to him. There are wrinkles around his eyes and marring his smooth forehead that weren’t there the last time I saw him.

Still too goddamn handsome for his own good, regardless, but that doesn’t work on me anymore.

“You promised we’d raise him as normal as possible. Coming over here with cuts, bruises, and your knuckles bloody isn’t normal. Next time, wait, a couple of days at least. Let it clear up. Or get some makeup.”

He nods his head, resigned, because he knows I’m right again. When it comes to Marcus, what I say goes. I’m thankful that he still respects me at least that much.

I turn my back to him, getting a mug, pouring hot water from the kettle into it, dunking in a jasmine tea bag. I set it in front of him, along with a spoon and the sugar bowl.

I lean up against the counter, watching him quietly. We both sit in silence for a couple of minutes, watching the steam rise from the mug. He then removes the tea bag, uses the spoon to squeeze the excess moisture out of the bag, and pours too much sugar in, mixing it in with the spoon. He’s always had a sweet tooth. Our son is the same way.

He places the tea bag on top of the spoon on the table, taking a sip, watching me back, and I sense that the man I’ve given almost 10 years of my life to, in some shape or form, is struggling with finding what to say.

I can tell he’s not sleeping again.

I feel a pang in my heart but quickly brush it away. What he does and who he sees and what demons keep him up at night are no longer my problem anymore.

I hear the laughter of our son float down the stairs from whatever he’s watching on PBS Kids in my bedroom.

Christopher doesn’t like when I let him watch tv, but I’m a single mom who does a damn good job raising our son. Our son who is growing up under extraordinary circumstances and has turned into an incredibly bright, polite, wonderful kid despite that. Some PBS Kids once in a while won’t hurt him.

Plus, tonight, his father and I are having an adult discussion as we explained to him when we sent him upstairs. The tv is turned up louder than usual in the hopes that Marcus won’t hear us.

“You cut your hair.” His eyes are on me. Warm, but not flirty, just appraising. Not said unkindly, just carefully.

This is the dance we do now. The careful tango of knowing that whatever we once had is broken but we’re too close and have too much tied up in each other to be able to just walk away.

So we try to talk to each other like normal adults that didn’t used to be married, had a son, lost a daughter, and then got divorced in a span of 3 years. We talk to each other like adults who didn’t rip each other’s hearts out. Like we don’t still guard secrets about a man named Rio, no last name needed, that may very well condemn both of our souls to Hell.

I tuck a short brown strand of my hair behind my ear and nod. “Yes, it was too long and hair isn’t practical when you’re working 10 hour shifts four days a week while chasing an 8 year old around.” I smile, but the smile isn’t real and doesn’t convince him.

I’ve always loved my hair. I’m pretty by normal standards and have a nice body for a woman in her mid-thirties with a kid, but my hair has always been my only vanity.

He knows that. And he’s always loved my hair too. When we met it was so long, dark, and thick that I could sit on it. The first time he kissed me he took his pinky finger and brushed it out of my face; the gesture so intimate and perfect that I fell in love with him a little bit right there. Then later, there were so many days and nights when it would get tangled as he moved over and under my body and pulled it hard with his hands as he made me moan in pleasure and then washed and combed it out gently later in the shower while he kissed me slow. When I was pregnant with Marcus he would give me scalp massages so good they would almost make me cry, his large, strong fingers making my scalp tingle and body feel alive.

Then, a few weeks after we buried our nena, he caught me hacking it off up to my shoulders with some kitchen shears while sobs racked my body, quietly taking them from me, lining me up so I was facing our full-length gilded mirror and standing behind me. Finishing the haircut, taking his time to make sure it was even and bluntly brushing against my shoulders. He never said a word as the long strands fell silently to the floor that day.

Over the years, as things have gotten worse and strained and then almost silent between us, my hair’s been cut shorter and shorter.

And he knows me so well. He knows me well enough to accept my lie when I tell him that it was too long and I cut it for work. So he tells me, “It looks nice. You look nice in any hairstyle though.” I know he means it but it makes me angry to hear him say it.

I give him another fake half smile and tell him simply, “Thanks.”

The dance. The dance. The dance.

He looks down at the table and works his jaw again, not in frustration or anger, but in a display of meekness. Gone is the slick talking Detroit street shit. The bravado. The arrogant gaze. The cruelty that can flow as easily as the beauty from him in a way that’s rare for most human beings. He knows he can’t be that way in here in the home of me and his son.

And I think in a way it’s a respite for him to let it all fall away when he comes here.

Here, in this small, bright kitchen covered in our son’s drawings and with his laughter echoing down the stairs in the air around us, I see Christopher, not Rio. Maybe in a way no one but I am allowed to.

He looks into my eyes and I see pain and remorse and regret. And it does nothing to me but make me more angry because we’re passed all that now. “You don’t have to work so much, Rhea. You don’t have to work at all. That’s what I’m doing all of this for. For you and him and the rest of my family. But especially the two of you. Why won’t you let me help you?”

I can’t believe we’re here again. It’s blood money. It’s dirty. It’s cursed. I accepted it and it cursed my womb, made me lose my darling baby girl and be told I'd never be able to carry a baby to full term again. My father and my friends tried to warn me but I let myself fall in love with and marry a drug dealer, someone affiliated with American gangs and Mexican cartels, a money laundering killer.

And I got what I got.

And he’s lying, even if he can’t and won’t admit it to himself. Because the man who calls himself Rio has so much money in multiple accounts and so many assets earning him passive income that he doesn’t need to work either. He does it because he loves it, because it’s who he is. But I won’t say that. I don’t think he can bear to hear that.

Because if I say it, what purpose would it serve?

He knows how I feel anyway. I’ve said all of this to him before. “You know why.”

Those three words hang in the air and hold so much weight in their simplicity.

