Page 27 of Out of Focus

ME:

Haha yeah. That’s all.

Shit. Sorry. That was sarcasm.

All I’m saying is you’re right.

CHARLIE:

Relax. I got it.

Okay. Well, I should get some sleep.

Talk soon, Machado.

ME:

Later, Ginger Spice.

15/

this guy rubs his own meat.

rafael

It’s a typical Tuesday afternoon, and I’m about to reach my parents’ house in Siesta. I’ve been listening to a romantasy novel on the way here, but I’m gonna have to listen to all of these chapters again because I’m still distracted by yesterday’s text conversation with Charlie.

I’m wondering if maybe it’s easier for her to text than to have conversations that deep in person. Probably. I mean, she might not get to see body language, but it’s probably easier for her to respond without any prolonged silences or anything.

Sometimes, that’s easier for me because I either feel the need to interrupt someone so I don’t lose my train of thought, or I end up not hearing what they’re saying because I’m trying to hold on to my thought.

The knowledge that there are things like this that Charlie and I have in common is messing with my mind. I never thought we’d have anything in common.

As I pull into the long driveway, I see no other cars and feel slightly relieved. There isn’t usually anyone here during the day since both of my parents still work full-time, but occasionally, my mom will take an afternoon off. I’m glad today isn’t one of those days.

I love my parents. I really do. I just love my grandmother more than anything, and getting to spend time with her since retiring from the Marine Corps has been one of the best things to happen to me.

I exit the car, knowing she’s expecting me, and a smile forms at the thought. This has been our thing for a while now, these Tuesday hangs.

As I open the front door, the smell of coffee immediately hits my nostrils. I walk to the back of the house and take in the sight before making my presence known.

“I heard you come in, Rafa. I may be old, but I’m not deaf yet,” she says in Portuguese with her back still to me. I chuckle and wait for her to turn.

“Bença, vó,” I say in greeting, asking for her blessing as I walk toward her, laying a kiss on her knuckles. It’s a tradition my dad insisted on since he grew up doing this with his grandparents in Brazil.

“Deus te abençoe, meu filho.” God bless you, my son. She pulls me in for a hug, and my body instantly relaxes. She’s getting up there in age, but her hugs are strong, always ending with a few pats to the cheek. No, not pats, per se. More like subtle slaps. Eva, Owen and Elaina’s mom, gives gentle cheek pats. My grandmother gives slaps. And I love it. She always takes a moment to look into my eyes when she does it, her eyes and cheeks crinkling with a smile.

“Café?” she asks, but it’s not really a question. She knows I’m going to sit and have her afternoon coffee with her. There’s fresh bread already on the table with butter, mortadella, sliced cheese, and a few cookies next to it. “Senta.” She points to the chair closest to me. “Tell me, how’s my boy?” she asks in Portuguese. I know better than to ask her how she’s doing first. This is our routine now.

Ana Maria, at eighty-seven years old, refuses to speak English with us, though she certainly can. She claims it’s the only way any of her grandchildren speak Portuguese fluently, and she takes full credit for this feat with all six of us. I’m pretty sure my parents would have handled it. They mostly speak Portuguese around us, but Vó made sure that never changed with my siblings and me, even as we got older and started speaking English with one another.

I take a seat, waiting for her to sit next to me before answering. “Everything’s fine, Vó. I just saw you two days ago.” I smile as she scowls at me, ready to reprimand me in the way she always does.

“Yes, well, you were all so busy wrestling with one another that I barely got to talk to you. Something seems different. What is it, Rafa?” She butters a piece of bread as she speaks and passes it to me. She won’t rest until I eat, and that’s never been a problem for me, so I take it.

I grapple with her words for a moment, busying myself with the mortadella and cheese to buy myself time. I feel different. Ever since Charlie became someone I see on a semi-regular basis, I’m not the same. Every time I talk to her, I feel like I’m being turned inside out. Like everything I try to keep shoved away is on display. Like she sees every part of me. And the weirdest part? I’m not sure that makes me as uncomfortable as I thought it might. A common thing when it comes to the woman who occupies nearly all the space in my head these days.

“Ah, it’s nothing. I’m just not sleeping well.” Vó’s eyes flick up from the cheese she’s placing on her plate, and I mentally kick myself for the error I’ve just made.

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