how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

15. dirty talk & robberies

this chapter seems pretty long but some things happen here that are v v v v important so enjoy it you ungrateful motherfuckers

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"I'll buy you a pizza every day when we get married."

"'When'?"

"Let me dream, Maricruz." MIchael pulls away from our hug, swinging out arms while we walk down the upstairs corridor. The floorboards are freezing underneath my bare toes while Michael's clunky shoes thud against them. "But if we get married, we're having kids. Deal?"

I smile. "Deal."

We trudge down the spiral staircase together, venturing into the kitchen. Alejandro scrounges amidst the fridge for breakfast while I head for the kettle. Since he hit me, he's been waking up in the middle of the night -- and he never does that. He hasn't apologised, though, or stopped me to discuss what happened. He went on with himself easier than I expected. I've not sat down to talk with him for what feels like centuries. We barely look at each other as it is.

"Move over," Luke says from behind me. I step to the side, a clearing in front of the stove. "I want to make some pancakes."

"Be my guest." I hand him the flour from the cupboard and a box of eggs from one of the half-full shopping bags.

"Someone call Calum," Alejandro says, "and tell him to bring some milk. We have none."

"On it," Michael chirps and ambles around the dining table, holding his phone to his ear.

Ripping a scrap of tissure from the kitchen roll, I take a pen from the obnoxiously red container, scribbling a few words down. I jotted a tiny, nearly out of sight Goal: $50k and drew two irregular lines branching from it. I lick my lips, looking over my shoulder at the cooking pancakes. It smells like my dainty family cottage in Colombia, especially on the first day of school. Papi sitting down at the coffee table with a thirteen year old me, showing me the trick of winning at black jacks while an unlit cigar hung from his chapped lips. Mami running to and fro and repeating for the fifth time that morning how she was the only responsible one in the household, whilst searching for a seventeen year old Alejandro's blazer. And Luna, cheeks rosy red with the brightest grin an eight year old could ever muster, polished from her neatly braided dark hair to her tightly knotted school shoes. Oh, Luna-Blue... if only I had been a good older sister...

"¿Que haces?" Alejandro asks, pouring himself and me two cups of Té-A. "What're you doing?"

I stare at the tissue, trying to make sense of what I wrote. EARNING MONEY strays to the other end of the tissue, and methods of income stem from it. A few ridiculous, such as prostitution, a few possible.

I set my mug atop my blotchy handwriting and turn away, searching for something else to look at but his pained eyes. I still saw some Alejandro in them -- my Alejandro, not the Alejandro who clobbered me around the head or humiliated me in front of my boyfriend. I don't know whether he's maturing harshly or losing sight of me. It hurts trying to believe any of those.

"Do you forgive me?" he suddenly asks.

"You haven't apologised." I grimace at him. "I don't see why I should."

"I'm sorry."

"Good. At least you know what you did was wrong." I pick up my cup and rinse it out at the sink. I down a glass of water to swallow back the tears.

I hear him approach behind me. He says, "are you going to forgive me?"

"I'll see."

He sighs, taking a rag from beside me and wiping down the counter. "Whatever. I'm opening the shop."