He nods and leans back in the chair. He closes his eyes. He looks so tired and pale and the bags under his eyes are almost purple. He’s losing weight too, making his face more angular, more regal, more solemn. There was a time in my life when I would have died gladly in the arms of this man. In more ways than one I already have.

But there’s no reason to think about any of it anymore. I don’t want to look at his face anymore. He needs to leave me be.

“You should crash for a little bit. You look like shit.” I give him a half smile that’s real. Regardless of how I feel about him now, after everything we’ve been through, he’s a good dad and he needs to stay healthy and strong to help me raise our son.

He chuckles but his eyes stay closed and he stays leaning his head back in the chair, pulling his big palm down his face, over his beard and letting it stop to rest on his chest over his heart. I watch his chest rise and fall as he inhales and exhales, while his right hand stays resting over his heart. The psychology books I read and body language YouTube videos I watch would say that’s a gesture of submission, vulnerability, or self-soothing. Maybe all three.

He says nothing, with his eyes closed, resting his hand over his heart for a few seconds more.

I don’t want to look at him anymore.

“You should go up and hang out with Marcus for awhile. He’s up there in my bed. Just make sure you take your outside clothes off. I’ll stay down here. I have some laundry to finish and need to pack his lunch for tomorrow.”

His eyes pop open and I see appreciation in them. He asks quietly, “You don’t need help?”

I just shake my head and motion my head towards the stairs. “I’m good. Go.” I reach out my hand for the mug and spoon. He hands them to me. I rinse them and put them in the dishwasher. The tea bag goes into the trash.

I lean back against the counter and watch him again.

He gets up slowly, pushes in his chair under the table, and walks over to me. I’m still leaning against the counter and I drop my eyes. I don’t want to look at him, at his beautiful, angular face marred by an old bruise and a new cut, this close up.

But he won’t let me not look. He puts his hand under my chin and guides my gaze up to him so I’m looking into his eyes. I’m tall for a woman but Christopher's tall for a man, and he looks down on me, many emotions flitting across his face, something I can’t place in his eyes. “Just know that you’re gonna always be straight, Rhea. I’m here if you’ll let me in.”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer because he knows I have nothing left to say.

Then he bends down, uses his right pinkie to move the bangs hanging over my eyes, and turns to jog up the stairs where I know he'll cuddle and laugh and then fall asleep with our son.

I stay leaned up against the counter for a long time after he leaves the kitchen, alone, finally letting the tears flow and feeling the tinge of regret knowing I can’t, won't, join them to laugh and cuddle and sleep in my bed.

It’s just better if he never sees it.

It’s just easier for the three of us if he never sees it again.
*

Chapter Text

A couple of hours later I tip toe into the bedroom, watching them sleep. Christopher laying on his back, Marcus curled up against his chest. Their breaths are synchronized, their long eyelashes both resting the same way against their cheekbones. I smile with happiness but it’s bittersweet.

Marcus is the spitting image of his father. The same symmetry of face, same sepia skin tone, same long limbs and confident fluidness when they walk and run, the same quickness of mind, the same occasional moments of elevation in speech and character that make people realize they’re both set a little bit apart from the rest of us. Even Marcus, at almost 8 years old, his teachers tell us he is a leader and kind and unusually observant for his age. They tell us he has a 147 IQ and that we should think about skipping him at least one grade next year.

He gets all of that, except the kindness and maybe the powers of observation, from his father. I have to work hard to learn. I’ve never been much of a leader. I struggled through college and then nursing school. Nothing like beauty or brilliance comes naturally to me. I know Marcus has mostly his father in him.
And I’m ok with that. Because he’s an extraordinary man.

I felt lucky when he chose me. Because that’s what he did. He did the choosing and I never had any choice in the matter. How do you resist an unstoppable force like Christopher Aguila? He could have had any woman he wanted. And by the time he met me, he had. But he chose me. I never questioned it, scared that if I did he’d come to his senses and realize I was a little too normal, average, safe for him.

Now I realize that’s why he wanted me.

I don’t think he was ever IN love with me. He cares for me. I know he loves me, even, because I’m the mother of his child and his ex-wife. Maybe even convinced himself he would fall in love with me over time. But it never turned into passion or need or that all consuming burn. It was calculated and necessary and strategic like the way he is in every other area of his life except when it comes to our son.

It’s like he was ready to settle down, chose me, and got me pregnant. And when I got pregnant he had already received my parents’ blessing to marry me and even already had the ring picked out.

I know at least one of his sisters thinks I trapped him.

I didn’t. He trapped me, if anything. I’m nice, I’m kind, I’m pretty, we come from the same culture. He knew he could trust me. He knew I’d keep all of his secrets.

He just couldn’t love me the way I needed it.

I know he’s capable of that hungry, passionate kind of love. I’ve seen it.

*

One night, when we still married, I found myself crying on Christina’s couch about why he was giving me the world and I still felt so alone even when he was sleeping next to me in the bed every night. How even if it was 5AM and I woke up to hearing him in the shower washing off blood, his or someone else’s, he always came home. He never smelled like another woman. He never made me feel like I had to question my place in his life. Christopher is very trustworthy and never half asses anything.

So that night when Christina invited me over, a year after Marcus was born, I let myself get drunk and asked her why he wouldn’t let me in all the way.

And with pity in her eyes she told me, “My brother is a good man and he’s a good husband to you and father to Marcus. He’ll never cheat. You’ll never have to worry about anything for the rest of your life. You have to ask yourself if that will be enough.” Then she swept her arm around the big, beautiful house Christopher bought for just her and Carlos. At all the things he’s filled her house with because Carlos’s father left before he was even born.

She smiled at me and squeezed my hand. “Trust me, girl, there are worse ways to live your life than this.”

