Big Chicas Don't Cry(69)

He took a breath. “Isela thinks we should wait for the third confirmation. We need to do this right.”

My head whipped around. “Isela? You talked to her about my story?”

“Yeah, over lunch. She wanted to know what I was working on and . . .”

“And you wanted to impress her,” I finished for him.

“What? No, that’s not it at all. We’re both too close to this. Sometimes it’s good to bounce things off an impartial person.”

“Who the fuck is Charlie then? Jesus, Adrian. This could be a huge story. We both said we were going to keep it under wraps until the night before we publish. I haven’t told a single soul, not even my cousins.”

“She doesn’t live in town, Erica. Who is she gonna tell?”

“You know that’s so not the point.”

He threw up his hands. “Fine, you’re right. I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget that for now and focus. Don’t you find it somewhat interesting that Isela agrees we need the third source?”

“Actually, I don’t because she’s not a fucking journalist.”

I was so mad now. The f-word was about to replace the in every single sentence that came out of my mouth.

“Exactly. Journalists aren’t going to be the only ones reading this article. She agrees with me that it will help legitimize our sources.”

“Of course she’s going to agree with you. She wants to get back together with you.”

He seemed to consider this. “Really?”

“Oh. My. God. I can’t believe you’re doing this. If we wait to confirm with a third source, we’re going to get scooped by the Times.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“And I think you’re being an asshole because you know I’m right.”

The vein in his neck pulsed with irritation. I could tell he was pissed but was trying to choose his words carefully. His hesitation gave me a window to strike.

“Playing it safe doesn’t sell newspapers anymore. If we keep getting beat by the Times or these other online news sites, we both are going to be looking for new jobs sooner rather than later. Or maybe you don’t care and want to work for your dad after all?”

He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “You really say everything that pops into your head, don’t you?”

I shrugged.

“I think you’re taking advantage of our friendship,” Adrian said.

That hurt me. Deep. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

Adrian dragged his left hand down his face. “Erica, don’t be difficult,” he implored. “You know what I mean. You would never be like this with Charlie.”

“Listen, I used to tell Charlie all the time if I thought he was making a bad call,” I explained. “Maybe it’s you that’s taking advantage of our friendship if you think I’m not going to do the same to you.”

He pushed his notebook across the table. “I knew this wasn’t going to work. It was a mistake to think . . .” Adrian’s voice stopped midsentence when the conference room door opened.

Tristan walked in, and I almost yelled at him to get out. But something in his face stopped me.

“What is it?” Adrian barked.

I held my breath as Tristan met my eyes. He was looking at me with pity. “Erica, you’re not answering your cell. So your mom called the main line. It . . .”

It was another heart attack. Welita died in the hospital with my abuela and my tía Andrea from Chicago at her side. It had been weeks since they’d placed a stent. There had been lots of complications, but she was improving. Selena and I had just visited her over the weekend, and she was able to talk to us for a few minutes. We’d convinced ourselves that she looked better. That she would be home soon.

Now, she was gone.

It only took me ten minutes to drive from the News-Press office to the hospital, but I still couldn’t get there fast enough. Adrian didn’t want me to drive at all, but I ignored him and flew out the door.

The waiting room was already filled with family. I guess that was the good thing about all of us living so close. When something bad happened, we could be there in a matter of minutes.

Some of my younger cousins were standing in the hallway, hugging each other and crying. I walked past them and straight to her room. My mother said the nurses had promised to let the family say our goodbyes before they did what had to be done next.

The small, private room was packed, yet there was no noise. The machines had stopped their beeping.

Someone, I didn’t look to see who, grabbed my hand and led me to the bed. Welita’s eyes were closed, and I noticed that all the tubes and the oxygen mask were gone. For the first time in weeks, I could finally see her entire face. I touched her arm. Her warmth was long gone too.

“I love you, Welita,” I whispered as I bent to kiss her cheek. “Que Dios te bendiga.”

“Mama, Mama, Mama!” My abuela’s sobs pierced the silence. I realized then that she was the one holding my hand. Her other hand covered her own mouth, trying to stifle her grief. I pulled my abuela toward me so I could hold her up. And just when I thought I had her, her knees buckled. Hands came out of nowhere to grab her before she could fall.

The room filled with quiet sobs as my uncles took her away.