The Book of Broken Hearts (6 page)

“How do you—”

“Saw the show,” he explained. “My cousin Ben played the candlestick guy.”

So he
does
recognize me from school. . . .

My stomach twisted when I thought of Emilio watching me twirl around stage in Belle’s big yellow dress, cavorting with talking candles and clocks. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous now. And Ben was his cousin? God, there were a lot of Vargas boys. Even though Ben’s a Ribanowski, not a Vargas. Still. I wondered if my sisters knew how broadly this dynasty of heartbreakers spanned? We could be talking nationwide pandemic here.

Emilio looked at me over his shoulder, still smiling like he was plotting some big practical joke. “Anyway, I just think it’s badass. I don’t know any other girls who’d spend their
summer restoring a vintage panhead with their pops. That’s all I meant.”

His dimples diffused the tension, and my shoulders sank under the weight of Papi’s secret. Emilio had to know something was wrong with him—there was no logical way to explain the pharmacy meltdown, the random trips to the moon in the middle of a sentence.

“My father . . . This isn’t some summer bonding project.”

Emilio’s face was open and curious, not judgmental. I wanted to tell him the truth, the family secret Mom tried hard to protect, the one I wanted so badly to destroy with the roar of Valentina’s rebuilt engine. But the words burned my throat, as if naming the disease out loud would unleash another cloud, darker than the one that had already settled over our family, and I let them turn to dust on my tongue.

“Sorry about yesterday,” I finally said. “He gets tired sometimes. Kind of throws him off.”

Emilio held my gaze another moment but didn’t press. When he asked me to help put away the tools and manuals like it was no big deal, I was so relieved I could’ve hugged him.

But obviously
that
wasn’t happening.

“The good news?” He wiped his hands on a rag. “This is a big project. I’ll need to strip her down to the bones, clean her, and build her back up, one piece at a time.”

We left the barn and walked toward his motorcycle, parked next to Papi’s old truck, and Emilio grinned. “You’ll be seein’ a lot of this pretty face around here.”

“How is
that
good news?”

He took a step closer and stared me down, unblinking, and my stomach flip-flopped.

“Jude, I never thought I’d feel this way, but . . .” He held his hand over his heart. “I think I’m in love . . .” His eyes drilled right through me, and my breath hitched as he licked his lips and leaned in close. . . .

“With empanadas,” he whispered.

I jerked away fast. “That was a one-time deal.”

Emilio shifted toward me, closing the space between us again. “Hey, for real. This is a cool project. Best thing I ever got to do.” He twirled his keys around his finger, the star on a Puerto Rican flag key chain glinting in the sun, silver where it should’ve been white. “Leave the oil pan set up. The old stuff needs to drain out.”

“No problem. Do you need a—”

The words evaporated the second I saw Mom’s dark-gray Jetta motor up our driveway.

“She never comes home this early! Um . . . leave.” I met his eyes. The amusement there didn’t reflect the panic that must’ve been blazing through mine. “No, seriously. Can you go?”

Mom killed the engine and got out of the car in one swift motion.

“I think she already saw me.” Emilio stiffened. “Should I be worried?”

It was too late. She was already walking toward us,
eyeing us up with every step.
Please don’t notice the family resemblance. . . .

“Let me do the talking,” I said.

“
Hola, mi amor
.” Mom kissed my cheek and gave Emilio the side eye. “Where’s your father?”

“Taking a nap. This is—”

“Emilio,” he said, and I winced, hoping he wouldn’t say the
V
word.

Mom looked at him a moment, assessing. “Are you . . . one of Jude’s boyfriends?”

“
Mom!
God.” Mari was the one with the string of random dudes all through high school. The only boy I’d ever brought home was Dylan Porter in tenth grade, my first-last-and-only boyfriend, ancient history. “Don’t be weird. He’s the mechanic. The one we hired to fix the bike.”

“Oh! Sorry,
querida
,” Mom said. “I was confused. It seems like you two are old friends already.”

“Tryin’ my best, but she keeps shootin’ me down.” Emilio flashed another dimpled smile and leaned in close, our arms brushing. Beneath the faint smell of gasoline and metal, a warm wave of leather and fabric softener wafted up. His muscles tensed as if he were trying not to laugh.

