Forget accidental pregnancies, my parents think we’ve crossed into full-blown felony territory. Of course, they would assume the worst. Although, after years of immaturity and immoral behavior on my part, I suppose I can’t really blame them. I’ve set a precedent, and considering Blondie’s connection to the bet last spring, it’s to be expected they would jump to conclusions that I did something else shitty that might possibly result in blackmail. That’s a fair assumption to make about me.
But what I won’t stand for is them thinking poorly of Blondie.
I round on my dad, my upper lip curled back in a sneer. “She didn’textortit. I gave it to her.”
“Yes, and who gaveyouthat money?” he challenges, pushing to his feet, his cheeks ruddy with anger. “You don’t support yourself, you don’t pay your own bills, and yet, you’re out here throwing money around that doesn’t even belong to you. We aren’t your personal piggy bank! And we did not consent for you to freely hand out what is ours.”
It takes all my self-control not to shout back, even as the rage flares within me at the insults and insinuations hurled against my girlfriend. I can handle the words thrown at me. My dad isn’t wrong, after all—it isn’t my money. I am not financiallyindependent. Not yet, anyway. But they’re acting like I gave away millions of dollars, like we’re on the verge of financial ruin, when the reality didn’t even put a dent in their net worth. They’re still in the one percent. They’re still among the wealthiest people in the world, even though the level of wealth our family has accumulated is far from ethical.
They’re acting like two fucking dragons who have just discovered they’re missing a few measly gold coins.
“I didn’t just give it away,” I growl, reaching for the only justification I have. “It was payment for services rendered.”
“Services?” my mother repeats, her voice a high-pitched squawk of distress. “What kind of ‘services’?”
“Yes, payment forwhat, exactly?” my father presses.
Resigning myself, I blow out a sigh through my nose, the last of that happiness I’ve been clinging to drifting away. I try to think of Blondie’s face, to hold onto it for a moment longer, but it’s as if someone has overturned the table where the puzzle that is us—that is our story—has been assembled, and the pieces have scattered all over the place.
“To pretend to be my girlfriend,” I admit, the words like ash in my mouth. It feels weird to say it out loud, maybe because sheismy girlfriend now. Because the lie has become something real.
The agreement had transformed—we had put the lie behind us—but it seems I have no choice but to face it. To take responsibility…just like my parents wanted.
“After we met at Fernando’s at the start of September,” I begin to explain, “I put out an anonymous ad on Craigslist, which Lexi answered. The deal was that she would pretend to be my girlfriend until graduation to help me show you I was capable of commitment. Of being a grown up. Of—” I hesitate, a lump rising in my throat that threatens to choke me into silence. I force it down, but when I speak again, my voice is shaking.“To prove I’m Hallazgo material. In return, I agreed to pay her fifteen thousand dollars a month.”
“Oh, Damian,” my mother whispers beside me, her expression crumpling behind her hands, which she cups to her mouth as if to hold a sob at bay.
My insides twist at the look on her face, at not just the shock that shines in her eyes, but the heartbreak, clear as day, beyond it. Maybe she didn’t think I was capable of stooping so low. Or maybe she really was rooting for me, rooting forus—me and Blondie. Either way, whatever glint of hope I saw in her eyes during that trip to Guadalajara is gone, extinguished like a flame in the rain. All that’s left now is disappointment. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen her show since Jamie died.
A guilt that’s knife-sharp slides between my ribs.
“So, it was all a lie,” my father mutters. Closing his eyes, he pushes out a loud breath and shakes his head. “I knew something had to be wrong with that girl for her to date you after what you pulled with that bet.”
My restraint snaps like an overstretched elastic.
“There’s nothingwrongwith Lexi!” As the shout explodes from my chest, I shoot to my feet so I’m on equal footing with my dad, and slam a hand down hard on the table, startling my parents, who gape at me with matching scandalized looks that would be comical if I wasn’t so pissed off. A quiet voice in the back of my head warns me to keep my shit together, that lashing out won’t accomplish a damn thing, but a louder voice is pressing me to defend Blondie—to clear her name and try to make my asshole parents see reason. The words spill out of me like water from an overturned glass. “Her mom has cancer, and their insurance recently stopped covering her chemo meds. She wasdesperate. What would you have done if it was Jamie, and the only hurdle that had been in the way of him surviving was money?” That question makes both my parents flinch, but Idon’t back down. “Don’t fucking judge her,” I bite out. “At least she’s doing whatever it takes to give her mom the best chance to beat this.”
It’s a low blow, using my brother’s death against them this way, especially after everything my abuela told me about my dad and the terrible decision he was forced to make. I know that. But that doesn’t make it any less true. Because I know if the outcome hadn’t been a foregone conclusion, if it had instead been a simple matter of money standing between Jamie’s death and his survival, my parents would have moved the fucking earth to ensure the latter. So, how can they possibly judge her for making that choice when they’ve been in Blondie’s shoes?
For several tense seconds, my parents are quiet. My mother’s expression wilts like a dead flower, which only drives that knife of guilt in deeper. I never wanted to cause her—causeeitherof them—distress with this ploy. Shit, they were never even supposed to find out this whole thing with Blondie was fake, especially now that I have no intention of ending it. As for everything else—all the pranks and bad behavior of the last four years—none of that wasmeantto hurt them, but to open their eyes to my pain. To make them actuallyseeme. To make them acknowledge the shared trauma we went through and how no one will fucking talk about it.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that—to unleash all the years of pent-up resentment and anger. To make them realize how this put-together facade they’ve enforced has only done me harm and hasn’t given me space to process my pain. How I’ve spent these last four years alone with my grief because they refused to join me in it. Because they slammed the door on it and threw away the key so no one else would see the reality of what our family has endured.
I consider explaining how Blondie and I started off as a lie but then became something real to appease them. How I havebeen changed by her and become someone that I can almost be proud of. Someone I think they would’ve been proud of, too, if they weren’t so focused on the destructive path that led me here.
I even contemplate telling them about the proposal if only to show them what I’m capable of. That Icanbe Hallazgo material if they’ll just let me try.
I want to say all that…but I don’t. Because the look in my father’s dark eyes—so like my own and yet, so distant—is enough for me to know there’s no point. His mind is made up. Nothing I say now will change it. My words will only fall on deaf ears.
“You have clarified her side of the story, but what of yours?” he finally says, and the finality in his tone sends a terrified shiver racing over my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It isn’t a question—not really. He doesn’t want me to offer him an answer or an explanation. He just wants to make it clear how much he thinks I’ve failed him. Failed our family.
Failed my abuelo.
“What excuse do you possibly have for yourself that isn’t just another lie?” he continues. “If the media had caught wind of this, it would have been a disaster. Do you know how this looks?” He catches himself as his voice starts to rise, reeling his temper back in. And as it fades, he seems to deflate, collapsing back in his chair as if weighed down by his ever present disappointment of me. “We were foolish to think you had matured, that you had outgrown your selfish, childish tendencies.” He waves a dismissive hand before dropping his palm to the table with a thud. “But here we are. I guess we were wrong.”
Neither of my parents look at me again after that, and their silence is all the indication I need to know the conversation is over. Three strikes, and I’m officially out of the game. I don’t bother saying anything either as I turn and storm out of the kitchen.
As I make my way to the front door on unsteady legs, I cycle through each of the five stages of grief, hurtling quickly toward a dazed acceptance. The one outcome I had been hoping to evade through my agreement with Blondie is now unavoidable. My parents will cut me off and disown me after this. I am doomed.
