“But you’re sick. Youneedthat medication. Youneedthat treatment! Have you called Tim? Maybe it’s a mistake or he can fix it somehow. Surely, he knows we can’t afford this.”
My mom is a bookkeeper for a small, local construction company, and her boss, Tim, is quite possibly the nicest man alive. He’s been so accommodating with her treatments, always giving her time off when she needs it and going out of his way to make her comfortable in the office. Hell, if he didn’t rely on her to keep his employees paid—Mom included—I’m certain he would have granted her indefinite paid time off until she was better.
If there’s anything he can do to help, I know he would.
Mom shoots me an exasperated look. “There’s nothing he can do, Lex. This was the insurance company’s decision, not his, and I’m not about to go stirring the pot when I’m lucky I even still have a job at all considering how much work I’ve missed. A lot of people in my situation aren’t so fortunate.”
I glare at her. How can she consider herself lucky right now when our world, which was already flipped upside down by her cancer, has now been torn apart from the inside out, ripped into pieces that we might never be able to put back together again? How much more heartache can one family take?
“What about Gina? Can she do anything?” I pause as another thought occurs to me. “Does she even know about this?” I stare at my mom with pleading eyes, trying to ignore the elevated pitch to my voice, which has gone up several octaves, inching closer to hysteria.
Mom frowns and gives a slight shake of her head. “I didn’t want to distract her when she’s working, so I’ll tell her this evening. Not that it would matter, though. It’s not like she can claim me as a dependent, which is the only way she could get me on her insurance, and then there’s you to think of, so no. Even if getting on her planwasan option, I wouldn’t do it if it meant leaving you without healthcare.”
“That’s such bullshit!” I shout. I start to pace the length of the room because, if I stand still any longer, I might scream or try tobreak down a wall, like in that old movie my film-obsessed aunt made me watch where some half-naked Spartan dude chest-kicked another guy into a pit. “Without treatment, you could—” Silence swallows the rest of my words. I can’t say it. If I say it, it becomes a real possibility, and that is an outcome I can’t bear to face.
A groan escapes my lips as I push the locks that have escaped my bun off my forehead and hunch over, planting my hands on my knees. Is this some sort of karmic punishment for fucking Damian again? Have I been cursed? I swear to god, it’s like his dick is bad luck.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip, and I bite down hard, fighting back my impending tears. I can’t cry in front of Mom. If I cry, she’ll cry again, and then neither of us will find a way through this.
Think, Lex. Think. What are your options?
I bolt upright, resolved. “I’ll get a job. I’ll pay for your prescription myself.”
Mom scoffs and leans back against the sofa cushions, which seem to swallow her frail figure whole. “A part-time wage wouldn’t come close to covering this, sweetie. You know that.”
“Who said anything about part-time? I’ll drop out. I’ll get multiple jobs if I have to. I’ll start an OnlyFans. Whatever it takes.” Plopping back down onto the couch beside her, I clasp her hands firmly in mine. “You’re more important to me than an education.”
“Like hell you will.” Sitting up straight, she pulls her fingers free to cup my face. “I did not work my ass off for years to ensure you had every possible opportunity for you to drop out this close to the finish line.Youhave worked too hard for this. I know it’s not MIT, but a degree from Conwick will still open doors, and you willnotsquander your future on my behalf. I just—” Shefalters, swallowing loudly. “I just wanted you to know about this so we can prepare ourselves.”
I flinch at her words. She isn’t saying what I think she is…is she? “Prepare ourselves for what?” I manage to ask, but my voice is meek.
Mom sighs, and it’s the sad heave of a woman giving up. “The alternative to me continuing treatment.”
A traitorous tear slides down my cheek, which I quickly wipe away before more can follow. “Fuck that,” I tell her, grabbing her hands again. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”
She doesn’t argue, offering me a tender, reassuring smile, but I can see the doubt behind it.
Though I try hard not to, I frown. If my mother, the eternal optimist, doesn’t have faith that everything will work out…
How can I?
Donde hay confianza, da asco - Where there is trust, there is disgust
Translation: Familiarity breeds contempt. Yeah, you can say that again.
Fernando’s is a high-end, award-winning Mexican restaurant about a ten-minute drive from campus. Another twenty minutes beyond that and I’d be back at home, which I’ve made it a point to return to as little as possible since I enrolled at Conwick. I had hoped to study abroad for college, desperate for some space between me and my parents, but they refused to fund my “international shenanigans” as my father so lovingly put it. The bastard wouldn’t even let me go farther afield within the borders of the U.S., claiming he needed me close by for the sake of the family company. He might have been telling the truth, but it’s equally likely he just wanted to punish me for not being a perfect, obedient son. “Why can’t you take advantageof the opportunities here? Don’t you know how many people would kill to be in your shoes?” he once asked me during our umpteenth argument on the matter, his mouth pulled down into his signature grimace that always makes it clear what a disappointment I am to him.
I picture that look on his face at this moment as I step out of my blue Maserati MC20 Cielo—the car I won from Mason this past spring—into the blazing sun beating down on the Fernando’s parking lot. To the unsuspecting eye, I appear calm and collected, but unease rolls over my skin as I cross the tarmac, making me shudder despite the heat. My parents might have excellent poker faces, but their one tell is they only ever take me to eat at Fernando’s—or bother to meet with me at all these days—when I’m in trouble or they have bad news to impart. Probably because the menu here reminds my father of my abuela’s cooking, stirring memories of his childhood in Guadalajara, and nothing boosts the spirit for a little soul-crushing quite like comfort food.
I frown, tossing my car keys to the valet, then strut through the doors into the air-conditioned restaurant, trying my best to ignore the anxiety gripping my chest, and failing miserably. I make it a point to avoid Fernando’s even more than I avoid going home. Call me superstitious, but my parents have tarnished every dining experience I’ve ever had here, and I can’t help feeling like the place is cursed. The last time I stepped foot in Fernando’s was when they gave me the worst news of my life.
I can only imagine what shit they’re about to drop on me now.
A pretty hostess welcomes me, and while her tone is professional, her wandering gaze betrays her attempt at formality. I flash her a flirty grin, and inform her I’m meeting someone, not clarifying who to gauge her interest. Her disappointment is instantly clear on her face, though she triesto hide it behind a veneer of politeness. My smile deepens. Depending on what mood I’m in when this is over, I might ask for her number.
With a quick goodbye, I proceed into the dining area, where a familiar melody stops me dead in my tracks. My chest tightens at the sight of the balding man playing an arpa jarocha on the small wooden stage to my right, and I watch his fingers pluck the strings of the harp as if lost in a trance. The song he’s playing—“Besame Mucho” by Consuelo Velázquez—is one I often hear whenever I visit my abuela.It was her and my abuelo’s favorite song, and every time I catch her humming or singing it, I know she’s thinking of the great love they shared and missing him just as much as I do.
Hearing it now makes me want to flee to her home in Mexico, even though I know there’s no escaping the impending confrontation with my parents. What I wouldn’t give to have my abuela with me now or to at least possess a fraction of her fearlessness.Shenever tolerated my dad’s bullshit.
