Page 3 of Always You
“Mommy, can I have some?”
“Sure.” It’s a healthy snack, so why not? I hand the man a ten-dollar bill. As we wait for the older man to prepare our fruit, my eyes narrow as I study a man who seems strangely familiar. I’m certain I’ve seen him before. The man leans against a wall. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses. He seems to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and his eyes turn toward me. He slips his phone into his jeans.
“Gracias, señorita.” The older man hands me a cup of fruit.
I twist around to see if the man is still there. He’s gone. I feel like I’ve seen him in Manhattan before, but that can’t be why he would be here. I brush it off and buckle Dante in his seat, heading back home to our townhouse in the suburbs of San Diego. My best friend Sophie and I share a townhouse together. My mind drifts to how I met Sophie in New York. I had just entered the University of Photography with the help of Uncle Roger, who is a photographer himself, and his connections. Sophie had taken one look at me and asked if she could rub my pregnant belly. We’ve been best friends ever since. I smile thinking about our move out here to California where we are now the proud owners of Glamours Photography Studio.
I look up at Dante through the rearview mirror and say, “Let’s see if Auntie Sophie’s home, okay?”
He takes a bite of his fruit and nods.
* * *
I stumble down the stairs after groggily waking up. I brew myself a cup of coffee and grab two painkillers for my throbbing headache. The front door swings open. Sophie walks in from her morning run. She pulls out her AirPods, studies me, and shakes her head. I sigh, knowing she’s going to hound me. Since we moved to California, she’s been badgering me more than ever.
“How did you sleep?” my best friend asks, arching her brows as she examines my puffy eyes.
“Fine,” I lie.
She huffs, opening the fridge for a water bottle. After setting it on the counter, she puts her lengthy, blonde, wavy hair in a bun.
“Dammit, Mila, you think after all these years I don’t notice you’re lying through your teeth?” She narrows her eyes and crosses her arms, her mouth tightening into a thin line. Her gaze is piercing, as if she’s looking right through me, making it clear that she knows I’m lying.
Screams from the night of the fire have been a constant presence in my dreams. Since my dad passed away, I have had the same dream every night.
“Sophie, I’m good. Honestly.” I love my best friend like a sister. I know she means well, but fuck, I’m tired of being badgered by her.
“Mila, you can’t go on like this, sleep-deprived, carrying this burden; it’s bringing you down. The nightmares of the fire, losing your mom and dad, and losing Dominic. He would have wanted you to move on and be happy.”
I throw a bagel in the toaster and do my best to ignore her repetitive lecture. But she continues.
“Losing Dominic and your father… You suffered a great deal of trauma because of it. Which is understandable. I think you should attempt going to therapy again.” Leaning against the counter, her sparkly blue eyes bore into mine.
My bagels pop up from the toaster and I spread a generous amount of strawberry jelly on them.
“I went to therapy in Manhattan—”
My best friend cuts me off. “Fuck, Mila, you went for two weeks. You can’t live like this with the guilt of your dad dying in the fire. And not letting Dominic go, I know you didn’t get closure, his family ghosting you, not telling you shit about him or the funeral. You promised me you would try to live. To date, to fall in love, to be happy, Mila.”
I groan, growing irritated.
“And I’ve told you I’m not going to therapy; I don’t need it. Yes, I said I would give dating a try and start fresh in California. I will when I feel ready.”
She gives me a worried look. And she’s not done. “Mila, you have been through so much. Just think about it, please. I just want to see you happy.”
I heave in annoyance. “Yes, sure, I’ll think about it,” I lie, and she knows it.
“Thank you, that’s all I ask.”
I give her a tight hug. She’s always been there for Dante and me.
I lasted two weeks of therapy. The first week she suggested I write in a journal, jotting my feelings down. So, I did. I wrote to Dominic about how my life was not the same without him. I missed his voice, the way he said my name. The way he felt. I told him about college life and how we were supposed to attend college together. The second week, the therapist suggested I try to have guy friends and date. She asked if any guys at school had caught my attention. I told her about a guy who was constantly flirting and asked me out. She suggested I take him up on the offer. So, I did, kinda.
While in line at the café, he offered to buy my lunch, so I let him. The next thing I knew, we ended up in a vacant classroom, where he kissed me savagely and bent me over the table. The next minute, he was thrusting inside me. Once, we both came off our high, I panicked. I ran out of the room crying. Guilt consumed me. I had erased Dominic’s touch, his lips on mine. He had been the last man to kiss me, to touch me. I felt like I was sinking into a deep, dark abyss, full of sorrow and despair. I never returned to counseling.
* * *
I scurry up the stairs to wake up my sleeping baby for his first day of pre-school. “Morning, baby, time for your big day.”
