Page 27 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
The stones lie belly-up on his palm, thick and dark, like tattoos.
“Yes, I…” But then I stopped, because he was right. I hadn’t. “Oh.”
As I stared at the rocks, I remembered a different moment on this beach. A moment from when Henry was still alive. Dad showed us how to check skipping stones for bumps and ridges, then spin them just so. His flew like frisbees and bounced once, twice, three, four, five, six,seventimes before tumbling gracefully into the water. Henry and I copied his form. With a few tries, my brother managed two or three skips. I couldn’t get even one.
I said, “How are they, then?”
“Busy.”
I waited for more.
When he said nothing else, I asked, “Have you ever considered that the reason I don’t ask you about your parents is that when I do, you give me cryptic answers like that? Answers that make it seem like you have no interest in talking about them?”
He ignored me. He’d found the rock he wanted and was turning it over in his fingers. “Is it really that hard to believe that I’m close with Karma?” he asked. “I mean—God. I didn’taskto be adopted into this family. You basically forced it onto me. So sue me for wanting to stay in touch.”
“But youhavea family.”
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“I’m serious. You have parents. You have Valentina.” I almost sounded like I was pleading. “You have ten thousand aunts and uncles andprimosin Colombia. That’s your family. That’s yourreal family.Not us.”
I was lying. Flagrantly. Violently. Manuel’s parents are best friends. Their lives are each other; their son is a mildly entertaining afterthought. I know this fact better than anyone. HeknowsI know.
“And what about you, huh?” Manuel asked. “Independent Eliot, all alone in her apartment. How does that feel, really? Does it feel good? Or does it feel like nothing at all?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? You used to befun, Eliot. You used to drag me to parties and football games and all that other American bullshit I had no interest in doing. That wasyouridea. And now what? What do you do in New York? Anything? Do you even have friends?”
“Of course I have friends.”
“Oh, really? Name one.”
His words cut dangerously close to truth. In New York, the only people I go out with are my coworkers, and only when dragged.
They’re a different breed, my coworkers—the type of pseudo adults who snorted Xanax off their parents’ coffee tables in high school. They grew up in New York or Connecticut. They eat sixteen-dollar bowls of rice for lunch and their principal interest is which bar they went to the weekend before. They’re named Matt, Matt, or Matt. I tried eating with them my first two weeks on the job, but I learned quickly to steer clear. Their conversations, their competitions, the judgment and insecurity—the breakroom fogs up with it. It gathers in sweaty droplets at the lip of my water bottle. It chokes me. Leaves me with nothing to say. In high school, I ate lunch with the same person every single day. We said everything to each other, or we said nothing. It didn’t matter. But not in New York. In NewYork, nothing that came out of my mouth sounded like me. My voice was too loud, my words too juvenile. Better not to risk it. Better to stare wordlessly at the neon light of the vending machine and never open my mouth, not once.
So, no. I didn’t have many friends in New York. But I wasn’t going to tell Manuel that.
I hardened my voice, tried to keep it from shaking. “I hurt you, Manuel. I hurt you as hard as I possibly could. I ignored your calls. I ignored your texts. I pretended you didn’t exist for three whole years. Yet here you are. And you can pretend all you want not to be angry with me, but you are. I know you are.”
His eyes turned to almond flames.
“What do you want me to say, Eliot?” He stepped closer. “Do you really want to know how much it broke me when you cut me out of your life? Do you want me to tell you how I was depressed for months? How I had to hide from my roommates, to put on flip-flops and a bathrobe and walk down the hall to the communal bathroom just so I could sob my stupid, foolish, pathetic eyes out? How I ran to your sister for comfort because she was the closest thing I had to you?”
No. I didn’t want to hear it.
“Or maybe you’d rather hear about howfuncollege is. All the friends I’ve made. The parties I’ve been to, the girls I’ve fucked. Maybe that’s what you want to hear.” He stepped back. His large frame wobbled. “You know what? So what if I’m here for revenge, huh? Shouldn’t I be? Don’t I deserve it, after all this time?”
“You’re drunk.”
“Maybe I am. But am I wrong?”
I said nothing.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “You can avoid me for now, Eliot, but not forever.”
“You’re right,” I said, the words equal parts anger and slipperydesperation. “Youshouldhate me. Okay? In fact, you shouldn’t eventrustme. I’ve given you no reason to. So just stop. Stop talking to me. Stop trusting me. Trust me, it’s better that way.”