She picked up her wine glass and I clinked mine against hers and smiled and said she was right. Then I changed the subject and it was never brought up again.
But a couple of hours later I cried in the back of the chromed out Tahoe truck, behind the tinted windows, as Cisco drove me back home. I cried in the shower that night after I let Isabella, our nanny, go home after giving her a hug and thanking her for staying late. After I checked in on Marcus and saw him sleeping soundly and then walked into the master bedroom, seeing that the sheets and comforter on our California king bed were untouched at 3AM.

I cried because his sister was telling me the truth. She was the only one who was brave enough to tell me the truth in his big, crazy, slightly fucked up family who all tip toed around the fact that he was the head of criminal enterprise that sanctioned murder and money laundering and drug transport and illegal gun sales and the corruption of federal judges and criminals alike.

I cried at what was glaringly left unsaid by Christina, the oldest of his three sisters. What was left glaringly unsaid by him after the night he asked me to marry him when I showed him the positive pregnancy test and told him we were going to have a baby. What was left unsaid as we took our wedding vows in an expensive church wedding and reception where my family from Chicago came down and my friends sat in quiet, supportive, resignation despite their concerns around what he did to make his money. What was left unsaid in his every thought and action as the years went on. That he’s in love with me, that he married to me for more reasons than I’m a good, kind, pretty woman and because I got pregnant with Marcus, that he needs me the way I need him.

*

One day 6 years ago I was on Facebook, just browsing, and a notification popped up on my Timeline. Christopher was tagged in some pictures.

A man named Dante Anderson tagged him in some pictures from high school with some other people I’d never heard of.

He wrote a post saying, “What are ya’ll up to? I miss you. These were the days. Chris, Monae, Marcus, where you at?” and attached the pictures.

Christopher doesn’t let anyone tag him on social media, not those 6 years ago, and especially not now. He has a Facebook, using his real name, but no one really even knows it outside of his close inner circle. He only has one to follow Marcus’s PTA group and to appease his abuela. He barely takes pictures. And we all know not to tag him in anything. His account has been almost dormant since he created it. I don’t know how the man named Dante even found it, and he probably didn’t know all the rules he was breaking by tagging my husband.

Who would think someone you went to high school with would turn out the way Christopher did?

I saw the four pictures of him. In all of them, him looking young and carefree, and still devastatingly handsome, even back then. In three of them I also see a beautiful Black girl that Christopher revolves his body around like she is the sun. Her tagged name is “Monae Parker (Johnson)”.

By the time I saw the post, there were already dozens of likes. People commenting about how well liked and loved the four of them were together. A few comments saying Monae is big time in Atlanta now. On a couple of those comments I noticed Monae had liked them, meaning she’d seen the post and the pictures. She didn’t comment anything though. And silence from Christopher and Marcus.

The first picture was taken in a school hallway where Christopher had his arms wrapped around her protectively from behind, kissing her neck, gazing into the camera, her one palm resting on his cheek while she’s bent over, both of them laughing. They were dressed alike, in baggy black clothes, red bandanas tied around their arms, and matching black and red Jordans. The picture was captioned, “Twin Day. Spirit Week 1998.”

The other picture was captured outside in front of a white limousine with the sun setting sun as a backdrop behind them. They were both dressed up. Him in an all black tux with a red bowtie, her in a tight, red, sparkly dress, a red corsage on her wrist, both looking like models. I was struck by how much shorter than him she was, even in heels. He towered over her, but they still fit together well. The familiarity and years of history obvious in how comfortable they were in the picture. Their obvious love. His face was turned to the camera, tongue sticking out comically, squeezing her butt while her face was half smiling into the camera, half pressed against his chest. The caption was titled, “Prom King and Queen 1999.” I didn’t even know Christopher had gone to prom.

The third picture was of him, Monae, and a handsome Black boy who looked just like her. The picture tagged him as a “Marcus Johnson”. The three of them were sitting on a couch in a darkened room, the flash catching smoke billowing out of their mouths, Monae and Marcus’s middle fingers up in the air as they gazed into the camera. Monae was sitting on Christopher’s lap on one end of the couch, Marcus on the other end. Christopher’s face was still showing the roundness and softness of youth. He was using one hand to hold Monae around her waist protectively, the other hand holding the blunt, gazing up at her while she looked into the camera. The picture was captioned, “Tha Musketeers. Summer before 11th grade. 1997.”

The last picture showed Christopher and the man, Dante, looking much younger than his profile picture, standing in front of a corner store with the sun shining on them. Arms folded up high around their chests, feet planted firmly in a widened stance, chins and shoulders lifted defiantly at the camera, eyes narrowed. Christopher was already more man than boy in this picture. Tall and strong and looking like boxer he said he used to be. He had his signature buzz cut with a part cut into the side, wife beater and basketball shorts, a gold chain and what looked like diamond studs twinkling in both ears. He looked harder than in his last three pictures. He looked like he had seen some things by the time he had taken this picture. It was in his eyes. Dante was chubby with a baby face and a lot shorter than Christopher, but still strong and tough looking, dressed just like my husband was. Their stances were fierce, their bond undeniable. It had to have been taken right before he was locked up. The picture was captioned, “August 1999. Young kings. Miss you my nigga, Chris. Wherever you are.”

In those pictures from his youth I saw what genuine love and friendship looked like on him. Of course I’d seen unguarded, open love on his face with Marcus, but that was different. The type of love that I saw on his face with Monae was chosen and hungry and adoring. The type of love I never got from him.

I fell down the rabbit hole then, hours later having seen and read and sifted through everything I could about her.

I thought he’d told me everything about his life before prison, just telling me that before that he’d grown up in Detroit, lived with his grandmom, sisters, and cousins after his mom died from a drug induced heart attack and his dad got killed in the Gulf War. He said he’d had some good friends he never went into detail about, had a brief but successful boxing stint. He said he had a normal childhood where he was an ok student and sold some weed sometimes to make money. He told me he got sent to prison for 6 months at 18 for stealing from some rich people at his summer job and punching a cop.

