“I don’t need to.”
“What does that m-mean?”
I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear how Jude’s going to answer that, but I’m compelled to stay and listen. In fact, I open the door wider.
“Do you think I worked myself half to death—day and night—to get you through school so you could strap yourself to a woman with a kid?”
“I never asked you t-to do that.” Ryan is angry, that’s for sure, but he also sounds hurt.
He handled himself badly tonight, but it’s still painful to hear him berated and belittled.
“You didn’t have to. I did it so you could live the life I didn’t. You’re too goddamn young to get yourself in the middle of her mess.”
A glass clanks, as if someone dropped it on a table.
“Diego is not a m-mess. He’s a kid.”
“And what, you’re going to be his daddy now? Jesus, Ry. Do you have any idea how much responsibility that is?”
Lizzie grabs my arm in support. Nothing like eavesdropping on an awkward, angry showdown to cement a friendship.
“Stay out of this, Jude. I’m s-serious.” Ryan’s voice is so furious I can almost feel him grinding his teeth. “This is not your d-decision, and I’m not a kid anymore. You n-need to show her some respect.”
“Why? Because she’s some MILF sucking the life out of you?”
We hear something crash to the ground and then it goes too quiet, which is when I run into the house, following Lizzie’s lead.
Ryan is on the living room floor, Jude trying to pin him with his upper body. Ryan uses his legs for leverage and manages to flip Jude onto his side. Elbows are flying, a shirt rips, and grunts fill the air. A broken picture frame is lying a few feet from their heads.
“Holy Moses,” Lizzie says. “I’m going to have to douse them again.”
“Ryan, stop,” I shout, and two sweaty, mussed heads look up at me from the ground. “I want to go home. Right now.”
Ryan pushes Jude away and stands up. He runs one hand through his hair and tries to straighten his shirt with the other. “I’m sorry, Eva.”
I ignore him—and Jude, who’s breathing heavily as he stares down at the floor—and head for the exit.
“Bye, Lizzie. Nice meeting you,” I say over my shoulder, but my voice isn’t steady.
I get in the car and slam the door. Ryan slides in beside me.
Complete silence. Not a clearing of a throat or the tapping of a finger as we drive.
Up ahead the road is clogged—traffic from the Sharks game. The car gets hotter as we sit and wait, so I grab the knob to turn the heater down. It’s already off.
“Eva, can I . . .”
“Don’t.”
Silence again.
Talking now seems like a terrible idea. I might spill out the hailstorm of thoughts pelting my brain. My shock that Ryan pulled that stunt—that he’d be immature and mean enough to do it. My frustration that he doesn’t understand the seriousness of my situation or what he’s gotten himself into.
And why didn’t he say he loved me back? At least not in those words. Maybe he doesn’t. Despite Lizzie’s explanations, would a man who’s crazy about a woman he’s dating forget to mention her to the person he’s closest to in the world?
As we finally steer clear of traffic and get closer to home, my thoughts wander down darker corridors. Should Ryan be proud of me, with some of the bad decisions I’ve made?
I slam the door shut on that ugly thought and seal it up air tight. No man—no relationship—justifies thinking it.
Chapter 19: Ryan
I fucked up. Royally.
If there were an award for biggest fuckup, I’d win it. If there were a Guinness Book of World’s Worst Boyfriend Fuckups, I’d be in chapter one.
And I hurt Eva.
I start a text to her, delete it. Start another one. Delete that one, too. She’s not taking my phone calls, but hopefully she’ll glance at the text before she knows it’s from me. That’s a lot of pressure to put on just a few words.
Please let me explain, I finally write.
She was silent all the way back from Jude’s place. Then she marched into the house, drew the curtains, and slammed the door. I don’t blame her. I led her to the edge of a cliff last night, and Jude kicked her right off. But Diego is due home later, so I need to see Eva now.
She doesn’t answer my text.
Please Eva. We need to talk. I know you’re home.
I sit and stare at my phone, willing a text bubble to appear. And then it does.
Fine
That’s the worst word ever, but I’ll take it.
She lets me in the back door but stays three feet away from me at all times, like she’s measuring the distance with an invisible yardstick.
“I’m so, so s-sorry, Eva. I’m sorry Jude said those things and that you saw us f-fight. I’m sorry f-for all of it.”
Her mouth drops open. “You think it’s Jude I’m angry with? You gave him no warning. He didn’t even know I existed. I’ve never felt so humiliated.”
I made a promise over a year ago—after my delusional relationship with Lizzie—that I wouldn’t lie to myself anymore. Can’t break that pledge now. Which means I have to cop to the fact that I didn’t tell Jude anything about Eva because I was too much of a chickenshit to stand up to him.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. Things have b-been off between me and Jude since I got home, and I just . . . I was a total coward. I should have told h-him about you and Diego.”
She gets even angrier, if that’s possible. “What did you think was going to happen when I showed up?”
I don’t come up with an answer, because there isn’t one to be had.
“You didn’t even warn me. Was this some kind of a game for you?”
That I made her feel so insignificant guts me.
