I-Need-My-Spirit-Guide

The Rivera kitchen smelled faintly of soap, warm sun, and a pot of café con leche that had gone cold long ago now. It was a quiet afternoon in Santa Cecilia - clothes were out on the line, dinner was on the stove - and the table was buried beneath half-finished baby clothes, scraps of brightly coloured cloth, and a mountain of idle chatter turned gossip. Imelda, eighteen, sat at the head of the table, posture prim as ever despite the baby weighing almost painfully against her spine. Cecí, her closest friend since infancy, sat loyally at her side, sewing far more with her mouth than with her needle. "It's true! Maria told Lucia who told Sofia who told me..." She paused to take a breath. "She saw him sneaking out through the back door at dawn." She told the group in a half-whisper, Francisca setting down her sewing in surprise and Alba chuckling under her breath, shaking her head.

"¡Dios mio!" Imelda rolled her eyes. "Santa Cecilia is going to run out of secrets at this rate, the way you sniff them out. Like a street-dog to a trash can."

Cecí gave her a look. "I kept yours. I seem to remember you nearly breaking your neck climbing out of your window for a certain troubadour one night. I never said a word."

"Gracias, Cec..." Imelda muttered through gritted teeth.

Julia, rocking her nearly asleep baby boy in her arms, laughed at the other end of the table. "We all knew, Melly. The whole town knew. That esposo of yours doesn't shut up."

Imelda felt her cheeks burn as she brought the needle in her hand through the little nightdress for the hundredth time, running her thumb over the delicate little stich. "Remind me again what I was thinking when I decided to make you godmother," She glanced at Cecí, feigning annoyance. "You're going to fill my child's head with all sorts of nonsense."

"Believe me," Cecí laid a hand on her bump beneath the table, giving it a gentle pat through her dress. "You and Héctor are going to be singing my praises when the little one is here. If he or she ends up being anything like you and I were when we were little, both of you are going to need all the help you can get, corazón, I promise. We were tiranas."

They all dissolved into quiet laughter, hands working stitches carefully as they went on swapping more stories and whispered secrets they had overheard around town. Before long though, the back door opened and their chattering died down. Ernesto wandered in first - like he owned the place - his grin far too wide and far too familiar, his gaze shifting straight to where Imelda was sitting and lingering upon her a fraction too long. She felt it instantly. The little hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention. That prickle of annoyance she'd known since the afternoon she met him. Once upon a time, he'd sniffed around her like a dog. He'd cornered her in side-streets. Made drunken promises of fame and riches in an attempt to win her over. He hadn't realized - well, actually, it had probably been more that he simply hadn't cared - back then that she had already given herself, at least in heart, to Héctor. The one the women of Santa Cecilia actively ignored. The one who followed him around like a shadow, playing his guitar.

He'd had a rude awakening though when she'd made a show of leading Héctor off into a dark corner of the plaza after a dance one night, leaving him in no doubt that he was the one she truly wanted. She'd made sure he had been watching. She'd made sure he'd realized that he hadn't won. For the first time in his life, she imagined, he'd been denied something he craved. Something he believed he was entitled to. And, she was certain, he'd never quite forgiven her for doing that to him. Not even now, two years on.

She was pulled from her thoughts when right behind him came her husband himself, guitar slung clumsily across his back, sandy from the plaza, dark hair sticking to his brow with sweat, and that stupid smile of his softening when his eyes found hers. He moved around Ernesto then, forgetting for a moment he was even there, and approached her, bending to capture her mouth with his in a soft, tender kiss. It was enough to make Ceci roll her eyes and Julia avert her eyes politely, clearing her throat. He soon pulled away, the hand cradling her cheek moving to brush a raven curl behind her ear. "I missed you this morning." He mumbled as he dragged his knuckles down her cheek, voice gentle enough for only her - and a smirking Cecí - to hear him.

"Stop distracting us. If we don't get these finished soon, this child of yours will have nothing to wear," She half-scolded, smiling for a moment before it faded. "Mi amor..."

He didn't even have to turn. "Ernesto."

His friend laughed it off, reaching back to rub at the back of his neck while pretending to busy himself.

Alba, now holding Julia's sleeping son so her friend could drink her coffee, broke the tension. "So, Rivera. You ready for one of your own?"

"Not that he has much choice in the matter." Imelda added as she looked up at him, making her friends chuckle.

Héctor's expression softened and he ran a hand slowly over her hair, letting it settle on her shoulder through her shawl. "A little nervous. Well, terrified," He admitted, Imelda reaching up to rest a hand over his own. "But I've been ready for this since the day she told me. She'll be so much better at this than me anyway, so I'll just follow her lead."