He said he saw some terrible things in prison and got his neck tattoo there, and when he got out he got into selling drugs heavily, then money laundering, then taking over entire sections of the city by the time he was 26. He said by the time he got out of prison he had cut off all of his childhood friends and stopped talking to everyone who knew him except his family. He said he had to because he didn’t want them to get caught up in the life he chose to live now.

In a way, I found that funny, because me, his wife, the mother of his child, by the time he showed me who he was, I didn’t really have a choice.

Chapter Text

I met Christopher on a Tuesday night in October 2012. I was standing outside of the hospital where I worked, breathing in the cold, early Autumn air, taking a break from a long shift as a nurse in the pediatrics and neonatal units. He came and stood next to me, rubbing his hands together, taking a break from visiting his uncle who was recovering from a kidney transplant.

He looked over at me and said he liked the pink and purple elephants on my scrubs and I laughed. I told him that working in pediatrics and around babies, all my scrubs had animals or cartoon characters on them. I told him it was good to make sure they had something to smile at. That I liked making people smile.

And then he turned to me fully, smiling down at me, telling me that was good, because I had a beautiful smile.

Little did I know that my life would never be the same.

He took me out the next night and charmed me, asking me multiple questions about my life, his eyes never leaving me, even when I would look down at my food, blushing from the intensity of his gaze. He sent me a huge bouquet of 30 pink roses the next day at the hospital, making me feel giddy down to my toes when I read the note asking if he could see me again.

Two weeks later I was in his bed moaning and shaking and crying out his name and feeling better than any other man had ever made me feel. I was already falling for him by then and that night I fell completely.

Our relationship developed easily and quickly. We didn’t talk much about deep things in life. I’m a simple, practical minded person, raised as an only child to hard working El Salvadorian parents. I’ve never gotten too deep when it comes to pondering the universe or life, choosing to spend my time building towards comfort, job security, and helping others. Being a good daughter, a good friend, and a good nurse.

But Chris and I had more things in common than a strong work ethic. We both loved old school 90’s R&B as much as we loved Juan Gabriel. We both shared the same dark sense of humor and love for history and books and found each other to be worthy opponents in chess matches.

He’d take me on long drives up to the lakes on weekends when we were both free and we’d go hiking or just spend our time inside a cabin he owned, having lots of sex, watching old movies and reading books together, cooking good food.

He liked that I volunteered with kids and that I was active in my church group and that I had a group of close friends who’d join me for book club meetups and Sunday brunches and yearly vacations.

He liked that I came from a close knit, traditional Latino family with two parents who worked hard to put me through college and who I dutifully called every Sunday afternoon, without fail. He liked that we were more like friends than parents the older I got and that I proudly called my mom my best friend.

He liked that I was a nurse and I spent my life saving the lives of children and babies. I worked the night shift and so did he, so our schedules worked out perfectly.
He introduced me to his sisters and his abuela and the rest of his family at a family dinner four months after we met. They welcomed me with open arms, especially his sister Lupe and his grandmother.

I accepted his vague explanation that he owned such a nice car and owned a high-rise luxury apartment overlooking the water and a cabin on the lakes from working nights in supply chain management. I ignored myself when I realized that supply chain managers don’t qualify for American Express Black Cards or have the need for hidden safes in their bedroom closets. I let it slide when there were times when he’d have cuts and bruises and bloody knuckles, citing kickboxing classes as the reason. I noticed that he toggled between at least three different phones that he switched out on a monthly basis, not understanding why.

I told myself that he was perfect and made me happy and I didn’t care about the fact that something just didn’t quite add up about him.

He dazzled me with gifts and extravagant dates, with the best sex I’d ever had in my life, with the way he made me feel like I was the most beautiful woman in the world. He made me feel pride when I introduced him to my parents, first over Skype, and then with the polite, formal Spanish he spoke to them when he drove up with me one weekend to Chicago. He presented them with gifts, took us all out to the best steakhouse in Chicago, and came back to my parents’ house for tres leches. As he sat in the living room with my dad, I joined my mom in the kitchen to clean up. She was so happy, crying as she patted my cheek, telling me he was the one.

I agreed with her.

*

One weekend about 6 months into us dating I was working two 12 hour night shifts back to back. He told me he was going out with some friends and he’d pick me up when I got off.

My friend Ashley recognized Christopher from a picture I’d shown her, surrounded by tattooed Black and Latino men, sitting in a back booth in a bar downtown that Saturday night. She said it wasn’t her usual type of place but she said she was feeling adventurous that night and had heard the drinks were cheap and the men were cute.

Ashley said she recognized him instantly from the tattoo on his neck but he wasn’t paying attention to her, or really anyone. That he was looking down at his drink, chuckling. She said she was in the front at the bar, swiveled around in her chair, watching people play pool, flirting with men who approached her, and just enjoying the night as she observed him. She said the men in the back were drinking and laughing, loudly talking in Spanish and English. Christopher didn’t say much, but he was smiling, drinking, quiet.

She said one of the tattooed men started getting sloppy drunk and belligerent as the night went on, drawing the attention of everyone else to them in the back corner of the bar. She said all at once the drunk man started yelling in Spanish and leaned up in Christopher’s face, invading his space. Yelling and putting his finger in his face, yelling loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear, “Rio, you motherfucker, you owe me money!”

She said she watched Christopher’s hand lash out lighting fast, grabbing the man by the back of the head and slamming his face into the table, once, twice, three times before the drunk man even realized what was happening. Blood started gushing from his broken nose, bursting all over the table and the front of the man’s shirt.

She said she watched one of Christopher’s friends quickly pull out a gun and press it under the man’s armpit, the other men in the booth standing up quickly to let him out. She said she watched as the man with the gun stood the now unconscious man up, dragging him through a swinging door into the back of the bar before the poor guy even knew what was happening. She said the other men stood up quietly and followed.

