Page 8 of Capicú Summer

To be honest neither did we.

He blindsided us.

All that bullshit about restoring bridges was just a way to recruit me in convincing our family to sell and jump ship. If one of the oldest families does it, soon others will. That was his plan, that much I’m certain of. Which is why I told him to go fuck himself the moment he brought it up. I’m the only hope we have, and even that feels like too much responsibility. Honestly, I’m not sure if I can do much. It’s not like I got an education, or boat loads of money. I’m just willing and able. And, even though there’s more pressing matters, all I can think of is that she’s back.

Where I can reach her.

And my hands ache to do just that.

Reach her. I still can’t believe it. She’s across the street, not miles away. My boys carry on with their conversation, oblivious to the emotional war taking place inside me. Reason delivering a brutal death to my heart all while they talk about the three things they care about—pussy, money, and weed. My ears ring, and no amount of shifting in my seat can stop me from drowning in a sea of memories. Each one is even more painful than the last.

The familiar slam of the ficha has me lifting my gaze just as Manny jumps up, shouting like he just won the championship. “Capicú, papa.”

Making all the guys talk their shit, because they lost.

“Don’t get too happy, papi,” I say flatly, pointing my finger to my temple. “My head wasn’t in the game.”

“Don’t tell me you still sprung on Adri?” Alex asks, before taking a sip of his cold beer. Something twists inside my chest, demanding that I feel it, to acknowledge it, only for me to ignore it.

“Nah,” is all I can muster to say; anything else wouldn’t sell the lie I intend to sell.

“I don’t know, man, you look shook. My guy looked like he saw a ghost,” Manny chimes in, reorganizing the tiles.

Alex chuckles. “Shook? This man looks like he’s about to pass out.”

I glare at my best friend, trying my best to indeed not do exactly that from the shock of it all. My eyes move rapidly as I watch Manny flip each tile. Once he’s done placing them face down, he shuffles them with both hands. The sound from the dominoes drowns out the rush of blood to my ears. Slowly, I feel myself return to where I’m needed.

Here.

In the game. And not in the past. Now focus, yeah you—you think I’ve been talking to myself, nah. Keep up. Playing dominoes is easy, so focus. I’m about to break it down for you. Don’t look at me like that. Of course I’m talking to you. Focus, mama bicho. The game is simple. Since there are only three of us, each of us gets five pieces. The remaining tiles stay put in what is called the boneyard for us to pull from when we have no tiles to match the end of the one in the game. We play until there’s no tiles left in your hand. And if you’re playing for points, well… it ends when you reach the goal.

Manny looks across the street, a smile curving his lips. “You mad, bro?”

“Mad?” I scoff, folding my arms above my head. “About what?”

He laughs before downing his beer, white foam clinging to his top lip. “Me beating that ass, Chulo. What else?” As if correcting himself, Manny glances behind him, his lips curling into a shit eating grin. “Ah… ya veo⁠*. You all in your feelings about your cousin’s girl.”

My smile fades from my lips, a scowl taking its place. I shrug. “Nah, I would have to care to get mad.”

Alex laughs loudly, the sound grating on my nerves.

“Bro, stop lying.” He looks at Manny, flexing his thumb my way. “This man was tight. Still is.” He points at my obviously locked jaw. “Look at that shit, he's about to need a molar. Fuck the heart.”

Alex finishes with a deep chuckle that makes me slap him playfully on the side of the head. I grind my teeth, annoyed at the fact that it’s so obvious the effect she still has on me.

They aren’t wrong, but I won’t admit it either.

Forcing myself to focus, I look down at my pieces, grinning at what I’m seeing. I’m the first to move but, of course, before I can,

Ruben’s voice cuts through the song. A classic, “Triste y Vacia,” by Hector Lavoe and Willie Colon. A song I listen to more often than I’d like to admit.

“Shouldn’t you be working instead of playing?” Ruben shouts from across the street, stopping mid-sweep to talk his shit just like he always does.

“I can do both,” I shoot back with a smile. “It’s called multitasking, you should try it.”

I give him a wink before slamming down my first piece, a double six. Just how I like it. The game now favors me, as long as I can keep the momentum. My boys protest loudly, both cursing in Spanish as they look at their own tiles, already calculating how to block a game that started so strongly.

“Chulo, he only knows how to run his mouth,” Alex retorts, slapping my shoulder like he just made the greatest clapback.