I put my hand on her shoulder, relieved she lets me. “Of course not. I was in t-total denial. I’m t-tired of having to justify everything to Jude and make my life fit into his weird l-little box. I was an idiot.”
“I don’t care if he is your brother—nobody gets to make me feel ashamed of having my son. He actually thinks I’m trying to ruin your life.” Eva’s chin tilts up, a sure sign she’s emotional.
When I was little, Mom would take us to the carousel at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. It had this chute that dispensed metal rings that you threw at a bull’s-eye inside a giant clown’s mouth. Round and round I’d go, stretching high to grab that metal ring, and then chucking it with all my might. But I was too puny and I never made it. I kept trying, though—again and again, while that creepy clown mocked me.
Sometimes I think I’m still on that carousel, going in circles. Making the same mistakes, never hitting the bull’s-eye.
I need to raise my game.
“He’s never going to accept me,” she says. “And I don’t think that’s something we can survive. He’s too important to you.”
I pull her into my arms. “Jude was s-surprised and angry with me. He didn’t m-mean what he said. He’ll come around.”
“What if he doesn’t?” she says into my shoulder.
“He has to, because we’re not going anywhere.”
She pulls back. “You say that. But this is already an uphill battle and life isn’t going to get any easier.”
“By the time I was only a little older than Diego, my mother had c-cancer. You don’t need to keep telling me how h-hard real life is, Eva.”
She looks thunderstruck. “I’m sorry. It just feels like there are people coming at us from all sides.”
No kidding—Jude, Marco, my father. I’m sick to death of all of them. The only thing I want to focus on is the woman in front of me.
“This is about y-you and me. To h-hell with everybody else.”
She sighs. “It’s not that simple.”
She’s right, of course. I’m understating our problems—again. But I don’t think I’m being naïve. I’m just determined.
&nb
sp; “Yes, we have a l-lot to deal with. But you told me you l-loved me.”
She bites her lip. “Two minutes before we got there. Great timing.”
“I just d-didn’t have time to absorb it. I love you, too, Eva, and I’m not going to j-justify that to anyone.”
She swallows so hard I can see her throat move. “You do?”
I make the circular crazy motion with my finger. “Obviously.”
That pierces her armor; I can tell because her eyes go soft. She reaches up and puts her arms around my neck. “Okay, then.”
And then she takes my mouth with hers. I let her kiss away my tension as I run my hands down her spine. I want to feel her nervous system—her synapses crackling and firing. Maybe then I’ll understand this intense, complicated connection between us.
She keeps kissing me until everything is white noise. Until it’s me and Eva, and nobody else in the world.
* * *
Making up with Eva last night was heaven. Today, I’m in hell.
This diner—tucked away in an industrial park in Milpitas—smells like ammonia: too much cleaner on the tables and counters. My blueberry muffin looks dry and the coffee is stale. This place is two notches below Roy’s at the very least. But it’s far from Jude’s house, in a part of the valley he rarely visits, which makes it the perfect location to meet our father.
I wish Jude were here with me. I wish he didn’t have a blinding hatred of our dad, and of my relationship with Eva. I wish we were speaking to one another. His disappointment is feasting on my insides, hollowing me out.
When we lost Mom, Jude and I learned different lessons. He decided he was going to wrangle the universe under his control if it killed him. I realized control is an illusion. He wants my world to be perfect. I want it to be messy, because that means it’s real.
Well, meeting my father is about as messy as it gets. I haven’t let myself think about it much, compartmentalizing it in a part of my brain that I locked tight. But sitting here waiting, that compartment is busting open.
This bitter coffee burns my stomach. I decide it doesn’t matter and keep drinking it.
I told my father I wanted to ask him questions. Total lie. I have no idea what I’m going to say or why I want to meet him. Every time I try to land on a thought, it slips away. Instead, I’m choking on feelings: confusion, fear, anger, fierce curiosity.
I’m convinced the only way to quell them is to sit across from the man who brought me and Jude into the world and then stranded us there. No matter how sick the thought is making me.
I take another sip of coffee and it stings all the way down. There’s a wall clock behind the counter which is grotesquely large and overly loud as it ticks down the minutes. It’s like a taunt from a gap-toothed neighborhood bully.
He was due here fifteen minutes ago.
“Need anything else?” the waitress asks me. There’s only one other person in here, so I have her complete attention.
“No. I’m g-good. Thank you.”
I hit my knee on the underside of the table. I must be shaking it up and down. I wrap my hands around my coffee mug a little tighter for the warmth. The back of my neck feels sweaty, and I think I’m taking extra breaths, because I can’t seem to get enough air.
There’s a phone ringing and ringing somewhere in the back of the restaurant. For one crazy moment I wonder if it’s for me.
The waitress eyes me.
A couple comes in, making the bells on the door jangle, and the sound slides against my nerves.
I pull off the top of my muffin and take a bite. Like I thought, it’s dry, and I barely choke it down.
I give up and wipe the back of my neck with a napkin.
Thirty minutes, now.
I try to preoccupy myself on my phone, but the letters don’t seem to make sense.
“You okay?” the waitress asks. Her nametag reads “Debbie,” and she’s smiling at me in that big, desperate way people do when they think everything is about to hit the fan.
