Page 150 of Becoming Us
A breathless, bitter laugh escaped me.
“Ready to keep going?” my mother asked, far too cheerfully, peeking through the doorframe.
Atty looked at me.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s keep going.”
We walked the rest of the apartment while she delivered her running commentary. I stayed behind, eyes fixed on her back.
I knew she hadn’t been present. She never noticed anything unless it had something to do with her. But didn’t this count? Wasn’t there some kind of instinct that should’ve made her stop and wonder why that picture felt wrong? Of course not. Even with all her trying and so-called changing, she was still the same. If it didn’t touch her, it didn’t matter.Ididn’t matter.
I shook the thought away.
Later, Noah. Later.
I glanced at my watch. Two and a half more hours.
“Wasn’t Matias going to be here?” I asked Ilana.
She grimaced, leaning closer to me and keeping her voice low. “He canceled at the last minute.”
“Why?”
She looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. And then I got it.
“He didn’t know I was coming, did he?”
Reluctantly, she shook her head.
Figures. Why the hell my stomach sank, I had no idea. I was still pissed at him—at them—for ditching Dad for no fucking reason other than money. And apparently, that same petty logic extended to me. Even though I never asked for any of it. Never wanted to be handed his role like some twisted consolation prize.
“They’re assholes, Noh. Don’t let it get to you,” Ilana said softly.
I turned to her, surprised. I’d never heard her say anything bad about them before. And that expression on her face—it wasn’t resentment. Her eyes were kind.
We didn’t look or act much alike—she took after Dad’s side of the family. When I was younger, I used to think that was why we’d never been close, that the difference in our personalities had created the space between us. We were different in every way. Ilana had always been shy, quiet, and reserved, while I…wasn’t. But that was a bullshit reason. I knew whose fault it really was.
“Noah,” she said.
“Yeah?”
She parted her lips, but right then, our mother turned to us, and she clamped them shut.
“Let’s join the rest of the group!” Mom said, tugging Atty along.
He managed to politely wiggle his way free as we reached the living room and her attention shifted elsewhere. Without hesitation, he reached for my hand and laced our fingers together, gripping tight. Comforting.
Drinks turned into my mother’s boyfriend delivering a dramatic monologue about his undying love for her and how thankful he was that the wholefamilyhad finally come together. My mind kept drifting back to a fractured picture in my room—and the person who had hung it there.
Each second that passed made my heartbeat feel stranger, the rhythm off. The world around me warped—the quiet moments too still, the bursts of laughter too sharp, the clink of ice against glass jarring in my ears. My legs ached to move. Mostly begging me to run.
When we moved to the table, panic settled like a weight in my chest. I couldn’t eat.
I covered my glass with my hand. “Water, thanks,” I told the server, who’d tried to pour wine for the third time.
They served the food in the center of the table, family-style, which only added to the awkwardness. That definitely wasn’t how things had ever worked in the Rossi household.
I leaned forward slightly and caught Ilana’s eye. She wore the same flabbergasted expression I probably had. She just shrugged and hesitantly reached for a serving spoon as our mom encouraged us to dig in. At least I wasn’t the only one feeling whiplash from this whole production.
