Chapter 21 Miguel

Middle of the night

The entire Reyes family sat on folding chairs outside their apartment building, their laughter filling the air as they celebrated Miguelito's sixth birthday. Miguelito sat up high on a stool so everyone could see him opening his presents. He wore a gold king's crown on his head. His mother, who was pregnant and expecting a new brother or sister for Miguelito soon, handed him his presents one at a time. His cousins sat in front of the stool and watched him open them.

"Smile for the picture." Papi stepped back into the street to get a wider view from his new camera. As Miguelito smiled for his papi, the first sounds of shattering gunfire rang out, filling the street with sudden bursts of noise. The piercing sound of terrified screams filled the air, sending everyone into a frenzy as they scattered in all directions. Miguelito could hear his father's voice, frantic and distorted, yelling for him to get inside with his mother. His mother screamed and tried to protect Miguelito from the shots. He peeked, terror widening his eyes.

Miguelito watched as men from an enemy gang with shaved heads and tattoos circled his papi and riddled him with bullets, then scattered. His papi lay sprawled on the street, blood pooled crimson around his head, staining the already grimy pavement, the camera still clutched in his hand. Miguelito's scream died in his throat. A sob wracked his tiny body. Tears blurred Miguelito's vision as he scrambled away from his mother and ran towards his papi lying crumpled in the street, covered in blood. He clutched his father's hand, but the grip went slack. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, watching in horror as the world he knew ended. The world dissolved into sirens and flashing lights.

His papi had fallen.

The sound of Miguel's piercing screams echoed through the bedroom, snapping him out of a deep nightmare. It was always the same nightmare on his birthday. He gasped, chest heaving, and the taste of fear metallic on his tongue. The room was dark; the storm was over. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the nightmare back, but the image remained vivid and terrifying.

"Miguel, my love," a gentle voice whispered. He opened his eyes to see Daddy Shamus.

Miguel scrambled into his arms, burying his face in the worn cotton of his shirt. Daddy Shamus held him close, rocking him back and forth.

"Just a bad dream, love," he murmured, his voice a steady comfort. The familiar scent of fresh cologne calmed Miguel a fraction.

Daddy Shamus led him to the kitchen, where he poured a glass of milk and added some cocoa. The aroma rising from the cup carried comfort. As Miguel sipped, the dream slowly receded, replaced by the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the soft glow of the nightlight. He glanced at Daddy Shamus, who sat across from him, his face etched with worry lines.

"Tell me about the nightmare," Shamus urged, his voice barely a whisper.

Miguel nodded. "I should have told you what happened on my sixth birthday before now."

"What happened?"

"My family had a big birthday party for me because I turned six. The party was on the sidewalk since we had a small apartment. My mother baked me a cake, and I had lots of presents. Then these gang members walked up and shot my father. He died right in front of all of us."

Shamus pulled back slightly, then he brushed a stray tear from Miguel's cheek. "Is that what you were dreaming about?"

Miguel nodded. Talking didn't help. He just wanted the memory, the fear, to vanish.

Shamus squeezed his shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know your birthday was full of triggers for you."

"After that, we never celebrated my birthday on the actual day. My mother couldn't bear it. We didn't have parties anymore. My birthday is a curse." He finished his drink, tapping his fingers on the table.

"Do you want to go back to bed?"

Miguel nodded and followed Daddy Shamus back to bed.

Once they were in bed, Daddy Shamus's silent comfort began with the steady rhythm of him rocking Miguel. With the slow tick of the clock and rocking in Daddy Shamus's arms, he found a fragile peace.

Early the next morning, Daddy Shamus helped carry Miguel's presents to his hotel room. In the room, a red blinking light on the hotel phone showed there was a message from the front desk. Miguel picked up the phone and returned the call. They told him to come downstairs and collect a folder. They stepped into the elevator, feeling the slight jolt as it descended to the main floor, then walked to the front desk.

"I'm Miguel Reyes. I got a message to come here."

The desk clerk handed him a large manilla folder.

"Let's sit down and see what this is all about," Miguel suggested.

They sat on a plush sofa, their bodies pressed closely together to read what was inside.

Miguel unsealed the folder. Inside was a set of keys, a green envelope with his name on it, and a smaller folder labeled "Open Last." Miguel wondered why someone would give him an envelope and keys.

Inside the envelope, Miguel found a note written in Bently's elegant handwriting.

Dear Miguel,

Happy Birthday! You're finally twenty-one. We had so many plans for your twenty-first birthday. I'm sorry you didn't want to spend the day with me, but I understand. I bought you a gift for your birthday. It's sitting in the hotel parking lot. It's in spot thirty-eight. It's registered in your name and insured. All your legal documents are inside the "Open Last" folder.

Love,

Daddy Bently

PS: I haven't given up on us.

"Let's go see what's in spot thirty-eight," Daddy Shamus suggested.

They got up and walked to the parking area, where they spotted a brand-new red motorcycle.

The sight sent goosebumps down Miguel's arms, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from the fire engine red motorcycle gleaming under the parking lot lights. It was the same one he'd lusted after for three years, the very one he had plastered a picture of on his college dorm wall.

"Woah!" Daddy Shamus breathed. "That's magnificent, Miguel."

A strangled laugh escaped Miguel's lips. "Yeah, incredible. But I can't accept this from Bently."

Daddy Shamus's smile faltered slightly. "That's…something you need to decide, right?"

Miguel kicked a stray pebble on the pavement. "It comes with a hefty price tag of guilt and pressure."

Daddy Shamus nudged him with his elbow. "Miguel, you broke up with Bently for a reason. This doesn't change that. Think of it as, I don't know, severance pay for all the emotional turmoil he put you through."

Miguel sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's not that simple. This bike…it was my dream. We used to talk about me getting one someday. But now, it just feels tainted."

Daddy Shamus studied him for a moment. "So, what do you want to do? It's in your name. Sell it?"

The thought of letting it go, of someone else riding away on his fantasy motorcycle, twisted in Miguel's gut. "I don't know. The damn thing is beautiful, Daddy Shamus. But the idea of Bently using it to manipulate me…"

"Then don't let him," Daddy Shamus said firmly. "Take this bike, own it. Make it yours. It doesn't have to be a symbol of him, Miguel. It can be a symbol of a new beginning, one where you get what you deserve."

Miguel stared at the motorcycle, the chrome catching the pale light. Daddy Shamus was right. This wasn't about Bently anymore. It was about a dream, a chance to feel the wind in his hair and the thrill of the open road. A slow smile spread across his face.

"You know what?" Miguel's voice was filled with newfound determination. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it's time for a ride. There's only one helmet, though," Miguel said.

"Why don't you take it for a spin?"

"No. I want to think more about this gift before I ride it."

"I have plans for us today, but I need to finish some paperwork before we can leave. I'll be back as soon as I'm done. I'll send a text when I'm on my way."

"Sounds good." Miguel hugged Daddy Shamus.