She said she was surprised that the bartenders and the other patrons of the bar, even the man she’d been flirting with, just pretended nothing had happened and kept drinking, talking, playing pool. She said she asked someone at the bar who that man with neck tattoo was and that his eyebrows shot up like it was a taboo question. Even though the bar was loud and no one would have heard him say it in a normal voice, she said he looked around to make sure no one was watching or listening to them. She said he shrugged, gave a little grimace, and whispered, “That’s Rio.” The name was said with fear and reverence like he was a somebody.

When pressed to say more, he refused.

She said the look of cruel calmness that came over Christopher’s face as he slammed the man’s face into the table was what really scared her, even more than the gun and the way all the men at the table and all the people in the bar obviously deferred to Christopher.

Then she said he just continued to sit in the back booth of the bar, drinking, until one of his tattooed friends, the one with the gun, returned. She said he whispered something in Christopher’s ear, who nodded, dropped a stack of bills on the table, and stood up to leave. She said that as he was walking out of the front of the bar he caught her eyes, gave a slight shake of his head and raised his eyebrows, as if to tell her to mind her own business.

She said stayed for a couple of hours, but none of the men ever returned.

Telling me the story the next day, Ashley asked me how well I knew Christopher. How he made his money? Why he worked nights? Why that man kept calling him Rio over and over again at the bar? When I couldn’t answer any of those questions she told me that she’d grown up in DC and had grown up around men like him and that I was in love with a powerful, dangerous man. She told me that I needed to have an honest conversation with him.

So I did.

And that night, he told me the truth. He told me his street name and that he sold drugs and ran guns and washed money and had his hands involved in a lot of other things that he couldn’t really talk about. He told me that he wanted to be with me, only me, but told me if I wanted to leave him he would understand. He apologized for lying and told me he just didn’t want me to get scared. He told me he cared about me and didn’t want to lose me.

But he never needed to worry about losing me. I was in too deep. I loved him deeply. And I thought he loved me too.

So I just told him to leave me out of all of it because I didn’t want to know about any of it. I told him nothing had to change and told him to just continue treating me well that way he had so far.

He kissed me and hugged me and told me he was going to take care of me from that point on.

He gave me a key to his place that same night.

I had the next day off and he left me in the morning for work. I spent all day cooking, moving some of my things from my place into his drawers and his closet like he had asked me to. Never letting the curiosity getting the best of me by going through his things. Just respecting his privacy.

When he walked through the doors at 10PM I was waiting for him with the food still warm in the oven and a kiss and hug. We didn’t speak about what he was doing all day because I didn’t want to know.

And when smiled down at me and kissed me, I felt like I was home.

That was the first time he didn’t go into his closet as soon as he walked through the door, typing in the 5 digit code to open his safe.

That was the first time he let me see why he always went straight into his closet as soon as he got home. What he had to put in there before he did anything else. That he’d never wanted me to see. What I’d always known not to ask about.

That was the first night he just took it out from his back, from under his shirt, and set it down on the coffee table before he started to undress me.

That was the first time he let me see his gold-plated gun.

*

We never talked much about his life before he became Rio, only showing me pictures of him and his family, never talking much about his youth in detail. I have a handful of stories and most of them involved his grandmom, his sisters, his aunts and uncles, and his cousins. He never talked much about Nick even though they grew up sharing a bedroom. I knew it was painful for him, especially after his parents died, so I didn’t push.

The only social friends we had as a couple were people involved in criminal activities and their wives. And I wouldn’t call them friends, I’d call them his business associates who we were expected to see socially. Tip toeing around what bound us in the same circles, but pretending we were just normal people at the baptisms and First Communions and Confirmations and weddings, dressed up and spending tens of thousands of dollars for one ticket at galas and auctions fronting as philanthropic endeavors.

He never mentioned Monae, Marcus, or Dante, and I know that’s why they were important to him.

Christopher never talked to me about the things that mattered. I can’t blame him though. I told him to leave me out of all of it.

Still, learning that he had close friends that day on Facebook, who grew up in the same city we live in now… it stung. And it enraged me that he never told me why our son has the same name as one of his childhood best friends. Who happened to be the twin brother to his high school sweetheart. I just thought he liked the name when he suggested it, and when our son was born, I was so happy as a newlywed to the most amazing man I’d ever known that I would have agreed to anything.

I looked Monae up and saw that she was a prominent luxury real estate agent in Atlanta who was married to a successful music producer whose songs were frequently on the Top 40 charts. Two kids. Ironically, twins like she and her brother, who look a lot like her. She was still petite and beautiful as she was in high school, long curly locs hanging down her back. Her social media showed her as a woman who had people who adored and wanted to be like her, a powerful woman, a socialite, wealthy in her own right, a true businesswoman.

The opposite of everything I was.

The realization hit me that night after I saw that Facebook post with how important she still was, they all were, to him.

*

Then one night I realized that she was more than a high school sweetheart.

He loved her and never truly stopped.

Christopher came home one night a few days after I saw Dante's Facebook post, looking weary, kissing me on my cheek, picking up our son, much later, falling asleep next to me with his palm resting on my swelling belly. I was already showing my pregnancy even though I was only 2 months along. We both thought this baby would be long just like Marcus was when he was born.

I realized it when I slipped out of bed and logged onto Facebook and the pictures had been taken down off of Dante’s page. I realized it when Christopher’s Facebook had been deleted. I knew the pictures being deleted off of Dante’s page was Christopher’s doing. But I never said a word.

But we were still happy then, still busy raising our son and finding the common joy in that. Still having sex and it was still so good, so I told myself that the feeling in my gut was nothing. We were expecting our second child after all. I quit nursing a few months after finding out I was pregnant with Marcus and was living a life of relative luxury.

Still, I worried about him when he was late getting home, or concerned when he came home looking like he’d seen and done things he never shared with me.

