Mess Me Up
Page 9
“I’ll see what I can do, buddy,” I lied. “I have to find myself a woman to have one with, first.”
“Izzy,” he whispered. “Izzy will have one with you.”
I made a sound in my throat. “I don’t know, bud. Izzy already has four jobs…there’s no way that she’d have time for me.”
“She’d make time for you,” he murmured sleepily. “She promised.”
When Matias finally fell asleep, I felt what was left of my heart shatter into a million pieces.
He was wrong.
Even if Izzy did make time for me, I was broken and would be for the rest of my life.
Chapter 5
Why do I bother putting a potato masher in the drawer? Is it just because I enjoy torturing myself as I try in vain to open the drawer?
-Izzy’s secret thoughts?
Isadora
I’d been crying for hours.
I’d intended to leave right along with Tyler, Rome’s best friend, and Reagan but once I’d gotten all the way to the end of Rome’s street, I’d turned around and walked back.
I stared at his home for hours, thinking about the beautiful little boy it housed, and then I’d walked around aimlessly for what felt like forever.
It was only after I’d gotten to my Abuela’s house that I realized what I was looking for.
Knocking on her door at six that evening wasn’t something I usually did…but I knew she’d be awake.
She owned a bakery which was attached to her house. She was up every morning baking cookies, cakes, breads, and other goodies for the crowd of people that would rush into her place looking for their fix. She would do prep work in the early evening and be in bed by eight.
I knew that she would open the door to me.
And she did just that moments later.
Her eyes missed nothing as she took me in. “What’s wrong, baby?”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “That little boy that I get the cookies for is dying.”
Abuela’s eyes fell. “Oh, no.”
Her accent thickened, and she didn’t hesitate to pull me into her arms.
I found myself sobbing all over again.
And for me to sob in the first place, my Abuela knew that he meant a whole hell of a lot to me.
Isadora Solis did not cry. Isadora was a survivor. A hellcat. A woman who refused to do what society said she should do.
Crying was one of those things, so Isadora Solis didn’t cry.
At least not since her father had beaten that urge out of her.
Crying got me nowhere, it accomplished nothing.
It was pointless to cry over my problems. The only way to fix them was to face them head on and do whatever it took to resolve it. But this? This was a problem with no solution.
Not now, and not ever.
“Come help me make bread.” She squeezed me one last time. “Just don’t let your tears fall into my bowl. I have the perfect amount of salt already in it.”
I laughed a watery, garbled laugh and followed her into the bakery, stopping when I reached the table where she’d been kneading dough.
Knowing exactly what to do, I washed my hands and then started to pound out my frustrations.
The one thing that my grandmother did was make everything she sold in the bakery by hand. There was no industrial mixer for Abuela. Nope, everything was done manually, or it wasn’t made at all.
“Harder,” Abuela ordered.
I laughed half-heartedly but did what I was told.
It wasn’t until about two hours later that I was finished with everything that she ordered me to do, and my eyes were drooping.
“Now, go up to my bedroom, and sleep. In the morning, go speak to your parents and tell them that you’ll need a month off,” she ordered.
I opened my mouth to argue, but she only raised a brow, waiting for whatever pitiful excuse I would try to muster up.
She was right.
I had plenty of money. I had no pressing jobs, nothing that required it be done by me alone, and honestly, I’d earned the time off.
I was taking it.
“Thank you, Abuela,” I whispered. “I love you.”
She touched my cheeks, flour hands and all, and pressed her forehead to mine. “I love you more, precious girl.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat, then turned to head into her bedroom where I had four hours of fitful sleep—mostly because my parents and Oscar wouldn’t stop calling me.
After turning the ringer off, I fell back asleep, and this time it was dreamless.
***
I stared at my angry father, waiting to see what he’d do.
“You can’t just leave, Isadora,” he snapped. “You have a duty to the family. If you leave, that leaves us down an employee.”
I didn’t say anything.
At least not at first.
Then he had to go and say more stupid stuff, stuff that I’d been hearing for my entire life.
“You’re such a disappointment.” He shook his head. “Just when I think that you’ve turned your life around, you turn back into that wild thing who cares only about herself.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’ve worked for you since I was a child, Papa. I’m asking for some time off now because a little boy who means a lot to me is dying, and I’d like to spend some time with him before he passes. Is that so hard to understand?”
My papa shrugged. “I don’t care. If you stop working, that means your mama will have to work.”
I honestly didn’t give a flying shit.
