Page 113 of The Sweet Spot

“Hi,” I answer, catching the call before it goes to voicemail.

“Hey.” Luca clears his throat. “I thought you weren’t gonna pick up.”

I toe the open suitcase sprawled on the floor, half-filled with new summer clothes. “I thought about it.”

“Can you come outside?”

My heart leaps, but not in the carefree way it used to. It feels more like it leapt to its death. “You’re here? Luca, why?”

“Because you left the other day without saying anything and you won’t text me back. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I won’t see you for almost three months.”

That’s not my fault, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see him. My stupid heart’s been crying for him for days. I catch a glimpse of myself in Mom’s gilded mirror as I pass it on my way out. Messy ponytail, old t-shirt, older jeans. I look like shit.

Luca’s downstairs, leaning against his car like an 80’s movie heartthrob. He looks like shit too, which is somewhat gratifying.

I hesitate in front of him, arms folded, but he reaches out and pulls me close. We stare at each other for a moment and then he kisses me, sliding his hands into my hair. I grab his wrists, but I don’t pull away. I feel like an alcoholic who’s been dry for days being given a drink.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he murmurs, tucking my head beneath his chin.

“No, it doesn’t. We could just stay together.”

“What’s the point of being together if we’re not in the same place?”

“What’s the point of breaking up if we’re just going to get back together?” I frown at him, shaking my head. “I feel like I’m paying for someone else’s sins, Luca.”

“Maybe you are.” Pain glimmers in his eyes. “And maybe it’s not fair to ask you to wait for me while I get my shit together. But I can’t be in Brazil for three months wondering what you’re doing and who you’re with.”

“You know who I’ll be with,” I say flatly. “My dad.”

“And that photographer guy…”

“Amias Jon?” My mouth drops open. “Are you for real? He’s old, Luca!”

“Not that old.”

Disgusted, I try to shove away from him, but he won’t let go of me. “You’re crazier than I thought if you think anything would ever happen with him.”

He closes his eyes for a long time before opening them again. “I just want you to have fun, okay? Can you do that for me? Do all the things you dreamed about doing. And maybe, when I get back, you can tell me about it.”

“You know, Luca, it doesn’t matter to me that we’ll be miles apart because having you transcends that.” I push on him, and this time he lets me go. I can’t touch him anymore. It hurts too much. “If you do this, if you want to pretend that we’re just friends or whatever, I can’t promise you how I’ll feel when I get back. But I know how I feel now. I love you. I’ve loved you for a while, and I love you enough to stay faithful to you. And if that’s not enough for you, then I have nothing else.”

I walk away, my eyes burning as the wind blows tears across my cheeks. I can’t keep arguing with someone who’s convinced they’re doing the right thing.

To her credit, my mother doesn’t offer any of her usual man-hating advice. She lets me cry alone in my room, bringing me tea when it starts to get late.

When I wake up around three a.m. to use the bathroom, I hear her in the living room, speaking in hushed tones on the phone. Interestingly, this isn’t the first time. Curiosity piqued despite my half-awake state, I lean against the wall separating the hall from the living room and listen in. Does she have a new man or something?

But then she says something about me. And New York. And when I hearher whisper Arlo’s name, something in me calms. My mom’s talking to my dad.

* * *

“You don’t have to come in,” I say, chewing nervously at my thumbnail as we approach San Jose International. “Parking’s expensive.”

“Screw the parking, little bird. You’ll be gone a while,” Mom says. “Let me at least help you get your bags checked.”

I nod, secretly glad. I’ve never been on a plane. Shoot, the only time I’ve ever been out of state was when we went to Las Vegas with Gramma Kate and her best friend Maureen. I was ten.

“You have your passport, right?” Mom asks, for about the thirtieth time. Sometimes the item in question varies: passport, toothbrush, debit card, phone charger.

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