Carmela + Amos

Chapter 20 - Amos

             Amos couldn't believe his eyes when he joined Cassandra and Carlos for lunch, and she slid him Carmela's address. Cassandra's patient, a retired police offer who did private investigations, had managed to find the address by tracking backward to who originally sold the guitar. As it turned out, it went through a few different owners before falling into Amos's hands, but the original was Rodrigo.

Which raised so many questions. One of them being how the hell Carmela's journal ended up in his guitar case!

According to records and former employees of Eargasm Music Store, Rodrigo needed money and fast, so he sold several instruments that day, which made Amos even more curious. Why did he need money so quickly?

The answers weren't far as Amos sat in his truck, the engine idling while staring at the olive green bungalow with its ivory trim and glossy black door. Just a few paces across the flagstone path, and he would be face to face with Carmela. Yet, he remained there, his palms sweating and his stomach twisting.

His phone chimed, so he glanced down and read the message.

Carlos: Stop being a chicken shit and knock on the door!

Amos: Are you spying on me?

Carlos: No. I just know you. Now stop being a pussy and knock!

"Fine!" Amos said to himself. "I'll go."

Shutting off the engine, he blew a long breath and rubbed his palms against his knees. Then, before any more doubts settled in, he opened the truck's door with a squeak and stepped out.

The late Sunday afternoon breeze carried a scent of someone barbecuing nearby, and his stomach gurgled as he hiked onto the flagstone. The entire way, his heart rattled, and he kept swallowing the surge of saliva filling his mouth from anxiety. Finally, he raised his fist and rapped on the glossy black door, his stomach churning and the sudden urge to pee pushing on his bladder.

Birds chirped in a Magnolia tree, and two small dogs barked in the neighbor's front window, but Carmela's home was silent. He was about to give up until there was the tap of shoes approaching and the clink of locks unbolting.

When the door opened, he sucked in a breath, his eyes creasing with a smile forming on his lips. "Carmela. It's you..."

There, in front of him, was the woman whose life he'd come to know intimately—the woman who now owned a piece of him and left a tattoo on his heart. She was even more beautiful than he imagined in her red, thigh-length, floral dress and dark curls cascading down her chest. Her skin glowed like honey catching sunlight before dissolving into tea, and he wanted to wrap her in his arms.

"No." She crooked her brows and pointed to her chest. "Emmy."

"Em—" Amos glanced at the GPS on his phone, then looked back up to read the numbers on the home. "I'm sorry. The person I'm looking for must have moved."

"Wait," she said as he turned to leave. "Do I know you?"

"No." He shook his head and stepped back. "I've got the wrong house."

"But wait, my mother is inside."

"Your mother?"

"Yes, Carmela. She's who you're looking for, right?"

"Your moth—" he repeated, the words catching on his tongue. "You're her... She's your..." He rubbed his forehead, his brows creasing as he struggled to form thoughts. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven. How old are you?"

"Twen-twenty-eight," he stammered and lost his footing on the short flagstone steps with his arms flailing at his sides.