The grief doesn't move.
"Is that her father?" I ask Turner under my breath, tilting my head toward the older man.
"The plaintiff, yes."
"Thank you, Mr. Turner."
I tap my pen against my notepad.
"Clark." His voice drops, peevish. "I've told you, Ms. Holland. Clark is fine."
"Right. Sorry, sir." I keep my eyes on the notepad.
I can feel him looking at me. The particular quality of his attention, the way it sits on the back of my neck.
"You look rather nice today." A pause, deliberate. "Would have loved to see you in a dress, though."
I set my pen down. Stand. Walk toward the restroom without a word, because if I open my mouth right now, in this courtroom, in front of a man who just lost his wife and two boys who lost their mother, I will say something I cannot take back.
CHAPTER 5
DIEGO
"Ma, did you call the doctor?"
Sunlight cuts through the kitchen window. She's at the table, coffee in both hands, already bracing for this conversation.
"Sí. They said the insurance kicked it back. They're limiting the amount now, nothing more covered." She sets the mug down. "I just have to figure something out. I was talking to Ernie and?—"
"No, Ma. Absolutely not."
"No, Ma?" She tilts her head, eyes sharp. "Would you rather I stay in pain? Ernie swears he can get pure medication, no risk. It could be worth a shot if the pharmacy won't cover it."
She punctuates every word with her hands, the way she always does when she's made up her mind and is just waiting for me to catch up.
"That street stuff scares me. You know that."
"Worry about yourself, mijo. I'll be fine." She waves me off with a half-smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
I let it go. I have to. My mother does what she wants, has always done what she wants, and the harder I push the deeper she digs in. Hardheaded woman. I don't know where I got it from.
I've got a job interview this morning at the donut shop. Nothing glamorous, but steady income is steady income, and right now I'll take it. I wash my face, comb my curly hair, put in eye drops to clear the red out. Check the mirror. Adjust the collar of my polo. Decent enough.
The drive is ten minutes, which might actually be slower than running given the parking situation, but I'm not showing up to a job interview with sweat soaking through my shirt. Not in August. Not in Miami.
Walking through those doors is a strange thing. Something in my chest shifts the moment I'm inside, the smell, the warmth, the light through the front windows, and suddenly I'm six years old again, hand in my mother's, staring at the display case like it held everything worth wanting. That was sixteen years ago. It feels like yesterday and a different lifetime at the same time.
I'm oddly nervous. I'm usually comfortable here. That's the part that gets me.
"Hi, I'm supposed to meet with Rachel."
"That's me!" The woman behind the counter grins wide. "Thank you for actually showing up."
"Of course. I wouldn't want to waste your time or mine."
"Oh, I like you already." She nods toward a table. "Sit down."
I leave with a start date and a fresh apron. I also mention, somewhere in the easy back-and-forth of it, that Boston creams are my mother's favorite. Rachel sends me home with six leftover from the morning rush, tucked in a box like an afterthought, like generosity that small is just what people do here. I drive home with the box on the passenger seat and something lighter sitting in my chest.