I swing by on my way home and get Diego from after-school care. Mrs. Khan looks more than ready for the remaining kids to be picked up, but the room is cheerfully covered in the kids’ collages and painting projects.
Diego sags the minute he gets into the car.
“You look tired today, baby.” I make sure his seatbelt is buckled and run a hand through his soft hair.
“Yeah.”
“Something wrong?”
“Uh-uh.” His arms are crossed over his chest, like he’s hugging his problems to himself.
It’s difficult to get a confession out of him. A person’s will doesn’t correlate to their size, and Diego is as stubborn as they come. One time, I told him he couldn’t leave the table until he finished his carrots—one of those dumb threats you make and then have to live with whether you like it or not. Diego fell asleep, face down in his plate, and I had to carry him to bed.
But I have learned a few tricks over the years, one of which is to keep my ear to the ground.
“I heard Kevin got a new dog,” I say casually as I start the car. Kevin Nguyen—best friend and arch enemy because of his tendency to brag. When my son is upset, Kevin’s often the culprit.
“Who cares?” Diego sinks lower in his seat.
Guessed it in one. There’s no easy solution to this problem since I can’t—and won’t—take on the expense and care of a dog or cat, no matter how badly Diego wants one.
“I was thinking. What if you got a fish in your room?”
He tilts his chin so I know I’ve gotten his attention.
“You’d have to take care of it. Clean the tank, feed it every day.”
“Fish aren’t as good as dogs.” He’s resisting my bait so hard that his lips fold in and his fists clench.
“Still, it’s a pet.”
He wants the fish, but he’s caught up in righteous anger. I don’t know which will win out.
“Fish don’t do anything. Maybe daddy will get me a dog.”
He might as well pour lemon juice in that cut while he’s at it. I remind myself I’m the adult in this situation, even if I don’t feel like it right now.
“Dad can’t have pets at his apartment. I bet he’d go to the fish store with you, though.”
He shakes his head. There will be no changing his mind today.
“Alrighty. Well, you let me know if you reconsider.”
As we’re pulling into the driveway, he finally cracks. “What kind? Goldfish, betta, or guppy?”
I bet he could name a few dozen more varieties. “We can go take a look this weekend, if you want.”
He nods. “I’ll think about it.”
And he will, that little head of his spinning and spinning.
* * *
It’s warm and there’s still a burnt orange glow on the horizon, even at nine o’clock. A perfect California night. I’ve never lived in another state, and I probably never will. My family is here. My friends. My roots. And now Diego’s roots, too.
I live for this hour after Diego is asleep, dead to the world with his warm head heavy on the pillow. That’s when I sneak out to the back porch and breathe. My wicker love seat is cushy—the perfect place to read. I left the porch light off, the built-in light on my e-reader enough to do the job even now that the sun has set completely. It feels like when I was a kid, reading under the covers by flashlight.
Except now I might have a beer in my hand while reading.
A car door slams in the distance. I’m too wrapped up in my Russian spy thriller to think anything of it until I hear footsteps. Ryan. I want to slam my reader shut and flee, but only a child runs and hides.
Sure enough, he sees the glow of my light and moves closer.
“Eva?”
“Yes, it’s me. I’m reading.”
He comes close enough that I can finally see his face. It’s a good one.
“In the d-dark?”
I shrug.
He stands there a moment too long and my manners—or maybe my loneliness—get the best of me. There’s a warm breeze blowing, turning me languid and brave.
“Want to sit?” I ask, lifting my legs off the love seat.
He looks at the space next to me and blinks. “Sure.”
It’s a tighter squeeze than I thought it would be, our legs rubbing against each other. If I tilted my head it would rest on his shoulder.
Instead, I study his profile by the glow of the light coming from the living room window. His nose is long like the rest of his face and the corners of his eyes are turned down like he’s exhausted.
“Just get home from class?” I toe the canvas messenger bag he set on the ground.
He breathes out a sigh. “Yeah. Forgot how m-much night classes suck.”
“Especially after working all day.”
I take my unopened beer from the matching wicker side table and hand it to him.
“You sure?”
“You need it more than I do.”
He twists off the bottle cap and takes a long drink. “Thanks.”
He wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb and I can’t tear my eyes away from it.
“It’ll get easier,” I tell him.
“Will it?”
“I dropped out when I was very pregnant with Diego and had to finish up in night classes.”
“Going to school while p-pregnant—that had to be rough.”
“It was as fun as it sounds. My professors were nice—really helpful. But my friendships all tanked. They didn’t know how to relate to what I was going through. One of my good friends told me I wasn’t fun anymore because I couldn’t party.”
I remember Morgan’s face as she cornered me at a Starbucks and laid down the law. Such drama, but at the time it seemed important and heartbreaking. Now I can’t even remember her last name.
“Thank God for my parents. They helped out with Diego a lot so I could finish.”
Ryan turns to me, which means he has no choice but to readjust and sling his arm behind me. “What about Diego’s f-father?”
We were bound to get to this at some point.
“Complicated.”
Ryan doesn’t say anything. I’m left to linger in the awkward silence and it breaks me.
