Tell Me That You're Mine

by Victoria De La O

  “Daddy,” Diego shouts, running to Marco.

  My ex-husband is standing in the driveway when we get home because he no longer has a key. He’s wearing the burgundy jacket I got him many Christmases ago when I thought he looked handsome in fall colors.

  “Hey, buddy.” Marco holds Diego so tight that it tears my heart up.

  For all of Marco’s problems, loving his son was never one of them. In Mexico, when a parent says a child is “el niño de mis ojos,” it means they are one and the same. That describes Marco and Diego to a T: skin like coffee with cream, a stocky body, and a brooding nature. When I met Marco, he seemed solid and masculine—a throwback to a time when men had deep feelings, but held them much closer to the chest. I didn’t understand how tightly Marco was holding his until it was too late.

  “Hi, Eva.”

  Marco stands further back from me than is necessary—still burned by my attempt to establish distance between us. He used to put a casual hand on my waist or arm, but I finally broke him of the habit a year ago. It’s worth getting a little bit of cold shoulder if it means I’m no longer a complete pushover. I know his issues aren’t his fault, but they are his responsibility.

  “Someone’s moving into the little house,” Diego says, steering Marco toward the front door. I prefer him to stay outside so he doesn’t end up talking to me for an hour, but I’m not going to be a hardass about it.

  “You found a new renter?” Marco asks me, his feet kicking yellow leaves that have fallen from the neighbor’s tree.

  “Yeah.” That’s as much detail as I’m going into, considering he doesn’t like me renting the studio to men and I don’t want to get into it with him.

  “I wish you would make it an office.”

  “The extra income is nice.”

  “Maybe I could help you out.”

  “How, exactly?”

  I regret it the minute I say it, because Diego is listening, and I promised myself I would never cut down his father in front of him. It’s so hard, though, when Marco’s standing here judging, offering support we both know he can’t provide.

  Marco looks at the ground, diminished by my words.

  “Why don’t you come in?” I open the door wider as a peace offering and he steps inside.

  I wipe my feet on the front mat, not that there’s mud on my shoes. It’s been a dry summer and the August sun is still out in force. The front lawn looks weary and needs a good mowing, but that’s last on my priority list. I look forward to the day Diego can take on that task without me worrying he’ll lose a finger.

  The minute Marco has crossed the threshold, Diego sweeps him away to show off his new Lego set.

  I sit in the kitchen listening to them play, guilt gutting me deep. I pick up the timer that I use to monitor Diego’s TV time and toss it from hand to hand. It’s shaped like a brown dog with big black ears, but some of the black paint has worn away.

  I didn’t want to break up our family. At the time, I believed the consequences of us staying together would have been worse. I still do. Some days it’s easy to forget, though.

  The TV in the front room goes on and Marco appears at the kitchen entryway.

  “He’s watching Bob the Builder.” He’s leaning in like he wants to enter but is too afraid.

  “Come sit,” I tell him, kicking one of our Ikea dining chairs out with my foot. So much for not being a pushover.

  He drops down like someone kicked the backs of his knees. Marco always moves heavily, never passing through the world with ease.

  “How are things?” he asks.

  “Fine.”

  “Tell me the truth. You hurting that bad for money?”

  I look out the kitchen window at my neighbor’s house, wishing I was in it. “No. But the rent will help pay for some extras. Diego needs tutoring.”

  Marco brings his hand down on the table and I jump.

  “He’s too young to worry about that already. They’re trying to label him. He’s a smart kid.”

  “I know, but they want to stay on top of it.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Okay. So you need help with that?”

  “You don’t have any extra to spare either. And with your job situation . . .”

  “My job is fine. Do you have to assume the worst?”

  I put my hand to my forehead to dull the ache forming there. Marco went through six jobs in the first three years of our marriage and was barely employed toward the end. He’s on his medication and in therapy now, I remind myself.

  As long as it stays that way, he can be a part of his son’s life.

