“Where did Vic go?” As much as I’m loving my ratio of hot guys today, I do need to find Papi. I saunter past and give him my best come-get-my-number smile before looking away, chest up, with a little extra swing in my business.
“What are you talking about?” Papi’s voice shoots from behind me.
I stop and slowly rotate.
As I ask my next question, I watch hottie’s face. “Do you know where Vic is?”
“Stop fooling. Come help me.”
My mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out.
“What happened to you?” I inch closer. He does look a little like Papi, only young. Real young.
And I’d thought he was hot. Gross.
He taps the bills against the counter, straightening their edges, then shoves them in a coffee can I hadn’t noticed. I’d also failed to spot the coffee grounds scattered all over the counter and linoleum. What in the world . . .
“We must have somehow—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—we must have somehow time traveled,” Papi says.
“Yeah. I got that. I mean, what happened to your face?”
Reading my disbelief, he touches his cheek and sends a bill fluttering.
“What’s wrong?” He bends and snatches a hundred off the floor. “I don’t have time for this, I have issues.”
That’s no joke. I ease my hand forward and cradle his elbow. “You’re going to want a mirror.”
Chapter 5
Tugging against me, he stuffs the last few bills into the coffee can and forces the lid shut. When at last he turns to me, the strain around his lips and eyes catches me off guard. I haven’t seen this much emotion in him . . . well, ever.
I squeeze his elbow gently, and he wraps his arm around my waist and gives me a hearty hug. “Where were you, Evy? How’d you get home? Were you in danger?”
“Shhh.” I lead us to the bathroom, flick the switch, and brace myself.
“Holy shit!” He yanks from my grip.
His eyes flash from my reflection to his and back again. When he leans closer to the mirror, I slide onto the counter and study him, too. A precisely trimmed goatee hugs his strong chin, and his silver hair is gone, replaced by a tight crew cut of dark spikes. The stress lines on his face are deep, though age no longer wrinkles his cheeks or brackets his eyes. His face is lean, tough, fierce.
“You look like that picture when you won the belt,” I say.
He straightens and lifts his shirt. Not an ounce of his old-man paunch remains. Now a rock-hard boxer’s core barely holds up his pants. Even if he is my papi, it’s an admirable six-pack. I’m totally staring but can’t look away.
“What am I going to tell your mother?”
“I don’t think she’ll complain.” I shiver and cross my arms. “I can’t believe I flirted with you. That is so disturbing.”
He drops his shirt and leans toward the mirror again. “I can’t go to work like this.”
“Will it wear off?”
“Hope so.”
“Why didn’t that happen to me?” I lean toward the mirror and examine my own features. They look the same. Still a fat lower lip, long nose, pudgy cheeks.
“Only a woman would complain.” He shakes his head, startled by the stranger’s mimicked motions in the mirror.
“Did your father look”—I wave my hand around his torso—“like this?”
His long fingers stroke his goatee. “I was eight, so he always seemed larger than life, but . . . maybe.”
“Do you think he was a time traveler? Do you think this is lightning riding?” I ask, hopping off the counter.
“I don’t like it.”
I take a step back. “What’s not to like?”
“I don’t know what we stumbled on, but we’re destroying those booklets and whatever that book is.”
Papi marches from the room, his hand against his new ripped abs.
I blink and scramble after him. “Wait, Papi. Hold on.”
I stretch forward to grab his shoulder, but he sidesteps me, so I leap in front and walk backward through the family room. “Let’s talk about this. Didn’t you have a good time?” I point at his stomach. “The payoff had to be worth any bad stuff. Not to mention all that cash. Besides, we can’t destroy that book. It’s an heirloom. And you said the little ones looked like lessons. Come on, nothing ever goes perfectly the first time.”
“No.” His voice is sharp. “We know nothing. I’m not convinced that
is
an heirloom. Nothing matches up. And money isn’t worth putting ourselves in danger.”
“Where’d you get it, anyway?”
“The mob.”
That yanks me to a stop. “What? Are you kidding me?” I fold my arms and tap my finger against my lip. Not what I expected. “Your father had some serious secrets.”
