Bonita

Chapter 37. The Greatest Accident Part 1

"Why were you never part of my life?" I asked quietly.

The question sat heavy between us.

Ricardo's expression shifted instantly.

Pain.

Regret.

Something deeper.

"And why," I continued, my throat tightening, "did you never come look for me after my mom died?"

Silence.

The prison room suddenly felt too small.

Too cold.

Ricardo lowered his gaze toward the metal table, the chains around his wrists clinking softly as he folded his hands together.

"There are things I can tell you," he said carefully. "And there are things I cannot."

I hated that answer immediately.

But before I could snap at him, he sighed.

"This," he murmured, looking back up at me, "I can tell you."

His eyes looked far away suddenly.

Like he wasn't in this prison anymore.

Like he was somewhere thirteen years in the past.

And then—

He began.

T H I R D

Thirteen Years Ago

The rain outside the Tennessee bar hit the windows in slow steady taps.

Ricardo barely noticed it.

He sat alone at the counter, staring into the amber liquid in his glass while grief hollowed him from the inside out.

A year and a half.

A year and a half since Clara died.

And somehow breathing still felt wrong without her.

The doctors called it cancer.

Ricardo called it cruel.

The bartender silently poured him another drink before he even had to ask.

The bar itself was nearly empty that night.

Just old country music humming softly through dusty speakers and a few exhausted souls trying to forget their lives for a couple hours.

That was when Ricardo noticed her.

Three seats away.

A woman around his age sitting with slumped shoulders and tear-glossed eyes, staring into her drink like it had personally betrayed her.