Then doctors told me I had preeclampsia and that I needed to lower my stress levels, even though I told them I had no stress, that I just stayed at home with my toddler while my husband worked. That I had a nanny and a chef and a gardener and did nothing most days but online shop and hang out with Christopher’s sisters and play with my son and wait for my husband to get home.

They put me on medication making my cortisol levels drop and my blood pressure even out, and we all thought it was fine.

And Christopher was so excited about our baby, sweet and kind as he was the first time I was pregnant, even though he was coming home later and later, sometimes with his knuckles split down to the bone. Sometimes with the smell of gunpowder clinging to him or once in a while new stitches I knew not ask about, only clean, marring his muscular torso.

Still buying me flowers every week and taking me out on fancy dates and holding his hand against the small of my back even if I was just standing up to go to the bathroom. Even though I knew when he was right next to me sometimes his mind was miles away and the smiles he gave me didn’t always reach his eyes. Even though I never saw that hungry, adoring gaze that he’d had for her. Even though I’d married him and birthed his son and was carrying his second child.

Even though he never told me why he wanted to name our son Marcus and probably never would.

Then, on a rare night when he was home he was laying next to me on the couch. I was flipping through channels while he read a book. I flipped to one of those reality shows about rich housewives. One of them was looking for a new home and was meeting her broker at a mansion in the outskirts of Atlanta.

Then there she was greeting and hugging the housewife on the screen. Monae, the girl grown up into a woman from Christopher's youth.

She started talking about the house and its great architecture, talking about knocking a wall out and how it would open up the space for much more light in the kitchen. Talking about how the house had been on the market for a while but it was a steal. Talking about how it wasn’t too far from her own home with her husband and her kids and the schools were great in the area. About how the housewife could come over and have drinks while their husbands grilled if she bought the house, and wouldn’t that be fun?

And I saw my husband’s ears perk up as he recognized her voice. He kept his head down in his book but I saw his body tense as he stopped reading and started listening, the bird on his neck shifting imperceptibly as he honed in on every word she was saying.

And I was surprised by how deep and melodic her voice was, a hint of a Southern twang she probably picked up from living in Atlanta. By the deep dimples that indented both of her cheeks. By how beautiful and glowing her dark skin was contrasted against the bright orange dress she was wearing. She looked as if she was wearing no makeup. She didn’t need it. She had the symmetry of face and smoothness of skin that would be an affront to cover up, even with makeup.

I was surprised by how petite yet curvy she was on the screen, grown into a full woman from the youth in the pictures I’d seen. Small yet high breasts and a tiny waist and a very large butt offset by wide hips. By how amazing her long curly locs looked flowing down her back and curling out around her head like a halo. And then I watched him as he couldn’t help himself. As he just had to do it.

As he looked up at the screen, a look of happiness, then pain, then sadness flitted across his features in succession as he locked his eyes on her. He watched her talk, eyes frozen on the screen, as she moved gracefully, her small hands gesturing in the air, the huge diamond and wedding band twinkling on her left hand, her straight white teeth smiling radiantly, raising up her high cheekbones even higher as she laughed with and charmed and successfully convinced the other woman on the screen to buy the house.

She was obviously very good at her job and so very razor smart, her cunning balanced by her good looks and her good social graces. She sold a house worth 3 million dollars in less than 7 minutes, making the other woman think it was all her idea as she called her husband to tell him that she just HAD to have it.

I watched as Monae smiled to herself on the screen, making it look easy. Having that extra something that Christopher and Marcus both have, she also being one of those people who are set slightly apart from the rest of us.

Then I watched the love and hunger appear on his face. I saw the adoration. The pride. A look I’d never seen when he looked at me.

And then I watched him when the scene was over, the show going to commercial break. I watched him as he closed his eyes and brought his fingers up to the bridge of his nose, then rubbing his eyes as shook his head as if to clear it.

But he never saw me watching him. I turned my eyes back to the screen before I felt his gaze land back on me.

My husband looked at me and asked, “Is it ok if I change the channel? Mick tells me the Pistons are up against the Lakers in the playoffs tonight.”

I nodded yes and he took the remote and changed the channel quickly, his right hand shaking just a little bit as he dropped the remote back down onto the couch. His jaw tense, gulping the glass of water in front of him quickly as if he’d just finished running a race, a vein pulsing in his neck showing how elevated his heart rate was.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, while the Pistons played against the Lakers, him holding my swollen feet in his lap, rubbing them gently, not looking at each other, while his heart rate slowed down. While I felt the sadness wafting off of him. While I felt the last bit of hope that he would ever truly be in love with me draining out of me.

I told him I was tired half an hour later and he kissed me good night and I went upstairs and cried and cried and cried silently that night in the shower, holding my pregnant belly.

He came to bed much later that night smelling of strongly of alcohol and marijuana. It was unusual for him to be drunk and high when he was at home but I didn’t turn over to face him.

He didn’t hold me. He didn’t kiss me. Just slipped under the covers. I kept my eyes closed and kept my breathing even, my back to him, making him think I was still asleep.

Something told me not to turn over. Something told me to pretend I was still sleeping.

And then I heard it. I felt it.

I listened to him and felt him as the mattress shook lightly from his quiet sobs, as he gulped shallow breaths of air into his lungs, as tears dropped almost silently onto the pillow under his head.

For the first time in all the years since I’d known Christopher, my strong, fearless, dangerous, sometimes stoic husband, he was crying.

*

Chapter Text

A few days after I gave my parents the news that I was getting married and having their first grandchild my dad called me.

He told me to not interrupt and to just listen until he was finished.

He told me that he knew Christopher was a good man, a strong man, a provider with a good handshake and character, but that he reminded him of the men he and my mom left El Salvador and came to America because of.

He paused. I felt my heart jump up to my throat.

