Page 94 of Dead Set on You
Rafael swallows before he answers. “Me and Jorge Luis?” I nod. “He’s ten years older than me and Lupe’s brother, but she and I have always been closest of the three. He was the good kid. Knew what he wanted his entire life. Went to culinary school, moved to Michigan, opened a restaurant in Grand Rapids, and has been doing that since. I see him when he visits, and the rest I get from social media.” He holds another spoonful of soup tohis lips. “What about you? Do you have any family you’re close to?” His tone turns tentative when he asks this last part. I’ve never talked about family, and he’s never pushed.
“No,” I say, also tentatively. “My mother was—is—complicated. Annie and I were nuisances to her more than anything, baggage she couldn’t get rid of, especially after Annie’s diagnosis. Some days she forgot we existed. Other days we were in her way.” I glance at Rafael, expecting pity or discomfort, but his expression is unreadable. “She was always chasing something—someone. She never told us who our father was or if he was even alive. I wonder if she even knew.” I used to be embarrassed by this truth, but telling Rafael is easier than I expected. Maybe because he’s not judging me or my past, one I’ve tried so hard to outrun. “She didn’t take care of Annie like she should have, and Annie died when I think she could have been saved.” I take a deep breath, the ache of talking about it duller now but still there. “The last time I spoke to her was almost fifteen years ago.”
I exhale, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Beyond that, I had my mother’s aunt—Julia—and Annie, and it was enough. For as long as I had them, it was enough,” I add. “But I lost them both.”
Rafael leans forward slightly, as if hanging on each word. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I say, smiling to myself. “Time makes it hurt less. And Annie used to tell me that when someone we love dies, they become teeny-tiny so they can go and live in our hearts.” I rub the place over my chest where Annie once said the dad we never got to meet had gone to live. She assumed the only reason he wasn’t in our lives was because he’d died. I didn’t argue. I didn’t know the truth—because our mother refused to tell us. Because according to her, our dad didn’t want us.
That was Margot’s bedtime story—the one she’d tell when she was drunk enough to be honest but bitter enough to twist it. Our dad, some nameless, faceless man, had stolen her dreams.Tricked her into a life of diapers and screaming kids. He had promised her the world and then abandoned her in a trailer park, saddled with two daughters and no way out. She told us we should be grateful she kept us. That plenty of women would have dumped us on the side of the road.
I used to believe her. Annie never did.
I swallow past the old bitterness. “So, when I could finally accept that Annie wasn’t here anymore, I started thinking of her as living in my heart and began talking to her again. It helped me get through a lot—like living in a basement with Roger the Rat.”
“You had a pet rat?” Rafael’s eyebrows shoot up, spoon clattering into the bowl.
I laugh, glad to shake off the memory of Margot. “No! He just came with my first ‘apartment,’ if you can call a dingy basement an apartment.” I shudder at the memory of falling asleep with my blanket wrapped around me and a baseball bat strapped across my chest. “I never actually saw him, but I knew he was there because of holes in clothing and the less savory evidence he left behind, but I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“No doubt you made it work, E.”
My cheeks warm at the honesty in his voice. I glance down at my hands. “I don’t know why I’m sharing this. It’s …”
“Okay to share,” he finishes for me. “I’ve sat next to you for so many years. I know so much about you but so little aboutyou.”
“What does that even mean?” I laugh to keep things light and airy, because I’m nervous about going down the path of personal and intimate.Chicken,one of the Evies says.
“I mean—I know you prefer spicy food and green teas, have run at least four marathons, would choose stiletto heels to most other shoe types, hate tardiness, disorganization, and phones that aren’t silenced, and you have a weird fascination with ABBA.” Rafael pops up a finger for each item as he goes down his list.
“It’s not weird!” I chirp, straightening.
“Poor word choice. I meantunique.”
“ABBAisone of a kind.”
He raises his arms in surrender. “I can be converted.”
I narrow my eyes. “You just wait.”
“Happily.” His tone turns serious, and the one word—the promise there—sends a kiss of goose bumps across my skin. My ghost skin. Plasma. Whatever it is.
The reminder douses the heat and fills my chest with other things. Despair. Hopelessness. Sadness. I take a deep, deep breath and push it out. “What is it that youdon’tknow, then?”
“Things about your life outside of work—friends and family. Your past. Your life before Media Lab. Where you used to rush to on Wednesday evenings. There’s a lot I haven’t been able to learn from the sidelines.”
“I wasn’t going to give you more ammo,” I huff dramatically. “Clearly, you had more than enough.” More than I could ever imagine.
Rafael shakes his head. “I wasn’t going to use it against you, you know. Despite what you might have thought.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to believe you when not three seconds ago you made fun of my choice in music?”
Rafael chuckles. “ ‘Mamma Mia’? ‘Super Trouper’? Really?”
“They’re musical geniuses, and I will not be dissuaded!”
“I wouldn’t dare, E.” He begins to wipe down the countertop, humming “Mamma Mia” beneath his breath.
“You’re the worst,” I grumble, wishing I could throw a towel or a mug at his smug face.
