The Last Superhero (32 page)

“
Luke.”

“
That
one. That was one piece of work.”

“
Mom
liked him.”

He snorts. “You know
your mother can never be trusted with those kinds of things. She
loves weird people.”

“
That
she does,” I agree as we both look out at the pink and yellow
streaks of the sunset.

“
I
never liked that Luke. He wasn't the kind of man I wanted for you.”

“
What
about Steven? Mom likes him so I guess that means you don't.”

Throw the bait and wait for
the fish to bite it.

“
I'm
not saying I like him. I do know he cares, genuinely cares for you
and your mother. And she always defended him so I'm biased by all the
good things she used to tell me about him.” This time when his
eyes search for mine they're soft and sweet. “All I want is for
you to be happy, be it with whom it may be.”

Lower your eyes and smile
and feel all fuzzy inside.

“
Have
you...?” He starts, stops.

That awkward moment when
your father is about to ask you about your sex life.

“
What,
Dad?”

“
Have
you and him...?”

“
Oh
god...” Don't, Dad, please, don't...

“
All
I want to know is how far you've gone with him.”

“
Jesus!”
Come on, he wouldn't ask if he didn't love you, blah blah blah. “Yes,
Dad. We have.”

“
Okay.
That's all I need to know.”

Not that I'm giving you any
details! “And he's been very respectful. A gentleman in every
way.”

“
Giana?”
Ross's peeking through the doors that lead to the balcony. Can't he
see we're having a moment here?

“
Yeah?”

“
The
president asks if you'd feel more comfortable if he came here?”

Glance
at Dad and he's blank, just like me. “Why is he asking
me
?”
Ross shrugs his shoulders. “Tell him yes, then. If he's so
inclined.”

I
don't even know why
he
is the one asking to see
me
in the first place.

Ross nods, leaves.

I realize I'm done with my
second cig.

“
You
really shouldn't smoke.” Dad throws away his and heads back
into the room.

I answer, “So I've
been told.”

He stops. “I'm telling
Simon you're staying here. It's safer.”

I nod, “Yeah. Safer.”

He claps on the doorframe
and disappears.

I get rid of my cigarette
butt and wrap my arms around my torso as the air turns colder and the
sky a dark shade of gray.

33

Meeting
the president becomes more of a
what
the fuck am I going to wear
kind of affair than anything else. I'm a wreck. Can't sleep. Can't
eat. Can't even brush my teeth because my hands are trembling.

...Steven... Where are you?
What are they doing to you?

And Ross doesn't want me to
make a scene in front of Mr. President, but I think the moment he
crosses that door I'll fall to my knees and start begging him to
please let Steven free.

Daphne went out with Mari
Paz and got me a dress that sort of matches hers only it looks so
plain on me while so badass on her thanks to the colorful tattoos on
her arms.

Mari Paz lends me her makeup
bag and I can see the sadness in her eyes.

“
Are
you okay?” I ask her during a brief moment we have by
ourselves.

“
Worried.
That's all.”

“
About
what?”

She's rearranging some
clothes from the bags Mr. Brownstone threw out to the street and
doesn't pause as she answers, “About you, silly. There are
still people out there, in the streets, protesting the government's
cover-up of Salvatore Jr.”

“
Well,
it
is
a big thing.”

“
Are
you sure he's a good man? They're saying horrible things about him.”
Hang some shirts in the closet and sit on the bed, facing me. “Why
don't you come with us to Spain and forget about this?”

Try not to stutter, “I
love him. That's the only answer I can give.”

She smiles, a sympathetic
smile that comes accompanied by a rub of an arm. “Your father
worries so much about you. He won't say it, but he'd prefer you just
walked away from this.”

“
I
know.” I nod. I do know.

She goes back to the bags
and pulls something out. My laptop, bearing the telltale signs of
having been hurled against the ground. Cracked screen. Cracked shell.

A fucking cracked egg,
contents spilled.

And I have to breathe in
hard not to weep.

Before I say anything, she
puts it away and goes on with the clothes and finds Daphne's
manuscript all crumpled.

“
I'll
take that,” I say, reach out for it.

Maybe if I sit down and edit
for a while I'll feel like a normal person again.

Ross is pacing the small
living room when I come out while Suárez, Powell, and Dad are
watching the news on the TV.