Papi pauses and drags his fingers through his new spiky hair. “I’m not sure I want to know them. What if this is what killed him?”
“You said it was lightn—” I throw my hands up and stare at my fingers, then shove them behind my back as tiny tendrils fire from the tips.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. Give me your hand.”
I bristle and shake my head, positive the sight of my parlor trick won’t sway him the direction I want. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re through.” He brushes past me.
Of all the reactions I thought he’d have, this isn’t it. No one would walk away from something like this, certainly not a fighter. I take one step forward to follow him, then retreat, hands opening and clenching.
Only once in my life have I ever purposely disobeyed this man. I was twelve. My friends tease me mercilessly for the way I crave his approval, look to him for guidance, and respect his opinion.
But not this time. This time-traveling-lightning thing feels important. Seldom have I felt guided by my own compass. The first time was when I dropped out of college and started my own custom line of bikes, which earned me industry accolades and a fat bank account.
The second time is now.
I bite my lip and cringe. Then swan dive off the cliff.
“Seriously?” I shout so he can hear me in the kitchen. My gut twists into knots, but I forge ahead. “You pick
now
to tell me no? We’re standing on the brink of something amazing and different and new, and you’re chickening out?”
“Yep!” he yells back.
My heart pounds. We’ve never yelled at each other. Drawers slam, and he stomps back and forth.
I ball my fists.
“What if your father wanted you to, but he died before he could tell you?”
The kitchen falls silent.
“Low blow, Evy. Low.”
Damn him for what I’m about to do. But we can’t quit.
“Well, I’ve learned every move I have from you. Staying down is a new one.”
Metal strikes laminate like he just hurled the coffee can across the room. Almost there.
“I have a job,” he yells, but I’m not sure if it’s at himself or at me. “And bills. I can’t go gallivanting through time!”
“I’m not asking you to gallivant. And I have a job, too, you know!”
“Well, you can’t go gallivanting through time either!”
“Then I guess you’d better figure out how to look like you before you go back to work!”
“I’ll handle it!”
“Fine!” I spin around and punch through the door to my bedroom before stopping in the middle, shaking and heaving for breath. That could’ve gone better. He may look like a stranger, but he’s still Papi—gentle, kind, worried about my safety. He’s swayed by sweetness. I sigh. I’ve been working it all wrong. I take a breath and walk back to the kitchen.
“Aren’t you even a little bit curious?” I say to his back, keeping my voice soft and earnest.
He grunts.
“Do you want to know where I went?”
“I only care that you’re home safe.” He turns, but his face betrays nothing. I don’t know how to read him anymore.
Obviously.
“Where did you go?” I ask.
“We’re not talking about this. I don’t want you getting all excited about something we’re never doing again.” Soda splashes from the can as he waves it around.
“What if I read the book this time? And the little booklet thingies? Find the right way to do it? Then would you talk to me about it?” I trail my fingers along the countertop, stopping at the box. “Think, Papi. Who left this for you? If Abuelita Rosa stashed it all away, why? And if your father really was involved in something as crazy as time travel, did
he
put this box together, thinking he could share it with you when you got older?”
“I can’t, Evy. Just stop. This isn’t as simple as you’d like it to be. When I was there, I was someone else.” He waves at his clothes. “I had mobster clothes on. I talked differently. I didn’t even remember here.”
“How did you bring home money, but not clothes?”
“Exactly. We know nothing about this. I have to figure things out.”
“By yourself. Like always.” My spine stiffens. He hasn’t even asked about my trip, just assumes it was awful like his was.
“Look who’s talking,” he says, scolding me like I’m seven.
I hold my tongue this time. We square off.
“You’re asking me for things I’m not capable of,” he says. “Not right now.”
Truth spills from lips I don’t recognize. I soften again and turn so I’m not looking at this young fighter. I caress the box’s top edge, close my eyes, and speak to my other image of Papi, the one I never spend enough time with, the one I miss, the one who holds up my world.
“I thought . . . maybe it was something we could do together. Like old times.” I close the flaps on the box with finality, and my heart breaks in two as I accept what he’s telling me. “Guess not.”
