Page 29 of Ladybirds

Seth sighs, finally giving her his full attention. Behind him, Maria is shouting, and it dawns on Sara that the soap opera he’s watching is in Spanish. “It’s not that complicated, Princess. You wished to hurt me, so you did.”

It sounds like a copout, a simple answer meant to appease more than educate. She’s already well aware of her motives. What she wants to know is how. “That shouldn’t even be possible! You’re—you’re not real!”

He goes impossibly still. “Not real?” he echoes, tone flirting on the edge of either fury or hysteria. His eyes flash, and Sara realizes it’s likely a combination of both. “Is that what you think? That I’m some—figment of your imagination? Something to kick at when the guilt comes round to play?” He stands, towering over her. Sara hates how small he can make her feel by simply existing in her space. “Let me be perfectly clear, Princess. I am much more than you could dream up.”

Sara swallows, pulse thrumming in her ears, but she tilts her chin defiantly—refusing to break eye contact. “What, did I strike a nerve?”

“You bloody well struck more than that, didn’t you?” he sneers. “Tell me, should I expect a repeat performance? Perhaps you would care to punish me for whatever other traumas you have rattling around in that skull of yours?”

The angry retort, prepared and ready, withers on her tongue. There is a regret souring her stomach. No matter how many times—how many ways—she tries to justify it, she can’t shake the guilt lodged in the space between her lungs. The problem is, she believes him. Not in him, but she trusts that he enjoys her misery enough to celebrate when he’s the cause.

He still deserved it. If not for herself, then for every other bit of pain he’s no doubt orchestrated for others, but not for Oma. Not for what she was accusing him of.

Accepting his innocence (at least in this one instance) cools her fury into bitterness. She is the ember after a wildfire—snuffed of a flame but still hot enough to burn. “I hate you.”

He snorts, arms folding over his chest. “And yet, I rather like you. Most of the time, anyway.”

Her fists clench, crescent moons imprinting on her palms. She still carries bruises on her knuckles. “You’re not funny.”

“I am, actually,” he says, offering a skeletal smile. “Your sense of humor is simply lacking.”

The sound of smashing glassware mingled with the actress’s screaming in rapid-fire Spanish emits from the tv, and Seth’s entire body pivots toward the screen. “Damn it all! You see? You’ve gone and made me miss it.” He gestures to the television, movements wide and exaggerated. “Rewind it!”

Sara balks. He can’t possibly be serious. “What?”

“You bloody well heard me! Rewind it! I did not suffer through an ungodly number of Fanta commercials just for you to ruin the riveting finale of Amor Prohibito’s eleventh season!”

“You want me to rewind your Spanish soap opera.”

“For the love of—please. Please, rewind the blasted thing and I will try my damnedest to forgive you? Yes?”

The breath leaves her, a resigned huff, and she grabs the remote left on the sofa. “You are so weird, I can’t even,” she grumbles, hitting various buttons. “How did you even turn it on?”

“Ansel was of great assistance.”

“That... doesn’t really answer my question.”

He sneers. “Of course it does. Use your imagination.”

She rewinds it five minutes before selecting pause. “Do you even know what they’re saying?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Sara raises her eyebrows, gesturing pointedly to the tv. “Because it’s in Spanish?”

“My statement stands,” he quips, sinking into his chair. “Now either turn on the subtitles or hush.”

She has no interest in watching a soap opera in a language she can’t understand, and even less interest in voluntarily sitting in the same room as him... but she’s tired of being in her room, staring at the same four walls. Sara sits on the couch, pulling the crocheted blanket—one of Oma’s she notes with a pang—around her shoulders before turning on the subtitles.

Juan begs for forgiveness, the camera zooming in on Maria’s torn expression before going to another pop commercial. From his chair, Seth curses the world’s obsession with soft drinks.

Pouting, he looks more human than ever, and Sara remembers the slump in his shoulders, the isolated smudge of shadow against a landscape of color, and feels her stomach churn.

She doesn’t know how Oma would feel about any of this, but if there’s one lesson she stressed, it was to admit (and apologize) when you’re wrong. Somehow, Sara suspects the circumstances would do little to change her opinion on the matter.

Still, it takes her another two commercials before she works up the courage. “I’m sorry.” The words are soft—strained—but she knows by the way his attention pivots to her, eyes wide and mouth parted in surprise, that he’s heard. She pulls the blanket closer, looking away. “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

The show returns, the music swelling as Maria’s face returns to the screen. Seth is silent for so long, Sara begins to suspect he won’t answer at all. She’s not entirely sure she deserves one.

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