The Taste of Home

Chapter 22

Miguel didn't hear another word of what Isabella said, nor how his coworkers reacted. All he knew was that one moment he was talking with his sister at the pass, and the next he was being eased into one of the chairs in the dining area. There were no customers, no waiters clearing away the last of the plates. No Isabella.

There were only the sobs shaking his body and the hand rubbing circles on his back.

Packless. He was packless. His family had cast him out, and he was packless.

Someone pressed a cold glass of water into his hand. "Take deep breaths, then drink," Ralph said quietly.

Miguel could only nod before forcing himself to drain the glass. It hurt too much to think, let alone talk.

Yolanda offered him a napkin. "I still can't believe she talked to you like that."

"Don't," Alejandro said. The hand on Miguel's back paused, its muscles stiffening.

"It wasn't okay when that creep at the bar did it, and it's not okay now," Yolanda said. "He's a person, not a pet."

"He's having a bad enough time without you rubbing his nose in how fucked up this is!"

For the second time that night, silence choked the chefs. Alejandro never yelled. He wasn't one to keep his feelings hidden, but he never yelled.

Yet his voice echoed as loudly as Miguel's broken sobs.

"Right." Yolanda looked away. "Sorry."

Moonlight entered The Crimson Goat as Mr. Kaminski led Esmeralda inside. "She says she's got some stuff of yours. Need us to give you a little privacy?"

"Please don't," Miguel said hoarsely. His eyes burned. His throat ached. His heart hurt. What more pain could anyone possibly cause him tonight?

Glass clattered as Esmeralda set a plastic bag at Miguel's feet. "We found these buried by the water pump. There's money in there, too. Mr. Miller insisted on giving you your share since..." She swallowed. "You aren't going to live on the farm anymore."

Now, all Miguel had to his name was a bagful of money and salsa. He cradled it to his chest and choked out a quiet thank you.

"I'm really sorry you're going through this," Esmeralda said. "Everyone is. Say what you want about this place, but banishing you over it is too much."

"Why don't you tell Isabella that, then?" Alejandro's voice was as sharp as barbed wire.

"It's not that simple," Miguel muttered.

"To make her unbanish someone, they'd have to challenge her for leadership of the pack," Esmeralda explained. "That or convince her whatever happened is not grounds for banishment, and Isabella is not one to change her mind easily. She is..."

"A bitch," Yolanda finished for her.

"I was going to say headstrong, but I suppose she has been acting like a female coyote lately." Esmeralda shook her head as if she was dismissing a particularly bothersome fly. "May the stars light your path, Miguel, and may that path cross with ours again someday."

Once she left, Miguel forced himself to his feet. Taking off his apron felt like slipping out of an embrace all too soon. "I'd better go find myself a place to stay. Alone," he added quickly as Alejandro opened his mouth. "I need to think."

"Can I at least give you a hug?" Alejandro asked. Where anger had once sharpened his tongue, now only tear-choked worry and sorrow remained, leaving his words soft and quiet.

Miguel threw his arms around him and pressed him tightly against his chest. Alejandro hugged him back just as firmly, his embrace providing the sole sense of security he felt in that moment. He had no home and no pack, only his job and the way his heart fluttered whenever he looked at Alejandro.

No matter what happened, he couldn't afford to lose him. He wasn't sure he'd survive if he did.

Something crackled beneath his grip. "Too tight," Alejandro said with a wince, sighing with relief as Miguel relaxed his muscles.

Miguel barely felt the arms circling his waist, only cracked the tiniest smile as lips pressed against his cheek. He couldn't do anything right, not even hug Alejandro.

Outside, the night was cool and quiet. Only the shushing of tires on the road broke through the blackness, and even that faded as Miguel searched for a place to stay. Pedestrians gave him a wide berth, crossing the street to avoid him when they could and huddling together like frightened sheep when they couldn't.

The packless shelters that had once escaped his notice outside of Mr. Kaminski's periodic donations now stood out to him like ticks clinging to a cow. There were so many, yet they all carried the same stench of dried blood and despair. Chupacabras gazed out of their windows with empty eyes that forced Miguel to look anywhere else. Without their packs, they were nothing but husks searching for someone, anyone to fill the void inside them. Most packless didn't live long not because they couldn't fend for themselves— although life certainly was not easy for a lone chupacabra— but out of sheer loneliness.

As more and more hotel managers locked their doors at the merest glimmer of his scales under the streetlamps, it wasn't hard to see why.

"Last one," Miguel muttered hoarsely as his claws curled around yet another door handle. If this didn't work, he'd have to check himself into a packless shelter for the night or find some out-of-the-way alleyway to sleep in, probably the latter.

The door creaked open. Miguel coughed through a burning haze of cigarette fumes and dragged himself to the concierge. "How much for one night?"

The woman at the counter glanced at him over the magazine she was reading. "If you're meeting someone, they should've already handled that. What's their name, sweetie?"

"I'm not meeting anyone," he explained, "just looking for a place to sleep."

She turned the magazine over with a sigh, its glossy pages rustling in the air conditioning. "Go to one of the shelters, then. This is not a charity. Or a zoo."

Miguel pulled a wad of money out of his bag. "I can pay."

Another sigh. "You must be new to this to waste your money on this dump."

Still, she thumbed through the bills before exchanging a fistful of them for a rusty key. "Third floor, fifth door on the right. Breakfast is from six to nine."

With one elevator closed for repairs and the other releasing the stench of dead vermin the minute it groaned to a stop, Miguel dragged himself up the stairs. Unlike Alejandro's apartment, which was far more welcoming and cozy than its exterior let on, the motel room somehow failed to meet his already low expectations.

Even with his lack of knowledge of human dwellings, Miguel knew it was not normal for the carpet's original color to be completely unrecognizable beneath the stains or for insects to crawl among the sheets.

This was his home now, at least for the night. He had no packmates to curl up beside him, no bed of hay warmed by their collective heat. There was only the stiff whiteness of the sheets he pulled around himself and the cold, unforgiving growls of the air conditioner.

Completely alone for the first time in his life, Miguel wept.