I turn and jog down the steps into the back family room and curl up on the sofa. I swipe the remote and aimlessly flip through channels. The television blurs a few times, but I blink the tears away and try to ignore Papi’s movements.
Through the wide doorway, I catch his path. Ice cubes rattle against glass, and the freezer door thumps closed. He wanders back to the box and stares at it, his sculpted shoulders high and ready for an attack.
I shift on the couch so I can’t see him.
His phone rings, and he groans. I turn up the volume.
Pain knifes through me, sears my guts, and blasts me off the couch. I scream. Focused on staying upright, I crash into the coffee table, bang against the armchair, and crumple against the sliding glass door. With my right shoulder against the cool glass, I dig into my belly, trying to dislodge the pain.
The one I never wanted to feel again.
Chapter 6
It’s happening again. I grind my teeth and glare at the wet lawn beyond the glass. The earlier storm dissipated while we traveled. Whatever this is, it’s not lightning.
Fighting through it, I kneel and tip my chin toward the room, searching. A familiar pair of polished wingtips peeks out from beside the couch.
He’s here.
I gasp and try to straighten, but a new wave of pain twists my guts again, folding me over like a giant hand controls my movements. All I can manage is a glare.
“You,” I say through clenched teeth.
He flinches and glances at his own body parts as if taking inventory, patting at his charcoal tweed suit, straightening his navy tie, fussing with the French cuffs of his pristine white shirt. If I weren’t on the verge of puking, I’d scoff at his pompousness. Seemingly satisfied, he crosses his arms and takes in the rest of the room, like I can’t see him.
Papi leaps off the top step and races to my side. Pompous Ass staggers backward.
Another wave of pain overtakes me. I grind my molars together and try not to pass out. I don’t think Ass expected anyone else here.
“Evy, are you okay? What happened?” Papi asks, kneeling before me.
I point a shaking finger toward Ass. “Ask him.”
“What? I don’t understand.” He twists around and looks over the room before turning back to me, his gentle fingers tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I breathe through a fresh contraction.
From across the room, Ass says, “A girl?”
Papi doesn’t react.
“It can’t be a girl . . .” Ass mumbles. “A daughter? There must be other children—boys. She was supposed to be some random traveler . . . not his
daughter
.”
He’s freaking me out, and I don’t like that Papi doesn’t even seem to notice him. Blackness creeps along the edge of my vision, and the intensity of the pain ratchets up another notch. I moan.
From the far end of a tunnel, Ass’s voice addresses me. “I can help you.”
Papi leaps up and steps in front of me. “Where did you come from?” Finally.
I can feel Ass looking around Papi and speaking directly to me.
“It’s your power,” he says. “You must stop fighting. The lightning exists as part of you now. The harder you resist, the more painful its occupancy will become. You have already found it to travel. Find it now. Isolate the main coil and accept its residency in your body. Your lightning is as much an organ as your heart. You know precisely where your heart is, can feel it beating. Do the same with your lightning. Find it, acknowledge it, and the pain will cease.”
As he speaks, the pain ebbs and spikes with each syllable. Though I don’t want to trust him, I do what he says. Like with the power plant and our earlier interaction in Spain, my lightning responds. Now it flares bright and intense, impossible not to find. I block the television noise, Papi’s harsh breath, and my own reactions. Turning inward, I focus on the nucleus of pain. Instantly, it settles, as if only wanting recognition. It changes to a thinner, tamer version of itself, but it doesn’t vanish like it does on my hands. It feels like a bomb of adrenalin, waiting for a charge, but there’s no pain now. I unfold and stagger upright but stay behind Papi.
“How did you know that would work?”
Ass steps back and sweeps his arm toward the couches. “It seems we have many secrets to share.”
Papi’s body tenses, and his arm keeps me pinned behind him. “Who the hell are you and why are you in my house?”
The stranger meets my glare and asks, “Evy, correct?”
“Right.”
He shifts his attention back to Papi. “I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter recently.” Extending his hand slowly, as if afraid to startle Papi, he says, “I’m Ilif Rotiart. I’ve waited a long time to meet you.”