Page 17 of The Kiss Principle

“Your knee?”

“Oh. No.”

The vagueness was about as close as Zé would ever come to telling me to mind my own fucking business, so I nodded. “Have a good night.”

“You too.” He opened the door and paused. “Is everything okay?”

Aren’t you lonely?

“Yep. Thanks, you know. For Igz.”

Zé’s smile was uncertain, but a moment later, he stepped out of the house and pulled the door shut behind him.

I carried Igz into the kitchen. True to his word, Zé had left food for me: an on-the-small-side portion of lemon-peppersalmon, hot and crispy from the air fryer; and a mountain of roasted broccoli.

“He’s not exactly subtle, is he?” I asked Igz.

Instead of another night sitting in front of the TV, I took a chair at the table. I could have put Igz on the floor or in her crib or in the swing (one of Zé’s few requests). But I’d gotten used to holding her, and she was warm, and there was something pleasant about her sleepy weight. I ate the salmon. Then, because I was still hungry, I ate the broccoli. I wondered if I was supposed to give Zé a performance review. Would it be fair to dock him points on something that wasn’t technically his responsibility? Not that the broccoli was bad. It was great, actually—roasted until it crunched, bringing a slight sweetness out of the vegetables, and then lightly salted. Thelightlypart would be another note in his file.

After I cleaned up (which meant putting my plate and silverware in the dishwasher, because Zé had already done everything else), we moved into the living room. Igz’s eyes were open, but she was quiet. The house was quiet. I turned on the TV. Since I was a responsible adult, or a reasonable impersonation of one, I didn’t smoke around Igz, which meant I’d been watching a lot more television—and a lot more of my life—through sober eyes. It turned out a lot of things sucked when you weren’t high enough to take the edge off. We found some show with people singing, and half of them sounded like cats getting their scrotes stretched. I told Igz, and she didn’t appreciate the language.

Aren’t you lonely?

Well, no. I wasn’t. I shifted around to find a more comfortable spot. I adjusted Igz on my chest. ESPN, ESPN2, MTV, CBS. I stalled out on a commercial. Some guy was doing ballroom dance with what looked like a plastic bag.

“Stick your head in,” I told him. “See if there’s anything in there.”

Igz didn’t approve. She fussed and squirmed on my chest. The baby version, I thought, of beating me up.

Was I lonely?

It wasn’t a question I’d had to consider before. Before, I’d been busy. That had been my default state. Busy taking care of Augustus and Chuy, because Mom always had an audition, or she was burned out and needed to see a friend, or it was an important party that could help Mommy get a job. Once Augustus had been old enough for me to leave with Chuy (who, until he’d started getting high at twelve, had been reliable enough), I’d started mowing lawns. And then I’d had a series of jobs. And school. And Augustus. And coming home, at the end of a shift, to do as much homework as I could before I fell asleep. The impossible days.

I stroked the back of Igz’s head and told her, “I’m glad those are over.”

There was nothing good on TV—a big-eyed woman, who seemed to straddle the line between housekeeper and wife, couldn’t get the bad smells out of the kitchen, but don’t worry, somebody was going to sell her something that would help—so I took out my phone.

Sure enough, a few weeks back, Lou had sent me Bea’s name and number.

Hi, I texted.This is Fernando.

As the message zipped off, a voice that sounded like Augustus said,Seriously, what is wrong with you?

So, I sent a second message:Lou’s friend.

And then:Lourdes.

Lourdes Amador.

I’d seen slow-motion car accidents before. Videos, you know. People like that stuff for some reason, and you watch it, and it looks like there’s all this time to change course. But there’s not. When you’re on the inside, all you can do is watch it happen.

Somehow, I managed to drag myself away from explaining further. Instead, I opened the text thread with Augustus. His profile pic was from when he was ten, at Disney, looking like a Disney kid himself: sun-streaked bangs and a huge white smile. Even back then, he’d been a wiener. I wrote,What do people text each other these days?

But that wasn’t right, so I erased it and tried,What am I supposed to text someone to introduce myself?

I erased that too.

What should I text this girl?

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