Page 29 of The Delivery

get a detainee out of detention jail. I tell him Mozey is an old client and a

good friend to Alexei. Dale waves me off as he chews on his sandwich, his

lap covered in rippled potato chips, their grease staining a napkin. On the drive back to Venice while I’m stuck in traffic, I Google away

the minutes checking the consulting costs of various immigration attorneys.

At some point, as my social worker mode clicks into gear, I realize that

Mozey is probably contacting me for my professional talents not a personal

reunion like I’d immediately assumed. He’s probably happily married with

family and is calling me for advice about how to beat the system. The

realization hits like a belly flop, and I feel like a predator.

My job is to help the guy not indulge in romantic fantasies. I’m

disgusted with myself for being so whimsical and blowing all of our

exchanges out of proportion until they gained some sort of mythological

significance in my head. Mozey and I were never star-crossed lovers. So

what if he slept in my bed? It was freezing in the basement and we all seek

the warm spot—even wild animals. The story of Mozey and Lana isn’t a

love story. It’s a relationship of convenience, a professional exchange, I tell

myself firmly as I step on the gas and finally pull off the highway. There’s a stop sign at the bottom of the ramp, and I pull up behind a

sedan. The windows are tinted so I can’t see who’s inside of it. I pull my leg

up to my chest and push the scan button on the radio. I’m so impatient to see Mozey and not just to hear his voice again on the message at home that I lean hard on the horn, blasting the snoozer in front of me. The sedan beeps

back and finally pulls into the street.

Who am I kidding? I’m living, breathing denial. In the short time I

knew him, Mozey Cruz painted my heart.

It’s two counts of misdemeanor he’s in for. Both for graffiti. Wouldn’t you know it—he gets picked up and detained for something as benign as illegal painting? Mozey is a good guy. I knew it the second I met him. So what if he’s part of a painting gang—it’s not like it’s organized crime.

Turns out a detention center is like jail. In fact, it is jail, but lower security and without the clear and appropriate sentencing. These people are all in here for God knows what and who the hell knows for how long. Some were just plucked from the border and turned away, sent back to their own counties for repatriation without any question as to why they left. It’s a country of it’s own in here, a literal purgatory, without windows or doors or an end in sight. What a scary feeling to be deemed illegal for standing on the piece of God’s earth that you happen to be standing on.

I’m pretty convincing as I sign in as his social worker. I’ve even got ID to prove it isn’t a rouse. I’m wearing a silk blouse and my very businessy, business glasses. I even wore a skirt. In fact, the only one who isn’t convinced is the little ball of hope bouncing around in my chest that is preening and nail biting and wishing for a meaningful connection. Hope ball is dreaming about bright reunions and gloriously happy endings. Hope ball is blind. He’s married. You and Dale are—well, you and Dale just are.

I tell hope ball to shut up, and I douse her with a bucket of reality. Quit acting stupid and taking advantage of your authority.

I see Mozey right away. He’s waiting at a table and sketching—the guy is always creating. He looks up and sees me, and I wave like I’m normal. What’s going on inside me is anything but, my every cell is buzzing and vibrating with anticipation. This might be particle annihilation and I’ll disappear like Captain Kirk, right off the Enterprise, ending up on some crazy planet with Styrofoam, glittered boulders and hot, Amazonian alien girls. Because even that, wouldn’t be more surreal than this. It’s been three years and my heart hurts like it was yesterday.

Mozey saunters over and pulls me into a hug. I love his hug so much I want to live and die in it forever. I want to become this hug and never do anything else. He still smells like cedar and musk, turpentine and spray paint. His hair isn’t so long anymore, just long enough to fall into his eyes and make him incredibly sexy. He’s more man now too, even bigger and stronger, or maybe that’s just hope ball getting herself overly excited. The hug has been going on way too long, but I don’t want to break it. Then I remember dad and husband and step back from him quickly.

“Hey, Lana. You look great. It’s so good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Mo. You look older. In a good way!” I quickly add, sometimes I’m an idiot. Remind him of the age difference. Done. Did it.

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