You climbed back onto the truck with your jaw locked so tight it hurt.
Julián did not ask questions right away. That was one of the reasons he had become so necessary to your life without ever demanding a name for it. He knew the difference between curiosity and care. He drove three blocks in silence, hands steady on the wheel, eyes mostly on the road and once on you in the mirror, just enough to let you know he was there and not enough to crowd whatever was breaking loose under your ribs.
By the fourth stop, your hands were shaking.
You hid it by lifting bags faster than you needed to, yanking lids open, snapping them shut, moving like speed alone could outrun memory. But memory is a patient thing. It rides in the back of the throat. It sits inside the lungs. It knows how to wait until your body is already tired and then it leans all its weight against your spine.
At the next corner, Julián put the truck in park and cut the engine.
“We’re ten minutes ahead of schedule,” he said.
That was a lie. You both knew it. But he gave it to you anyway, a man placing a blanket over a storm because it is the only thing he has on hand. He climbed down first, came around your side, and when you stepped onto the pavement he handed you the bottle of water you should have been drinking all morning.
“You can throw up if you need to,” he said softly. “I’ll make it look official.”
You laughed once, a terrible little sound, and then you did throw up into the gutter beside a hedge trimmed so perfectly it deserved the indignity.
When you were done, you wiped your mouth with the back of your wrist and stared at the jacaranda blossoms crushed on the sidewalk. “He looked old,” you said.
Julián leaned against the truck. “Good.”
“No.” You swallowed hard. “That’s the worst part. He didn’t look old because time passed. He looked old because guilt hit him all at once.” The bottle crackled slightly in your grip. “I never thought I’d live to see that.”
Julián did not say I’m sorry.
He said, “Do you want to go home?”
You thought of Mateo’s left sock always missing by noon, of Valeria insisting her braids made her run faster, of the cramped apartment with the peeling paint over the bathroom window and the cheap curtains you kept swearing you’d replace. Home. Not the house Rodrigo abandoned you in. The life you had built after. The one held together by timing, bus fare, school calendars, and a level of stubbornness rich men mistake for luck.
“Yes,” you said.
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