I was trying not to
die
, not that anyone cared.

“Are you staying for dinner, Emilio?” Mom asked. “I’m making
milanesa napolitana
.”

“He can’t,” I said before she launched into a description of her mouthwatering creation. I should’ve seen it coming.
Feeding people—friends, family, notorious bad boys—was pretty much her holy mission in life, a mission that even trumped the no-strangers-in-the-house rule. “He has a thing.”

Emilio was laughing now. “I do?”

“Yeah, you know. Your thing!” I stared at him with wide, desperate eyes.
Basketball practice, chess club meeting, monster truck rally . . . Make something up!

“Right. My . . . thing. Guess I forgot.”

“Some other time, then.” Mom watched us for, like, five hours. “Oh! Look at me, talking off your ears. I’ll leave you alone to say good-bye. Nice to meet you, Emilio. I don’t know why Juju said your name was Eddie. You don’t look like an Eddie. Emilio suits you so much better—”

“Mom! Go inside before you hurt someone.”

She was practically blushing. What was
with
the women in this family? Vargas was like Hernandez Lady Kryptonite!

Thank God I had my father’s genes.

“Good thing I’m such a charmer with the parents,” Emilio said once Mom was gone. “Otherwise, this boyfriend thing wouldn’t stand a chance.” Emilio winked, straddled the bike, and jumped on the kickstart, which I now knew, thanks to his helpful lesson, was just for show.

Who’s this hottie you’ve got working at the house?

What’s Mari talking about? Hottie?

OMG, what’s Lourdes talking about? Do you have a new boyfriend?

FINALLY! I hope you’re being careful!

It had been less than two hours since Mom met Emilio, and already my public Facebook wall—yes, public, thank you!—glittered with my sisters’ peanut gallery commentary. Was nothing in this family sacred? Five women, and after decades of shared news and gossip, it was still like the nonstop telephone game. At least Mom had left out his name. So far.

Delete, delete, delete, delete.

I thunked my head on the desk and closed my eyes, my sisters’ questions flashing behind my eyelids. No, I didn’t have a boyfriend, so no, there was no need to be careful. And if my sisters found out just who this hottie not-boyfriend was, they’d kill me anyway. Lourdes would be on the next plane to New York, Celi would meet her at JFK, they’d rent a Prius and speed all the way to Denver without stopping once to pee, they’d snag Mari, and the Holy Trinity would be on the scene by morning, looming over me at the breakfast table, hands on hips, demanding an explanation.

“It’s fine,” I said to the family of stuffed owls on my bed. Emilio was temporary. A means to an end. As soon as the bike was running, he’d be out of my life, and “Vargas” would never again pass my lips.

Over.

Done.

Terminado
.

I nodded vigorously as if that would help the words settle in, and it worked for about ten seconds. But in all that rattling, I’d shaken loose an image my mind had captured and stored without permission—Emilio, winking at me and jumping on the kickstart, the bike roaring beneath him. My treacherous little beast of a heart fluttered.

I took it for what it was: a warning. The heart—in all its infinite wisdom (with some backdoor bribery from the hormones)—was totally edging in on this Vargas boy situation, and the heart didn’t know the meaning of
terminado
.

Emilio Vargas was officially a no-show.

Papi, Pancake, and I had waited for two hours the following morning before I finally grabbed the keys and zoomed us all down to Duchess.

Forget summer theater. I was starring in a lovely little production from the comfort of my own head.

All the world’s a stage!

“Here to complain about the kid already?” Duke looked up from his magazine and smiled when we approached the service counter. “Ain’t even been a week.”

“Just wanted to look at some accessories,” Papi said. He’d agreed to let me handle this since Emilio and I seemed to “hit things off.” Yeah, I was about to hit things off, all right. Starting with his head.

Duke directed us to a row of shelves stocked with chrome bike parts and dusty manuals that looked like they’d been there since the Industrial Revolution. Or at least the eighties.

“Is Emilio working today?” I asked.

“Yep. Go on back.” Duke nodded at the glass door. “Just stay close to the wall—too many loose parts and sharp edges back there.”

I didn’t know whether he meant the bikes or the boys, but I heeded his advice and pushed through the doorway. All eyes were on me as I scanned the crew. No sign of Mr. No-Show.