  “We’re fine. Really. You’re already paying child support.”

  “I know it’s not much.” He traces the edge of the green placemat with his thumb.

  “You basically gave us this house.”

  He shrugs. “You remember how we had no furniture when we moved in here?”

  Marco and I didn’t have squat when we got married, given that I was twenty and he was in the Army. What we did have was the rush of first love and a heavy dose of lust.

  I was nineteen and drunk on college freedom when I met Marco at a party. He was wearing his uniform, and within five minutes I knew we’d end up together. No way could I have guessed that a year later, some far-away war I barely understood would coerce us into getting married. I knew we were being foolish; we were too young and immature to make a lifetime commitment. But by then I’d defended our decision to everyone in my life and I couldn’t back down.

  The cracks in our marriage started forming and spreading before our one-year anniversary. We started to want different things. Marco didn’t think about life after the Army, while I was determined to get my degree and do something with it. And then his insecurity kicked into high gear. The phone calls he used to make to say he loved me got too frequent and felt like interrogations. He had emotional outbursts over trivial issues—plans with friends that didn’t work out, or changes to my class schedule. The warning signs were there, but it was too late; I was pregnant.

  “We bought a futon off that guy, Walter, and it smelled like dog in our living room for a year,” I say, a mix of emotions hitting me square in the chest.

  “Things got better, though.” His voice is wistful, like he still misses those times.

  And then worse. I try not to think about the worse.

  Marco’s gripping the placemat now. He relaxes his fingers when he sees me notice.

  “I’m always going to be grateful for the house,” I say. “And I promise we’re going to be okay.”

  Marco’s parents forked over most of the down payment, and my parents helped with the rest. His parents never forgave him for walking away from his share, but I loved him for it.

  He stares at me, still needing reassurance. Always more reassurance.

  I lean back in my chair hard enough that the front two legs come off the ground. “We’re fine. You’re going to have to take my word for it. What did you come by for?”

  This drop-in visit is an uncomfortable reminder of the six months after the divorce, when Marco thought stopping by unannounced was okay. I’ve spent so much energy defining boundaries with him, arranging visitation schedules for Diego, arguing over our differing parenting styles. In fact, I’ve worked as hard on my divorce as I did on my marriage.

  “I needed to see him today,” Marco says, looking as tired as I am. “Needed to hear his voice.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing that you need to worry about anymore.” He sounds like he’s biting off the words as he says them.

  He didn’t think that last week when he asked me to help him sort out a problem with his insurance. Or a month ago when he got his weekend with Diego mixed up and we had to switch at the last minute.

  I can choose to focus on bitterness and view his visit as manipulation; Marco’s never made a secret of the fact that he hopes to win me back someday. I don’t think he still really loves me—just that he can’t stand that he lost me. Bu
t my therapist told me to assume good intentions and to leave negative thoughts behind.

  I didn’t pay all that freaking money for nothing.

  “You’re right. It’s not my place to ask,” I say.

  He blows out a breath. “I’ll pick him up next weekend.”

  On his way out, Marco lifts Diego up in the air and gives him a big kiss. Diego waves his arms high—secure that daddy is never going to let him fall. For now, it doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not, as long as Diego believes it.

  Chapter 5: Ryan

  By some miracle, I find a table at the back of the bar big enough for me, Brett, and Jim. I scan the place with fresh eyes; that unfamiliar, out-of-place feeling I’ve had since I got home still lingering.

  Next to me, a loud group of people dressed in business casual are blowing off steam. A pang of loneliness hits me.

  The noise in the bar is overwhelming for a minute until I settle into it. When I left Kyoto, I traveled the countryside for almost a month. There was so much room to breathe that I almost couldn’t at first. Now I miss the tranquility, and crowded places give me brief bouts of claustrophobia.

  “Live and in person,” Brett says, slapping me on the back.

  “Hey.” I stand up and pull Brett into a hug. He’s filled out since I last saw him, which is a good thing because he’s always had the metabolism of a rabbit and the skinny frame to show for it. Not so much anymore, though.

