Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“But—”
“Not just for that reason,” she corrected herself. “Chris, you’ve been writing every day for over a week. That’s amazing. You did it because you needed to in the same way that I started painting because I needed to. As soon as you introduce outside forces—for me, that’s art dealers, critics, and buyers—it messes with the purity of the craft. It can’t be helped; it can’t be avoided. There are voices in my head now that have warped what comes out of me. And every day painting gets a little harder.”
At the astonished look on my face, she smiled reassuringly.
“I still love to paint. It’s just different now. This”—she pointed at the laptop—“this needs to be for you. Forget about that phone call, forget about what’s best for NASA, and just write what you need to explore. You said you’ve been thinking a lot about your heritage and how feeling disconnected from the Mexican culture and Spanish language has affected you. Write the book to explore those questions. Why don’t you take it as an opportunity to finally stop worrying about what Javier wants and actually go out there and look into your paternal background? And if, when you’re done, you want to share that with the world, you can do that. But right now, the words just have to be for you.”
I stared at her for so long, my aunt frowned. She opened her mouth to speak, but I beat her to it, my voice husky with emotion. “You know, when Mom died, there was this selfish part of me that hated her for leaving me with him. I knew I had Miguel, but it differed from having my mom to turn to. At her funeral, I felt so fucking lost. Father wouldn’t let Miguel leave his side, and I was just this kid who felt totally unanchored to anything. Like no one would care if I just disappeared. That wasn’t true. Not for the reasons I wanted though. If my father realized I was hiding during Mom’s wake, he’d lose his shit, see it as an embarrassment.
“But I wasn’t alone, was I? You sat down on the couch beside me—in that room filled with strangers who’d come because they needed to foster their business connection with my father—and you took my hand and didn’t let go. We never said a word to each other. You just held my hand. And I knew I wasn’t alone.”
Emotion overcame Aunt Richelle, tears silently slipping down her cheeks.
I reached over and took her hand. “Thank you for always being there for me. And for being so fucking wise.”
She swiped at her tears with her free hand and laughed hoarsely when she saw the mascara streaks on her fingertips. “Oh jeez, you ruined my makeup. You owe me. I better get a mention in your acknowledgments.”
“A mention?” I grinned at her. “I’m dedicating the book to you.” It wasn’t a lie.
Fresh tears sprung to her eyes. “Look what you’re doing to me,” she said, overly dramatic. “I have to leave before I dehydrate.”
My laughter followed her out of the room, and my gaze drifted back to my laptop. Aunt Richelle’s sage advice had saved me from needing to overanalyze what I was doing. I did want to explore my Mexican heritage, but fear of straining my relationship with my father even more than it was had always stopped me. Maybe Aunt Richelle was right. Maybe I had to stop thinking about everyone and everything else and just focus on what I needed now. Determined to forget about the call from NASA, forget about my father, I tried to find my way back to a natural rhythm with my writing.
Who would have thought it? Me, a writer?
A few hours later, after putting more words on the page, I sat down to dinner with Aunt Richelle. As soon as we slipped onto stools at her island to eat the takeout she’d ordered, my cell rang.
It was my father.
I hit the button on the side that silenced the ringer.
“You know you’re going to have to talk to him eventually, or he’ll come looking for you, and if you make him come looking for you, he’ll be even angrier.”
Scowling, I huffed, “I’m a grown man.”
“Then maybe answer your phone like one.”
She was right, which was even more annoying. Ignoring that she was right, I dug into the Thai food.
“Have you received any more videos from your pink-haired event planner?” She smirked knowingly at me.
I stopped myself from rolling my eyes at her. Sometimes she treated me like I was thirteen, but I didn’t need to act like it. “A few.”
“Are you ever going to tell me what she talks to you about?”
“No,” I replied firmly. “She thinks no one is seeing these videos. It’s bad enough I’m watching them.”