“We got married my sophomore year. We rushed because he was shipping out to Afghanistan. I got pregnant not long after, which was a surprise.”
More like a total, heart-stopping shock.
“Was he away a l-long time?”
There’s no judgment in Ryan’s voice, which is refreshing and appreciated.
“No. He was discharged for mental health issues.”
“Caused by the war?”
“Officially. But really, they started in high school. No one knew how bad they could get—not even Marco—until Kabul.” It’s so easy to get sucked back into the memories of his darkness and desperation—endless nights filled with a ranting husband and a crying baby—so I take a breath. “He struggled after he got home, so my parents filled in with Diego where he couldn’t.”
“You’ve done a g-good job.”
“You don’t really know that. I only did what I had to.”
He shrugs. “Diego seems great. And you’re here. You’re d-doing the work. Isn’t that the important thing?”
He hands me his bottle and I take a sip. It feels more intimate than it should—putting my mouth where his just was.
“You said your mom died and your brother helped raise you. Where was your dad?” I’m being nosy, but it feels like that kind of night.
“He left right after I was born.”
I take another drink. “I’m never going to understand that.”
“What?”
“How men can abandon their kids.”
Ryan sighs and tilts his head back. “It’s p-probably easier than you think. He didn’t want the responsibility or he got s-scared, so he walked. Once you’ve made that decision, you’re not g-going to look back. I’m sure he thinks he had his r-reasons.”
> “That’s fucking convenient. Leaving everyone else to pick up the pieces.”
He grabs the bottle and takes a drink. “That’s why no one looks b-back. They don’t want to see the mess t-trailing behind them.”
“Marco has his faults, but at least he tries to do the right thing. I work hard to make sure he and Diego have a good relationship.”
“That sounds t-tiring.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” I take the bottle and finish it off.
“So what do you d-do to relax?”
“This. I also call my sister. She tolerates zero self-pity—that’s a family trait, by the way—and she’s also good for a laugh.”
He sinks lower in the seat so his head rests more comfortably on the back. It goes quiet, but instead of filling the space we both relax into it. It’s so easy to be still and silent with Ryan, maybe because he’s comfortable in his own skin.
Eventually, his eyes start to close and his head tilts to the side, snapping him awake. “I better get to bed.”
“Thanks for taking a break with me.”
He gets up and grabs his bag. “Anytime.”
He sounds sincere, and I’m surprised how much I want to take him up on his offer. I haven’t liked someone this much in a long time.
It doesn’t occur to me until after Ryan’s gone: While I was worrying about how to keep myself from wanting him, he snuck in and started a friendship.
Chapter 7: Ryan
“I came p-prepared,” I tell Diego, holding up my messenger bag. “Did you?”
We’re sitting at the dining room table, Eva keeping watch from the kitchen. Probably best she stays in the background—not only for Diego’s sake, but for mine. Lusting after her in front of Diego isn’t cool. Still, I feel her there, pulling me to her like a siren, breaking my concentration.
The memory of her standing at my door with that toolbox, the look on her face in the mirror—like she wanted me. Like she wanted me to take her . . .
“It’s Saturday. Why do I have to go to school?” Diego says, getting me back on track.
That’s a seriously deep frown he’s sporting.
“This isn’t school. And it’ll b-be fun.”
He isn’t sold so I get out my supplies—theatrically, so he can get a good look. I start with the fancy pencils, followed by the erasers shaped like cookies and donuts, and finally—the big-ticket item—hologram animal stickers.
He cranes over my bag to see them.
“We’re g-going to work on letters today. Correct answers get you a—” I pause to figure out what kind of animal I’m holding—“lion or a panther.”
“That’s a jaguar,” he says, pointing at the sticker.
“Oh. Does that mean you don’t w-want it?”
“I want it.”
We spend the next fifteen minutes reviewing the alphabet. Vowels are particularly difficult for Diego, but that’s typical. I use pictures to reinforce the sounds the vowels make, but he gets frustrated when he mistakes the “e” sound for an “a.”
“Draw me a picture.” I take out some plain paper and a pencil.
He sits up straighter, the head of the T-Rex on his T-shirt coming into view. “Of what?”
“You said I needed s-something in my room. Maybe that shark you m-mentioned.”
“Okay.”
As he starts to draw, he focuses on the paper with laser intensity while I fidget in my rickety narrow Scandinavian dining chair. The modern furniture doesn’t match the old glass knickknacks and dishes that fill the room. They look like hand-me-downs, probably from aunts and grandmothers who collected them piece by piece. They’re small tokens, but they must have meant a lot to the women who took the time to pass them on.
Before I know it, ten minutes have gone by without Diego making a peep.
Man, I can relate. Since speaking wasn’t my thing, I wrote and drew all the time as a kid. I still do. This gives me a good idea of how to work with him.
“Can you sign your n-name for me?” I ask.
He labors over it a little, but he gets the job done.
I hand him a sticker.
He stares at it like it’s a piece of broccoli. “You said that was for getting stuff right.”
“I like the drawing. And you s-spelled your name correctly.”
“I’m not a dummy.” His small hand wraps around the pencil, gripping it tightly.