  “You look d-different.” I point to his hair, which is styled—like with actual mousse.

  He waves me off. “Jim texted and said he isn’t coming. Something came up with his girlfriend. But he’ll be there to help you move.”

  I should hope so. I’ve known Brett since my first year of college—Jim even longer. The three of us rely on each other a lot.

  “How long has he been s-seeing this woman? He was c-cagey about it when I asked.” I flag down the waitress and order two beers. She has the look of someone who was ready to be off work an hour ago and barely acknowledges me as she runs to another table.

  “Six months.”

  “A r-record for him. He must be into her.”

  Brett shifts around in his seat. “Yeah. She’s nice. You know how he is, though.”

  Yes, I do. He leases his car so he can trade in every year. He gets upset if he doesn’t have the newest iPhone on day one.

  “What about you?” Our Bellpenny beers arrive—my favorite local draft.

  “Same old, same old. Busting it at work.” He pauses. “Been dating this girl named Daphne.”

  The hair, the physical changes—they all make sense now. “Is this n-new?”

  “Kind of. It’s cool, though.”

  “Congrats.” I tap my beer against his in a toast.

  I feel like I missed a step coming down a flight of stairs. Life here went on without me, and I’m trying to catch up.

  “Is Jude still butthurt that you’re moving?”

  “Yeah. Can’t c-come soon enough for me, though.”

  “I’ll bet.” Brett has to raise his voice a little for me to hear him. “He’ll get over it.”

  I know he’s dying to elaborate on how Jude’s easing his woes in bed with Lizzie, but he holds his tongue like a good friend should.

  “We’ll be fine. I’m too b-busy to worry about that anyway.”

  Brett nods in agreement, even though he probably knows I’m lying. Jude and I have been best friends since before I can remember.

  “Tell me m-more about Daphne.”

  “She’s a project manager at eBay. She’s really cool. I think you’ll like her. Only downside is she’s a vegan. Like, a hardcore one.” He stares down at his bottle, lost in thoughts of her. Emotions pass through him in rapid succession—affection, humor, gratitude. I recognize the symptoms.

  “Wow, you’re already really into her.”

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  For having three sisters, Brett is awfully scared of women. Or maybe it’s because of his sisters. It couldn’t have helped that he looked like a spotted scarecrow in high school, his acne visible even from afar. I wasn’t any better, getting tongue-tied every time I talked to a girl who was halfway interesting. I wish I’d known Brett in high school. We could have commiserated.

  We talk long into the night, but my focus is split between Brett and a weird uneasiness. Life has moved so much faster since I got my degree, and I can’t slow it down. All this change—in my friends, in myself, in my living situation—is exciting but bizarre, like I’m being hurtled face-first into an alternate reality.

  My goal now is to avoid doing a faceplant.

  * * *

  “Don’t forget to take this,” Jude says, handing me Mom’s green glass chicken—the one that sat near the stove for as long as I can remember.

  I’ve been packing my stuff for a couple hours now and Jude’s been noticeably absent. Usually, he’d be fretting over what I’m doing and refolding clothes I’d already thrown in my suitcase. Especially since Lizzie’s working at the hospital tonight and he’s got nothing better to do.

  So the grudge continues, then.

  “You k-kept it.” I run my thumb along the chicken’s glass ridges, picturing Mom as she cooked dinner, her hair thrown up in a messy clip, pointing a spatula at us as she talked. The edges of these memories get fuzzier as time passes and I’m terrified that someday they will be gone.

  This chicken was one of the handful of things we were able to take with us to our uncle’s after Mom died. Such a dumb thing to hold onto. So precious.

  He shrugs. “There’s some other stuff of hers in the closet if you want any of it. It’s mostly junk.”

  Which he probably encased in bubble wrap and placed lovingly in a box. Ah, Jude.