My daddy, who Christopher reminded me of in so many ways, of course he had seen through the facade to the truth.

I didn't say anything, and he continued.

He said that lots of men in the criminal world were good men who just did what they had to do to take care of their families, but that it was always their women and children who suffered the most.

He told me he wouldn’t scare my mom by telling her the truth and that I was old enough to make my decision, but if I chose to be with this man, I was going to have a life of pain.

He asked me if I loved Christopher enough to accept this life. He asked me if I was ready to make that choice.

I told him yes and that I chose Christopher.

And that's all that needed to be said.

My dad and I never spoke of that day again.

I married Christopher. My dad walked me down to aisle with a smile on his face and genuinely meant it when he welcomed him into our small family, calling him son.

Three years later, when I lost the baby and I called my parents to tell them I needed them and I needed to get away from Christopher, my dad didn't throw anything in my face. He didn't remind me of that conversation. He just told me to come home.

As I parked the Porsche in the driveway, I didn't even make it to their front door before it opened. My dad rushed down the stairs to meet me, wrapping me in a hug so tight it almost hurt.

I cried out there in his arms in the chilly afternoon sun until I felt ok again... like I could live with my choice.

I'm not proud that I left my son during those couple of weeks five years ago, but I wasn't in a good place, I needed to escape or I was afraid I would do something to myself. And I needed to be strong to raise my son and leave Christopher and start my life over.

Christopher called me every day, sent flowers, begged me to come home. My mom didn't know what he did, to this day she doesn't know who or what he really is, but she knew enough to know he had hurt me badly. So she turned away all of the flower deliveries and the gifts and answered the phone to curse him every time he called.

When I returned to Detroit I signed up for the exam to renew my nursing license, moved out of our big house full of memories, some good, some bad, but all in my past. I hired a lawyer to send Christopher divorce papers. I went to a salon and got a proper haircut. I started over.

He wasn't surprised by any of it. He didn't fight it. He just let me go.

*

Nowadays, Marcus goes up with me to visit them in their same small house in Chicago every few months. The house where Christopher, my parents, and I first had tres leches. The house where Marcus took his first steps. The house where I ran when I needed to escape from the kingdom of Rio. Where I went to heal.

That's something Christopher doesn't understand, or maybe he once did, but he's forgotten.

It doesn't matter how big or small your house is. It's about the people that live in it and how much they love each other.

The last time we went up to Chicago, Marcus put on a magic show for the three of us.

They’ve come to peace with the idea of Marcus being the only grandchild they will ever have. They spoil him a bit too much, but that’s what they’re supposed to do.

Tears came to my eyes as we watched my son perform magic tricks and use the choppy Spanish he has to speak whenever he’s with his abeulos. Ellos no permiten ingles.

It was that day when my dad, during the magic show, looked over at me with tears welling up in his eyes. Patting my hand as he said, “You made the right choice.” I never have asked him what he meant when he said that.

I think I know, though.

I know.

Chapter Text

A few weeks after Christopher got in bed late at night, crying about his lost love, I received a text message from an unknown number as I put Marcus down for his mid-day nap.

One word, “Attic.”

That was the safe word. It meant Mick was now in charge and he’d be waiting out in front of my house in less than 10 minutes for me and Marcus to jump into the armored car reserved for emergencies like this and go to the safe house.

It meant Christopher’s sisters, nieces and nephews, and grandmother would be picked up in separate cars and brought to the safe house with us.

It meant my husband had been hurt very badly or it meant he was already dead. It meant that my son and I were now in danger.

When I received that text message the baby moved in me from the surge of adrenaline my body sent her.

7 minutes later I had our go bags and I had our passports and didn’t say a word as Mick pulled up. He helped me into the car and helped Marcus, who was half asleep and cradled into me. I felt the tears falling down my cheeks not knowing if my husband, his father, was dead.

We got to the safehouse after an hour, Mick taking doubling back on the route, circling back on himself, making sure we weren't being followed. His gun sat on the seat next to him.

Mick helped us out the car, got us inside, and wordlessly handed me and Marcus off to Christopher’s family. I saw Christopher’s men with assault rifles slung over their shoulders, stationed around the perimeter of the house inside as soon as the door opened.

I looked at him as he turned on his heel to leave back out, grabbing his arm. “Is he alive?”

“Yeah, Rhea, but it was touch and go for awhile. He got stabbed. Got stitched up but by the time we got to him he’d already lost a lot of blood. Doc’s with him now.”

I nodded thanks and turned around, feeling the baby quickening from my rising cortisol levels and the pressure in my blood vessels rising.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I just laid down on the couch. Lupe brought me water and had me lay my head in her lap. She started humming a song to me and rubbing my hair while I just stared off into the space. My nieces and nephews played with Marcus while Abuela, Soli, and Christina cooked for all of the men. They wouldn’t let me see their worry.

And I didn’t tell them about mine.

Even when I felt wetness between my legs. I told myself it was sweat or even a little bit of urine. It’s common for pregnant women’s bladders to leak a bit.

Even though I felt a pulsing in my abdomen and my lower back similar to contractions. It was just my tendons adjusting to the growing baby. I told myself that. Because I knew that I was barely 22 weeks in and I had over 18 weeks left in my pregnancy.

I was in shock from the fact that Christopher might die and told myself I was imagining the wetness and the pain. I told myself I was dreaming and that I’d wake up soon. And then I drank some tea Abuela made me while Lupe sang to me and I actually fell asleep.

But then a couple of hours later I woke up from Soli shaking me and I felt like I was laying in a puddle. And the sofa I was laying on was soaked with blood and a clear liquid that I knew was my amniotic sac was coating my pants. And I was so hot, burning up, but feeling cold and weak at the same time. And I felt the throbbing, sharp pain in my lower back and in my lower abdomen and my hips that reminded me of when I went into labor with Marcus.

But I was confused. It was too early. It was only February and she was due in early June.