“
What
is that?” is Ross’s question once he's eyed the ream of
paper under my arm.

“
A
list of demands for the president.” He's about to go berserk on
me when I shut him down. “It's a manuscript, a novel. I'll sit
in a corner with it until the president's here. Can I do that?”

He frowns. “A novel?”

“
Yeah.
You know, fiction? Literature?”

“
I
know what a novel is. Is it yours? Are you a writer?”

I snort. “Worse. An
editor.”

“
An
editor?”

Don't look at me like you
can't even begin to believe what I just said!

So I raise the red pen
secured in my right hand and he gives it a harsh look.

“
Been
freelancing for some years. Now, if you'll excuse me.”

“
He'll
be here in an hour,” he says to my back as I pass Dad in the
living room and gesture to him that I'll be a good girl and stay
still until it's time to come out again.

Daphne sees me from a
distance, noticing the papers and the pen, and scurries away like a
thief under police lights.

Thief. Goddammit. If only
that night had never happened.

Don't think about it if you
don't want to ruin your mascara.

Vampires, werewolves,
gangsters... this Daphne...

“
So,”
is the monosyllable that interrupts and it's Ross who's sat across
from me at the too-small-for-two side table. “I didn't know you
were an editor.”

You really have a talent for
pissing me off, don't you? “Actually, I don't think you know
anything about me.”

“
What
is there to know about you?”

Oh, right, I'm nothing more
than a pathetic secondary character with no backstory that simply got
in the way. Like an extra in a movie that's only seen for a second
and only if you pause the movie and squint.

“
Nothing.”
Go back to the words, the always welcoming and nonjudgmental words.

“
How
many books have you edited?”

UGH. “Why are you so
curious all of a sudden?”

He exhales, loudly. “I've
always thought I should write a book. They say you should plant a
tree, have kids, and write a book. I've done the rest, only the book
left to do.”

“
I
edited a couple of memoirs back when I worked for this small
publisher.”

“
What
happened to it?”

“
They
went bankrupt.”

“
Oh.”

“
Mhm.”

“
I
wouldn't write a memoir, though.”

Fuck me this guy wants to
start a conversation. Can't he see I'm busy trying not to freak out
because of everything that's either happened, is happening, or is
about to happen?

“
What
would you write, then?” I ask and I know it's the crack in the
dam and he's going to spend the rest of the time between now and the
president's arrival telling me about some trope-filled crime thriller
story idea he's had in his mind since forever.

“
I
have this idea about a wizard who's a dragon breeder.”

“
Excuse
me?”

“
I'm
a science fiction and fantasy junkie.”

Who would've thought?
“Really?”

“
Pretty
much.”

Interesting. Put that elbow
on the table and your chin on your hand.

“
Go
on.”

And he puffs his chest and
he's telling you all this stuff you never thought his brain could
concoct since, at first sight, he gives the impression that the only
thing he's ever wielded is a gun, but he's speaking about mystical
bows and arrows and talking creatures and magic.

“
Whoa.”

“
You
like it?”

“
Yeah.”

He sees the surprise on my
face and responds with a grin. “My father loved science fiction
and it rubbed off on me. I think that's why he was so interested in
superheroes, why he wanted to save Steven Waldorf. Why he believed in
him so much.”

“
Do
you
believe in him?”

The question rises and
floats above us for a moment before it lands in front of him on the
table.

“
I
do. As much as my father did, or even more.” Now he's all
pensive. “I used to read stories based on the superheroes of
yesteryear. It was fascinating to know those people actually existed,
however, nothing will ever compare to meeting one in the flesh.”

“
Why
not write about superheroes then?”

“
Nah.
Nobody likes reading about stuff that really happened.”

There's no malice in his
words so I don't quip.

“
When
did you meet Steven for the first time?” I put down the pen
I've been holding all this time and give him my undivided attention.
“How was it?”

“
Awesome?”
And he chuckles like a child would. “I must say I was shaking
from the top of my head to my toes. It was so surreal. And he was so
nice, so kind...” You can tell he's reliving the scene in his
head. “I was in my early twenties, fresh out of Navy Boot Camp,
and he sat down with me to answer even my most stupid questions.”

“
Was
there a purpose behind the meeting?”

“
Of
course. My father wanted me to take over his work with him after he
retired, so he gave me an early start on it.”