Cecí tutted. "Listen to him. Encantador. Haven't you got pesos to go and play for?"

"Alright, we're going," He laughed, rolling his eyes good-naturedly at her before turning back to his wife for a second and kissing her forehead. "Try to rest this afternoon. I'll stop by the panderia on my way home and bring you something."

"Mmm, and don't you dare end up down at la cantina!" She called after him as he and Ernesto made to leave.

He could only chuckle as he followed behind his friend, making his way out of the door as the kitchen filled with quiet chuckles and hushed whispers once more.

—————

He shut the bedroom door carefully behind him, wincing as it clicked quietly into place. The room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight across the floorboards, silent except for the sound of her slow, steady breaths. He took off his hat and toed off his shoes, slightly unsteady on his feet due to the three - maybe four - shots of tequila he'd had but determined not to wake her. For a moment, he stood there next to the bed, simply watching her sleep. She was curled up on her side, a hand warmly cradling her bump and her long curls like an ink spill across her pillow. Even in sleep, she was divine. He still had no idea what he'd done to deserve her, truly, nor the life he was creating with her, but he'd do it again in a heartbeat if the need arose for him to do so. Without question. Without hesitation. He would.

He knelt on the edge of the mattress, feathering a kiss against her cheek. He should have come home hours ago. He should have been obedient and just said no when Ernesto dragged him to la cantina for 'one drink' on him. He should have been at home with her. Looking after her the way she needed. Letting her put her feet up for once. As he moved to stand again, the bedframe groaned under his weight and Imelda stirred, blinking in the dark. "Héctor?" She managed, voice heavy with sleep and laced with a familiar annoyance. "What time is it? You've been drinking."

He shrugged. "Maybe one or two. You should have seen Mariachi Plaza tonight though, amor, it was alive. So many tips. I did stop by the panaderia, but it was closed and—"

She sniffed the air, brown eyes narrowing at him as he perched on the edge of the bed and cupped her cheek beneath the curtain of her hair. "Tequila again. Ay mi, Héctor."

He chuckled sheepishly. "Lo siento. You know how persuasive Ernesto can—"

"Ah-ah-ah!" She swatted his chest, though it was clear her frustration had begun to settle. "De La Cruz is a lot of things, but he is not to blame for you not having a backbone. I know you heard me say not to go down to la cantina before you left. We need the money. We can't afford for you to throw it all away. Next time, you listen to me. You say no."

"Yes, Señora." He teased, kissing her clumsily on the mouth before climbing over her to his own side of the bed when she shoved him off, tutting, tasting liquor on his tongue. The old mattress dipped under the added weight and she grunted, tying to find a semi-comfortable position a second time while he got himself settled beneath the covers.

She felt him move closer to her once she'd stilled, lacing an arm around her waist and pulling her back against him. Her nose wrinkled. "Ugh. You smell like a cantina floor."

He laughed aloud, muffling the sound in her hair, and then brushed a warm, clumsy kiss against her neck. She felt a shiver run through her as his hold of her tightened, his thumb tracing the curve of her belly through her nightgown. "I'll bathe first thing. Promise. You won't have to make excuses for me with your mamá and papá again."

Despite herself, she relaxed beneath his touch, his mouth on her skin slowly soothing her annoyance. His voice sounded small in the darkness. Innocent, eager for forgiveness. She sighed into her pillow when he found that little spot behind her ear only he knew about. "Sometimes—" She paused for a moment. "Sometimes, it's like I married a child." She reached back, threading her fingers through his hair as he dotted sweet little kisses along her shoulder. She felt more than heard his sigh as he buried his face in her neck.

"I know and I'm sorry," He murmured, his tone more serious. "This is it now though, I mean it. I'll stop being an idiot. I'll bring tips home. I'll be everything you need me to be."

She rolled in his arms to face him - a struggle at eight months gone, but she managed - and they shared a smile when she ran the back of her hand down his cheek. "I'm not sure how much I believe the 'I'll stop being an idiot' part, but I believe all the rest," She whispered. "You have always been everything I've needed and much more, mi cielo."

"I have?" He stroked her hair from her face.

"Mm-hm," She nodded. "And you will be again for this little one. I know you will."

"I love you," He sighed, bringing a hand between them to rest tenderly upon her bump. "Both of you."

She smiled. "We know. We love you too."

He rested his lips against her forehead when she snuggled into him, sighing against her skin as he put his arm around her. "Sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

Imelda mumbled something into his shirt - something about daft men and insufferable musicians - but her voice tapered off, sleep pulling her under again, soothed by him. In the silence, he brought his hand back between them and laid his palm flat against her stomach, feeling for the faintest flutter that never came. Their little one, for once, was sound asleep.