  “Weird I don’t have m-more stuff,” I say, looking at my diminutive stack of boxes—mostly filled with books.

  “You need something? A couch? Table?”

  “There’s not room for m-much. Brett gave me his old couch, and I’m b-buying a couple other things.”

  “Why don’t you let me do that?” Jude’s tone has cooled.

  “B-because I want to do it.”

  His teeth snap together and he storms out. I chase after him, as usual. It’s not that he’s running away, really, but Jude needs to be on the move when he’s full of emotion. Sure enough, he’s in the kitchen unloading the clean dishes in the dishwasher when I catch up to him. The clang of the dinner plates makes me fear for their existence.

  “This would be a l-lot easier if you’d t-tell me why you’re pissed.”

  He grabs a stack of blue dishes and shoves them in the cupboard. “Don’t sweat it. I would offer to help drive your stuff over tomorrow, but you’ll probably tell me to fuck off.”

  “So you’re m-mad I want to be independent? Do I need to remind you why I have to move out in the first p-place?”

  He slams the cupboard shut. “You had no problem leaving last time.”

  And we’ve finally come down to it. I must be rusty, because it took me longer to figure this one out then it should have. My anger boils over.

  “Seriously? What the fuck d-did you expect? I was gonna s-stick around and watch the Jude and Lizzie show unfold?”

  “You disappeared to another continent. Left a fucking note.” He grips the edge of the counter like he’s on a high wire with no net underneath.

  “You and Lizzie m-might not be together if I hadn’t. I needed to get out of your w-way.”

  “I didn’t deserve a goodbye?”

  I’m still holding the glass chicken, so I stare into its beady little eyes. This is a gift that comes with strings. “Maybe you ought to keep this.” I shove the chicken into Jude’s hands.

  “I don’t want it.” He pushes it back at me.

  “Don’t be a dick.” I practically toss the chicken at him.

  I forget Jude’s hands are damp from the dishes. The chicken slides right through them onto the counter, where the head cracks off and rolls sideways. We b
oth stare down at it, neither of us picking it up. It feels like a murder.

  I lean against the sink for support. “I didn’t know how to say goodbye out l-loud.”

  Up until I left for Japan, Jude and I had spent almost every day of our lives together. I was the one constant in a life filled with illness and death and uncertainty. Even though I did the right thing by leaving, it’s possible I went about it all wrong. At the time, I needed to get away in a hurry.

  “You were punishing me.”

  “N-no. I was scared you would have convinced me to s-stay.”

  I can practically see the gears in his head turning, weighing everything we’ve been through, everything he knows about me. Finally, his shoulders lower. “Probably.”

  And I know that’s the end of it for him. Lots of build-up with Jude, but very little explosion. There’s one more thing that needs to be said before I can put this to rest, though.

  “Stop l-looking at me like I’m going to steal Lizzie.”

  He stares at me, creepy in his silence.

  I throw up my hands. “For fuck’s sake. I’m the one that t-told you to go after h-her.”

  “How do I know she won’t fall back in love with you?”

  My brother has some fucking nerve—so much so that I can’t help but admire it. Plus, I know it took a lot for him to admit he’s afraid.

  “B-because she was never in love with me. She was too preoccupied with staying out of l-love with you.”

  After a long moment, he reaches in the fridge and pulls out peanut butter and jelly. I watch him as he covers every square inch of two slices of bread, cuts the sandwich in half, and hands one to me.

  We eat in silence.

  “Perfect sandwich,” I say, dusting crumbs off my hands.

  He glances down at the chicken. “We can probably save it.”

  He might be right; the crack is pretty clean. “I’ll get the glue.”

  * * *

  Eva’s made it clear she wants my time as her renter to be as transactional and impersonal as possible, so I let myself in to my new home with the key she left for me.

  The studio is nothing but a yawning, empty space, waiting to be filled with someone’s things. Mementos from a college trip, photos of family gatherings, or an end table that has a bottle ring on it because they forgot to use a coaster one time.