My mama could work. My father could work.
I didn’t care anymore.
They didn’t care about me, so why should I care about them?
Honestly, I was sick and tired of their games.
They didn’t appreciate me.
All they saw were the requests they got for me and the dollar signs those requests meant.
“I’m taking the time off,” I said as I pushed away from the wall. “If you want to reschedule my appointments, I’ll be more than happy to take them when I get back.”
“You won’t have a job with us when you get back,” he growled.
I felt something in my chest snap.
Turning, I narrowed my eyes at him. “If that’s how you want it to be.”
I’d take half my clientele with me, and he damn well knew it.
He was a stubborn old goat who had always thought of himself first, everybody else second.
“Isadora…” my mother called.
I looked over my shoulder a second time, but I didn’t like what I saw.
“What?”
“Don’t do this.”
I shrugged. “I’m not doing anything, and you know it. It’s acceptable for a person to take a vacation. I haven’t taken one in years. I think I’m due.”
With that, I walked out of their house, and straight out of their life.
I had a feeling that I’d never be welcomed back.
Unfortunately for them, I’d be taking my Abuela and my brother with me—at least the one that was in prison. Oscar was too much of a kiss-ass to ever defy my parents. He liked his cushy, air-conditioned desk job that allowed him to provide for his eighteen children (ok, so it was only seven) from the comfort of his office.
Not only did he get everything he wanted paid for, but he could also escape his horde of crazy children, his wife, and all the responsibilities that came with them by saying he had to work.
I didn’t have high hopes of ever talking to Oscar again, either.
Not when he liked his job too much, and his parents gave him everything he ever could want.
Oscar had the exact opposite of the shitty childhood that I had. He, being of the male persuasion, hadn’t had to worry about the things that I’d had to worry about.
Getting the woman who was now his wife pregnant at sixteen hadn’t been anywhere near the big deal it was when I got pregnant out of wedlock. And, when his second child came along, thankfully with the same woman, at age seventeen and a half, they still didn’t care.
It was the exact freakin’ opposite reaction with me.
“Are you fucking crazy, Isadora?” Oscar hissed from his chair as I walked past.
I looked over at him. “Whatever do you mean, Oz?”
Oscar narrowed his eyes. “All of this over a kid you don’t even know all that well?”
“Izzy,” he whispered. “Izzy will have one with you.”
I made a sound in my throat. “I don’t know, bud. Izzy already has four jobs…there’s no way that she’d have time for me.”
“She’d make time for you,” he murmured sleepily. “She promised.”
When Matias finally fell asleep, I felt what was left of my heart shatter into a million pieces.
He was wrong.
Even if Izzy did make time for me, I was broken and would be for the rest of my life.
Chapter 5
Why do I bother putting a potato masher in the drawer? Is it just because I enjoy torturing myself as I try in vain to open the drawer?
-Izzy’s secret thoughts?
Isadora
I’d been crying for hours.
I’d intended to leave right along with Tyler, Rome’s best friend, and Reagan but once I’d gotten all the way to the end of Rome’s street, I’d turned around and walked back.
I stared at his home for hours, thinking about the beautiful little boy it housed, and then I’d walked around aimlessly for what felt like forever.
It was only after I’d gotten to my Abuela’s house that I realized what I was looking for.
Knocking on her door at six that evening wasn’t something I usually did…but I knew she’d be awake.
She owned a bakery which was attached to her house. She was up every morning baking cookies, cakes, breads, and other goodies for the crowd of people that would rush into her place looking for their fix. She would do prep work in the early evening and be in bed by eight.
I knew that she would open the door to me.
And she did just that moments later.
Her eyes missed nothing as she took me in. “What’s wrong, baby?”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “That little boy that I get the cookies for is dying.”
Abuela’s eyes fell. “Oh, no.”
Her accent thickened, and she didn’t hesitate to pull me into her arms.
I found myself sobbing all over again.
And for me to sob in the first place, my Abuela knew that he meant a whole hell of a lot to me.
Isadora Solis did not cry. Isadora was a survivor. A hellcat. A woman who refused to do what society said she should do.
Crying was one of those things, so Isadora Solis didn’t cry.
At least not since her father had beaten that urge out of her.
Crying got me nowhere, it accomplished nothing.
It was pointless to cry over my problems. The only way to fix them was to face them head on and do whatever it took to resolve it. But this? This was a problem with no solution.
Not now, and not ever.