“I’m okay. R-really,” I tell her, trying for sincerity, but landing on panicked.
“You look a little pale,” Debbie says. “I’m going to get you a better muffin. It’ll be up in a sec.”
Christ. It’s a hundred degrees in here and smells like a laboratory, and Debbie thinks baked goods are going to cure me.
She comes back with a chocolate chip muffin and sets it down. “This one’s on the house.”
“Thanks,” I say, because she’s a kind person and it’s not her fault that my father is a half hour late.
Can you really be late for something you had no intention of attending?
I glance at my phone. Again.
I could call my father to see if something held him up. But I know nothing has, and if I buy into that lie—even for a second—then I really will be as pathetic as this moment is making me out to be.
I should leave. I don’t. I crumble the chocolate chip muffin into pieces. I pour more cream in my coffee. I don’t glance at my phone. I listen to the couple across from me talk about their plans for the weekend in loud, obnoxious tones.
And finally, after an hour, I give up.
If I wait an hour, a day, a year—the outcome will be the same.
I throw a twenty on the table for Debbie, who was nice to me when I needed her to be.
Jude was right. He’s always fucking right: The only thing our father is good at is not showing up.
Chapter 20: Eva
I head for my bedroom so I can kick off my heels. Working weekend events is the worst, and when things don’t go as they should, they last for ages.
I pass Diego’s room, unable to help myself from grabbing a few toys off the floor and throwing them in his toy bins. The mini stormtrooper costume hanging in the closet makes me chuckle. Halloween is in a couple days, and Diego’s itching to wear it.
It’s quiet here without him.
Marco didn’t say a word when he came to get Diego. In fact, he’s barely glanced in my direction in weeks. I’m sure Diego is picking up on the tension; nothing much gets by him. I want to find a way to smooth over these rough edges, but Marco isn’t ready to be civil yet.
Luckily, Ryan is worth all this drama. Maybe I’m jumping into the deep end without testing the water first, but to be fair, I’d been in the desert a long time when I met him.
When my phone dings, I assume it’s Ryan who’s texting me this late. He doesn’t always hear me pull into the driveway, so he’s probably checking to see if I’m still at work. It feels nice to be worried over.
The text isn’t from Ryan, though. It’s from Cara. Did you double check that Thompson is confirmed?
I do a double-take. Cara’s use of my personal number is a complete violation of the company emergency list. No way can I respond to her and reward that behavior. Doesn’t she have anything else to worry about? Friends? Family? A life, maybe?
Cara isn’t limiting herself to micromanaging me, either. She’s quite the gossip, telling other people on the team that I’m not innovative enough—that I’m difficult. I’d like to think my reputation can weather one spiteful person, but rumors have a nasty way of lodging in people’s minds.
Alejandro was right. I should have gone into business for myself. I’ve always had good reasons not to: not enough money, not enough time, too risky. Lately, it’s become difficult to differentiate between reasons and excuses. Mom used to say that excuses are like weeds—once you let one take hold, others are guaranteed to follow.
Speaking of weeds I need to pull, I dial Maria’s number, happy to have an HR guru for a friend. When she doesn’t answer, I leave her a message telling her I want to see her first thing Monday about Cara.
I’m going to need some advice.
* * *
I wake up late, just managing to get Diego to school on time. By the time I get to work to find Maria, she’s already looking for me.
“Where have you been,” she says, pulling me into a conference room.
&
nbsp; “Running late.”
“We need to talk, hon.”
“Yeah. We do. I need to tell you about Cara.”
Maria pushes a pad of paper in front of her and starts taking notes. “What happened?”
“Why are you writing this down?”
She lowers her chin and looks at me straight on. Her professional face. This isn’t good.
“Tell me everything from the start and then we’ll talk,” she says.
There’s not much to tell, so it doesn’t take much time. But Maria makes me start again, asking me questions this time.
My patience is at an end. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She puts her pen down. “It’s against the rules to tell you all the details. But you’re my friend, so to hell with that.”
“Shit. This is bad.”
“Cara filed a complaint against you.”
I lurch forward. “What?”
She puts one hand up. “Based on what you’re telling me, this is a non-issue.”
“Then why did she file a complaint?”
“She says you’re being hostile toward her. But if I had to guess, I’d say she’s threatened by you. You’re not giving her what she wants, so she’s been trying to float rumors about you. But no one’s taking the bait and it’s making her look bad.”
“I don’t give her what she wants because what she wants is insane. If I left it to her, the event would be so over budget, we’d all be fired.”
“No one is getting fired. I don’t see anything in her complaint that is actionable.”
I let out a breath, bitter that my job has so much control over me.
“This will probably mean that you both have to take classes on interpersonal communication, though. And it will live in your personnel files.”
I cover my face. “Oh my God. Ridiculous.”
Maria sighs. “Look, Cara has never been told ‘no’ in her life. You’re the lucky one that got there first. Try not to worry.”
I rub my face. “It’s going to be awkward for a while.”
“So why not explore other options?”
I cross my arms. “Now you sound like an HR rep.”
“I am an HR rep—and your friend. Stop selling yourself short and strike out on your own.”
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