Page 63 of Mark & Don't Tell

“Maybe get him two,” Brock says, glancing at Nico, who nods.

“Two,” Letti calls to Henry. She squeezes my arm. “¿Tienes hambre?”

It’s two in the afternoon, but I love Letti’s food, and the groceries that were left on my doorstep have almost run out. “I mean, I could eat.”

“I just got some bolillos. Beans?”

“If you have some, I won’t say no.”

She grins at me. “Of course I have some. Who do you think I am?”

As she busies herself getting a bowl of beans warmed, I meander over to the breakfast bar, sitting next to Nico.

“How’s Marco doing?” he asks.

“As good as he can be,” I say carefully. Marco isn’t their son, but they do care about him because he’s my brother. Marco even spent a summer with us while Mom was off doing who knows what.

“You should bring him to dinner next weekend.” Letti grabs a spoon and sets a bowl in front of me before grabbing a plastic bag full of the best bread I’ve ever tasted. I don’t even care about the shortening. That’s probably why it tastes so good. “They’re fresh.” Letti sets a plate with a bolillo in front of me. “Bring Marco to dinner.”

“I’ll ask,” I say, knowing my mom would never go for it. Even though she’s the one who left my dads, she hates Letti. Maybe it’s because Letti is everything she’s not. Kind. Loving. Intelligent.

Don’t get me wrong. My mom is smart, but in a conniving way. She’s also cruel and only pretends to care when she needs something. Sometimes, I wish Letti could’ve been my real mom instead.

Letti grins at something Brock said, her eyes dancing with love. She’s so good to my dads. She’d never steal all their money. She’s never made me feel bad for being bigger or for how loud my voice gets when I’m excited. If anything, Letti matches my excitement in her own way.

If she had kids of her own, Letti would never make her son ask her daughter to pay the bills.

My throat aches so hard, it hurts. I look into my bowl of beans to hide the tears that have suddenly filled my eyes. Though this isn’t the first time this has happened, I usually save my sad-girl party for when I’m alone.

I force the tears back, filling my spoon with some beans before taking a bite. They’re delicious, as always, but I can’t find any joy in it. Not when my chest feels like it’s cracking open.

Henry comes in. “Okay. Here’s three hundred dollars. That should be enough for the cleats and some good socks.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking the first bite of bolillo. The crust is perfectly crunchy, while the inside is fluffy and soft. I savor the rich flavor. There’s something special about bread that heals the soul. Maybe bread soaks up sorrow.

Fucking christ, Daria. Get it together.

Letti and my dads talk about a trip they’re planning. I listen and pretend to be too interested in eating to contribute to the conversation. The beans are warm and the bolillos are divine, and by the time I get to the last bite, I’ve shoved all my mommy damage into the little box in the back of my mind.

As much as I dread going to her house, for Marco, I’ll do it.

Twenty-Three

DARIA

With two new pairs of cleats from the sporting goods store and a few packs of socks, I head toward Mom’s house. My phone chirps, and I glance at my purse, hating that my car is so old, I can’t get messages on a dash screen. The Bluetooth used to work, emphasis on the used to. Now, it’s just me, the radio, and the weird clunking in my engine.

A few more chirps have me dying to reach over and grab my phone, but I’m not trying to text and crash. As soon as I’m parked at the curb of Mom’s house, I grab my phone and pull up my messages, smiling at the group chat.

Well, would you look at that? I guess I do like group chats if the right people are in it.

Vic

Linc and I were trying to decide who gets to take you on a date next.

Linc

No, Vic was insisting he’s next, but that’s not fair.

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