“Come help me make bread.” She squeezed me one last time. “Just don’t let your tears fall into my bowl. I have the perfect amount of salt already in it.”
I laughed a watery, garbled laugh and followed her into the bakery, stopping when I reached the table where she’d been kneading dough.
Knowing exactly what to do, I washed my hands and then started to pound out my frustrations.
The one thing that my grandmother did was make everything she sold in the bakery by hand. There was no industrial mixer for Abuela. Nope, everything was done manually, or it wasn’t made at all.
“Harder,” Abuela ordered.
I laughed half-heartedly but did what I was told.
It wasn’t until about two hours later that I was finished with everything that she ordered me to do, and my eyes were drooping.
“Now, go up to my bedroom, and sleep. In the morning, go speak to your parents and tell them that you’ll need a month off,” she ordered.
I opened my mouth to argue, but she only raised a brow, waiting for whatever pitiful excuse I would try to muster up.
She was right.
I had plenty of money. I had no pressing jobs, nothing that required it be done by me alone, and honestly, I’d earned the time off.
I was taking it.
“Thank you, Abuela,” I whispered. “I love you.”
She touched my cheeks, flour hands and all, and pressed her forehead to mine. “I love you more, precious girl.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat, then turned to head into her bedroom where I had four hours of fitful sleep—mostly because my parents and Oscar wouldn’t stop calling me.
After turning the ringer off, I fell back asleep, and this time it was dreamless.
***
I stared at my angry father, waiting to see what he’d do.
“You can’t just leave, Isadora,” he snapped. “You have a duty to the family. If you leave, that leaves us down an employee.”
I didn’t say anything.
At least not at first.
Then he had to go and say more stupid stuff, stuff that I’d been hearing for my entire life.
“You’re such a disappointment.” He shook his head. “Just when I think that you’ve turned your life around, you turn back into that wild thing who cares only about herself.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’ve worked for you since I was a child, Papa. I’m asking for some time off now because a little boy who means a lot to me is dying, and I’d like to spend some time with him before he passes. Is that so hard to understand?”
My papa shrugged. “I don’t care. If you stop working, that means your mama will have to work.”
I honestly didn’t give a flying shit.
My mama could work. My father could work.
I didn’t care anymore.
They didn’t care about me, so why should I care about them?
Honestly, I was sick and tired of their games.
They didn’t appreciate me.
All they saw were the requests they got for me and the dollar signs those requests meant.
“I’m taking the time off,” I said as I pushed away from the wall. “If you want to reschedule my appointments, I’ll be more than happy to take them when I get back.”
“You won’t have a job with us when you get back,” he growled.
I felt something in my chest snap.
Turning, I narrowed my eyes at him. “If that’s how you want it to be.”
I’d take half my clientele with me, and he damn well knew it.
He was a stubborn old goat who had always thought of himself first, everybody else second.
“Isadora…” my mother called.
I looked over my shoulder a second time, but I didn’t like what I saw.
“What?”
“Don’t do this.”
I shrugged. “I’m not doing anything, and you know it. It’s acceptable for a person to take a vacation. I haven’t taken one in years. I think I’m due.”
With that, I walked out of their house, and straight out of their life.
I had a feeling that I’d never be welcomed back.
Unfortunately for them, I’d be taking my Abuela and my brother with me—at least the one that was in prison. Oscar was too much of a kiss-ass to ever defy my parents. He liked his cushy, air-conditioned desk job that allowed him to provide for his eighteen children (ok, so it was only seven) from the comfort of his office.
Not only did he get everything he wanted paid for, but he could also escape his horde of crazy children, his wife, and all the responsibilities that came with them by saying he had to work.
I didn’t have high hopes of ever talking to Oscar again, either.
Not when he liked his job too much, and his parents gave him everything he ever could want.
Oscar had the exact opposite of the shitty childhood that I had. He, being of the male persuasion, hadn’t had to worry about the things that I’d had to worry about.
Getting the woman who was now his wife pregnant at sixteen hadn’t been anywhere near the big deal it was when I got pregnant out of wedlock. And, when his second child came along, thankfully with the same woman, at age seventeen and a half, they still didn’t care.
It was the exact freakin’ opposite reaction with me.
“Are you fucking crazy, Isadora?” Oscar hissed from his chair as I walked past.
I looked over at him. “Whatever do you mean, Oz?”
Oscar narrowed his eyes. “All of this over a kid you don’t even know all that well?”