“E!” one of the guys yelled. “
Tu novia está aquí.
”

Your girlfriend is here? I can’t believe he told them about that.

“Ro-milio, Ro-milio!” one of the other guys said. The rest giggled. They were worse than Zoe and me on a Pixy Stix bender.

Emilio entered through a propped open door at the back of the garage. He punched the first guy in the arm as he walked past, and I let out a big ol’ sigh, totally rocking my poker face.

There was only one problem.

Freaking Ro-milio wasn’t wearing a shirt.

He nodded when he saw me and turned to grab his T-shirt from the back of the blue Honda I’d seen him working on that first day. He had a tattoo on his left shoulder, black words and numbers, too far away to make sense. There was a nasty scar on his lower abdomen and another on his right shoulder. An accident, probably, and I wondered what happened, but I looked away when I realized the Romilio-calling guy was totally watching me.

What a creeper!

I mean, the guy. Not me. Obviously.

Emilio yanked the shirt on in one fluid motion. “Duke know you’re back here?”

I forced myself to focus on the shiny tools spread out near the Honda. “He said it was okay.”

“Cool. So . . .” He rubbed a hand over his bandanna and all that “I’m about to hit off his head” stuff evaporated.

“Where were you today?” I asked. “My father waited for two hours.”

Emilio shook his head. “I ain’t on with you till day after tomorrow.”

“You aren’t?” I pulled out my phone calendar. “I must’ve gotten the dates mixed up. I could’ve sworn . . . No, you’re right. We ain’t—aren’t—on again until the day after tomorrow. Which is when we are.”

“You sure about that,
princesa
?” Emilio’s eyes held a playful spark. “Maybe you should write it down on paper this time.”

Behind him, three of the guys whispered to one another in Spanish and laughed, which only magnified the mortification. It was obvious they didn’t know I could understand them, and the one guy kept saying how hot I was and if Emilio screwed it up, he’d be happy to mend my broken heart. And then
something something something
naked.

“Oh, Ro-milio!” one of the guys squealed. The high-pitched whir of the big drill muted their chuckling, but Emilio was unfazed, still staring at me with that mischievous glint.

“I don’t like you,” I said. “Just so we’re clear.”

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked. “Did I offend you?”

“No, I—”

“I’m not good-looking enough for you?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean . . . I don’t like you
that
way.”

“What way?” He smiled.

“The way your friends think I like you. Because I don’t.”

“Funny.” He rubbed his stubbled chin and stared at the ceiling as if he were pondering the world’s problems. “Someone must’ve hacked your Facebook account.”

“Huh?” It was all I could croak out before my throat closed up. Seriously, it was like anaphylactic shock up in there.

“You can’t take Internet security for granted, Jude. If someone hacked your account, you should report it. People could misunderstand your intentions. Get the wrong idea about you and me.”

I coughed and glared back at him like all the mountain lion warning signs on the hiking trails instructed. Make noise. Stare confidently. Make yourself appear larger than you are. “There’s
no
idea about you and me. I don’t like you. Not as a boyfriend. Not as a friend. Not as anything. Okay?”

“Okay. So . . .” He loosened his bandanna and retied it, pulled it snug. “Why are you here again?”

I stamped my foot on the concrete floor, totally five-year-old. What was my problem? I’d been around boys forever—kissed a lot of them too, and not just Dylan Porter. Granted, the others were for school plays, but still. Composure, people. I had it in spades.

The drill let out a few short chirps and I jumped. Being in the garage was clearly affecting my brain—the chemicals and
lack of sunlight and probably noise pollution had something to do with it too.

“I came to clarify a misunderstanding about your schedule,” I said, “but obviously the concept of adult conversation is foreign to you, so I’ll leave you to your motorcycles and expect you the day after tomorrow. And I don’t know what kind of health codes you’re used to violating here, but at my house, you
will
wear a shirt.”

The
tu novia
guy—Samuel, I thought someone had said—laughed.
“Chica loca,”
he told Emilio.

I flashed him a wicked grin, straight out of the Mari Hernandez Complete Guide to Melodrama. “I’m a crazy girl? Is that right?”