Page 18 of Lies in Promises
Eventually, she puts the mug down and answers my question.
“I was waiting for the bus to pass by. The ride I had lined up conveniently forgot they agreed to pick me up after my appointment.”
“Why not wait for the bus inside?”
Marisela gives me a shrug. “I like the rain. Something about the coldness of the water hitting my skin makes me feel like everything is right in the world.”
Bennett would have said the opposite.
“Why are you making that face?”
“What face?” The question leaves my lips before I pick up my own mug and take a drink.
“The face that says I’m crazy for liking the rain.” For someone I met only forty minutes ago, she can already read me like a book.
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” I respond. “If I made a face, I’m sorry. Your words just remind me of my brother. He told me once that bad things happen when it rains.”
“Do you believe that?” she asks, curiosity coating her voice.
I don’t even hesitate to answer the question. “Yeah, I do.”
Marisela is silent for a minute, just looking at me as if she is trying to decipher my response.
“What are some bad things that happened when it was raining?” she asks, and as much as I want to tell her everything, I don’t. Instead, I turn the questions back to her.
“I’ll answer that when you answer a question of mine.”
She gives me a nod, like that’s what she expected from me.
“What do you want to know?” The question leaves her mouth as she starts pulling her hair back into a bun. When her hair is up and away from her face, I miss seeing it down.
“How old are you?” I start off easy.
“Eighteen. You?”
“Same. Are you from Austin?”
Marisela shakes her head. “I’m from Mexico, but I’m here for school.”
“Where in Mexico are you from?” I ask, and Marisela just raises an eyebrow at me, like she’s telling me I can’t avoid her question forever.
She doesn’t push me, though; she simply answers my question.
“Mazatlán. It’s in Sinaloa.”
The way she says it is clipped, like she doesn’t want me to press her on it.
“I know where it is. My parents actually lived there for about a year before I was born. We went back a few times when I was a kid,” I say to her, hoping the scrunched look on her face will go away.
“Small world,” she states, her tone still clipped.
“Very,” I say, my eyes not moving from her. “Do you have plans on going back?” I ask, trying to break the tension seemingly rolling through her.
Her mouth forms a tight line, and for a second, I don’t think she’s going to answer, but eventually, she lets out a sigh. From the looks of it, the tension rolls a bit off her shoulders.
“Honestly? If it were up to me, I wouldn’t go back. I would stay here in Austin, or maybe go out to California and just live life, but that isn’t in the cards for me. I’m slated to go back as soon as I graduate from high school.”
I want to ask why. I want to ask her what’s so important that she has to go back. I want to ask why she can’t just live her life. Every single question is on the tip of my tongue, but I stop them from coming out.