Eva, who has been hovering at the sink, turns her head sharply.
“Who said you were?”
He bites his lip, one of his front teeth shorter than the other. Clearly, he’s already gotten the message that he’s not up to par with the other kids, which is ridiculous since he’s only six. He’s too intuitive for his own good.
“Anyone that says that isn’t very s-smart. Different p-parts of us grow at different times. Your letter-learning p-part is still growing.”
He sets the pencil down and runs a finger over his sticker. “There’s no such thing.”
“Sure there is. In y-your brain.” I put my finger on the center of his forehead. “Someday it will c-catch up with the rest of you, and it will g-get easier.”
“What about your speaking part? Why didn’t it grow?”
If he only knew about all those years of speech therapy. Being pulled out of class with the same four kids every year, playing word games and practicing techniques over and over again. Watching some of the other kids grow out of their stutter and stop coming. After a while, it felt like too much work to keep trying to be perfect.
“Something in my b-brain makes me stutter. It would probably g-get better if I tried harder. But it will n-never go away completely.”
“Then why don’t you try harder?”
I lean down, knowing it’s ridiculous to make this bargain. “If you try with your letters,” I speak extra slowly, “I’ll try with my stutter.”
He nods and hands me a bat sticker.
* * *
“Ninety minutes of this woman. God help me,” the girl next to me whispers. She’s drawing a vase of flowers on her notes. The rose in the vase is fairly lifelike.
I don’t blame her. Being trapped in this education psych class, hearing about theories that don’t seem to have anything to do with the real world, isn’t fun for anyone. Also not helpful is Professor Talbot’s monotone voice or the fact that her class is an endless barrage of PowerPoints in fonts too small to read.
“Think she’s ever going to teach us anything useful?” my neighbor asks.
I smile but don’t say anything.
“I’m Adina, by the way.”
“Ryan.”
We go back to listening to the lecture, the classroom air getting more stagnant as the night wears on. The number of coughs increase, along with the people secretly texting under the tables. Finally, Talbot wraps up her lecture.
Adina reaches for her purse, which is half her size and covered in Ls and Vs. “What are you doing your paper on?”
“Not sure yet. You?”
“Still thinking about it. Let me know if you want to get a drink together—and brainstorm.”
Wow. Okay. I’ve noticed Adina before, mostly because she’s so short only her tiptoes touch the ground when she sits. Also, she’s cute.
She writes her number on a corner of the syllabus and rips it off. When she hands it to me, our fingers touch and I feel nothing.
She shoots me a flirtatious look and leaves.
I close my laptop and put it in my bag as people brush past me in their hurry to get out. I probably should take the opportunity Adina’s putting in front of me. After all, this was the year I was going to burn my safety net and step out onto a high wire.
Yet, I’m not remotely tempted to take her up on that drink.
I think a certain landlady already lured me out onto that wire while I wasn’t looking, and now I’m dangling twenty feet up in the air.
* * *
When I get home from class, I beeline straight for Eva, who’s reading on the back pati
o again. I don’t even pretend that I’m not going to sit with her.
Moth, say hello to your flame.
Her body is draped across her wicker love seat like the queen of her domain, which she is. She doesn’t care what I think—maybe what anyone thinks. Confidence drips from her pores.
Still, she moves over to make room for me.
There are so many questions I want to ask her, so many details I want to know, but a bit of tiptoeing is required. Otherwise, she’s liable to run like a rabbit.
“What are you r-reading?”
She leans over and grabs two bottles. I’m ridiculously happy when she hands me one. Looks like I’m not the only one who likes our nighttime talks.
“A thriller. Nothing you’d read, probably.”
She’s clearly seen my bookshelf.
“I read genre s-stuff, too. I like everything.”
She twists her cap off. “Good to know. Sometimes you English majors can be a pain in the ass.”
My laugh sounds loud in the quiet of the night. “True. And writers are even w-worse.”
“Oh, what do you write?” She puts her bare feet up on the ottoman.
She’s wearing shorts, so there’s nothing stopping my eyes from sliding up the endless expanse of her skin. I take a long drink of my beer.
“Non-fiction, mostly. And sometimes short stories about mopey p-people.”
“Can I read one sometime?”
That’s a very personal request, and I’m surprised she made it. Something has changed between us—maybe it happened while we were staring at each other in the mirror, maybe it was during our last conversation on this porch. Either way, Eva was like a bomb about to detonate and I may have finally cut the right wire.
I exhale.
“Everyone says that, but then it g-gets awkward once they read something and realize it sucks.”
She puts her elbow up and rests her head in her hand. “Well, if you don’t believe in what you write, no one else is going to either.”
I set my beer down. “Uh . . . okay.”
She shrugs. “I’m not wrong.”
I slink down in my seat. “No, I g-guess you’re not.”
I close my eyes and let myself settle down. This woman’s known me all of a few weeks, and she’s already got my number.
I don’t actually believe I have any business being a writer. The stories I read are works of art, filled with perfectly crafted words that illustrate truth. Their sentences leap off the page and change people’s consciousness. Which makes me want to do a high dive off a cliff because I know I’ll never be that good.
Tell Me That You're Mine Page 5