And then they all started screaming and yelling rapidly at the guards in English and in Spanish, making some of the kids start crying, telling Cisco to take me to the hospital, fuck the protocol, and he listened, quickly scooping me up off of the couch, and running me to his Escalade and lying me down on the backseat while Soli, Lupe, and Christina climbed in behind me.

I didn't see Abuela, meaning she must have stayed with the rest of Christopher’s men to watch the children.

And I was half delirious, asking them, “What about Marcus, will he be ok?!”

And Soli shushed me and placed her cool hand on my forehead telling me, “He’s fine mama. Just rest. We’re gonna get some help for you and the baby.”

And I felt Cisco driving fast, pulling out through the security gate, while Lupe made phone calls from the front seat to tell the hospital we were on the way and tell Mick what was happening. Speeding as trees wooshed by on the dark road, telling me to, “Hold on, Mrs. A, we’re 30 minutes out from the nearest hospital.”

And I knew that we weren’t close enough because I knew in my heart she was coming now.

Christina held my hand and I squeezed hard as the most excruciating pain I’ve ever felt in my life started. The awful, searing pain that filled my body up, that made it hard to breathe, as I struggled to keep my legs closed, to keep my baby from entering into the world 4 months too early.

Because I was trained as a nurse and I had seen babies who were born too early and knew that even if they survived, they had short lives full of pain and physical and mental difficulties.

And I prayed to God. I bargained with Him that she needed to just hold on until her daddy was safe and back with us, and then we’d be ready. Because he’d know what to do. He always knew what to do.

But it didn’t work. Because we were still miles away from the hospital when my strength to fight left me, and my womb contracted hard. I told them to take my pants down, to make a path so she could come into the world.

And Christina squeezed my hand tightly and told me to stop fighting, told me I had to push. And I cursed her and told her I wouldn’t. Told her I couldn’t. But while I was cursing her and pleading with God my body told my muscles to contract again, even though my brain didn’t want to. And I felt the blood gushing out of my body into between my legs as my womb spasmed, bringing my daughter into the world.

I felt my vision get blurry and even though I was sweating I was so cold. I knew my body was in shock. I knew that, like my husband, I was losing too much blood.
But I reached out for her.

Her face was tiny. She fit in the palm of Soli’s hand, looking red and chafed because her skin hadn’t grown yet. I could see through her to her arteries and her capillaries and she made no sound.

I asked them about the placenta. They told me it had already been expelled, meaning she wasn't getting any oxygen.

So even though I was almost too weak to talk I told them to clear her airways, to wipe her nose and mouth off to encourage her breathing, to place her on my chest.

And they did all of that and she still wasn’t breathing. And then sweet, gentle Lupe started screaming at Cisco and banging her fists on the dashboard from the front seat. Telling him to hurry, to drive faster mother fucker, we’re losing both of them. Because I felt the torrent of blood still running out from between my legs, and it was burgundy, not red. I could smell it, and knew that Christina and Soli were slick with it as they sat in the back seat surrounding me.

I felt so weak. I felt so tired. I was cold and my heart beat was pounding but it didn’t feel regular anymore.

More than anything, I felt scared that my daughter and my husband might not make it through the night to see the next day. So I struggled to keep my eyes open as I focused on my unnamed daughter and my husband and Marcus. I struggled to keep my eyes open because I knew that they still needed me.

Then I felt the truck jerk to a stop and heard doors opening. I felt myself being lifted up and placed on a gurney. And I used whatever strength I had left to try to fight but I couldn’t lift my arms. I tried to tell them that I needed to hold her. I heard Christina and Soli and Lupe crying and telling Cisco he had to somehow get ahold of Chris. To call him again. To make somebody send word that we needed him, even as he was fighting his own battle.

I tried to keep my eyes open, to hold onto her. But I was too tired. The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was my tiny, precious baby with her eyes closed, being whisked by a doctor away from me.

*

He pulled through. I pulled through. Our daughter didn’t.

I lost so much blood that I am told I needed two transfusions in between being placed on that gurney and waking up two days later to Christopher slumped in a chair in the corner of my hospital room, his arm in a sling, looking pale, looking younger and sadder than I’d ever seen him.

I woke up and looked at him as he looked at me with tears in his eyes. He got up and kneeled on the floor next to the bed, taking my hands, kissing them.

I could tell by just looking at him that she was gone.

And I didn’t mean to say it when I said it. But looking back on it I realize I said it because it was true.

“This is your fault.” Then I turned my head away from him and closed my eyes because I had nothing else to say.

And he stayed kneeling next to me on the cold, hard floor, tears falling silently from his eyes.

He said the only thing that was left to say.

“I know.”

*

Now, almost 6 years later I’m healed and he’s healed, but only physically.

As I sit in the armchair by the window, I watch he and our son sleep.

Almost like he can feel me watching them, his eyes open slowly.

He seems surprised to see me sitting there, then happy. He smiles almost shyly and nods his head towards me, gesturing for me to join them.

I bite my lip, thinking it over.

I get up from the chair, grabbing the throw blanket and settling on the other side of Marcus, whose now taken up ¾ of the bed. Christopher and I smile over his head and gently move his body so we all three fit.

Our hands touch briefly and he grabs it, rubbing his thumb over it. I pull away gently, then he looks at me in apology.

The burn isn’t there anymore, but it’s no longer cold either. We both kiss our son on opposite cheeks and wrap our arms around him, our feet an inch apart but not touching.

I close my eyes and I hear him quietly whisper into the air over our son’s sleeping head.

“Thank you, Rhea.”

I know he’s thanking me for more than tonight. He’s thanking me for everything.

“You’re welcome, Christopher.

I know when Marcus and I wake up in the morning that he won’t be here.

Still, for a few hours we’re a complete, whole family.

And that’s enough for me.

I've made my choice and it's the right one for all three of us.