Craving The Badboy
Hector Ramos wouldn't condone his only surviving child to be a song and dance man.
He raised doctors. Lawyers. Men with power and prestige. Rodrigo had been all of that and more, the golden son, the dream child. But Rodrigo was gone now—burned away in the same twisted wreckage that had taken my mother. And all that was left was me—the wrong son. The soft one. The one who liked to read, listen to musicals, sing and dance along to them when no one was home.
I gripped the edge of the table harder, pretending I didn’t see the bright yellow West Side Story flyer peeking out of my backpack. The edges were already wrinkled from how many times I had pulled it out just to stare at it.