“Really? You think she’ll want to talk about him?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It helps.”
Back at that shelter, I loved it when Mrs. Ramirez asked me to tell stories about my family. I could sit there forever talking about how me and my sisters used to fight over who had to feed the chickens. One time I took the entire hour explaining how we’d walk with my mom to town when she sold corn and handwoven hair bands, and she sometimes gave us a few quetzales to buy chicles—the kind with all the bright colors. And when we got home, Dad would beg for one of those chicles, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to chew gum, because his teeth were so bad. And my sisters kept saying, “No way!” and I’d slide up behind him and put a couple in his hand. Which always made him smile. His smile was butt-ugly, I’m telling you. My dad definitely could have used some toothpaste.
But it always made me smile too, seeing his ugly, snaggletoothed smile.
And the weird thing is, as soon as I walked out of Mrs. Ramirez’ office, with the yellow walls and the squishy blue chair, it was like I never had a family at all. I never talked about them. I never even thought about them. Never. Except in that room.
“So, okay. I just need to feed her and listen to her, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He takes another deep breath. “I can do that.”
“How’s her mom?”
“Her mom?” He sounds confused. “Oh, uh, I don’t know. She’s not here yet. She went out to dinner or something.”
“So, you and Vivi are alone?”
“Mmhmm.”
I start laughing. I mean, I feel bad for the guy and all, but how has he not even thought about all the things he could do to get Vivi’s mind off her worries, alone in a big empty house with her? Nothing’s better at pushing away death than working on creating new life, right? And it is 100 percent clear that she’s into him. I’m telling you, even I almost felt embarrassed for her the other day, when she was watching TJ dance around my room, her face all blotchy and red. She definitely wants to make babies with him.
“Okay. Never mind. New plan.”
“Ángel. Don’t go there—” TJ’s got that pissed-off voice back, the one we all know and love.
“Go where?” I ask, all innocent-like.
“You know where.” He sounds really mad, which—for some weird reason—always makes me want to bust out the rhymes.
“Aw, man. In the words of my man LL Cool J, she just needs ‘the warmth that is created between a girl and a boy.’” I rap that part, and it sounds pretty sick, if I do say so myself. I love that video, especially at the end, when he’s standing by that window and he’s all like, “I’ll be waitin’. I love you.” You know that one brings all the ladies to the house. Or I guess it did, back, like, thirty years ago.
TJ is not impressed with the rhymes I’m bustin’.
“I’m hanging up now,” he growls.
“Okay, okay,” I call out. “But go feed the girl, vato.”
“I will,” he says.
Neither one of us says anything for a while, and then he whispers, really quiet, “Thanks, man.”
“Naw, man,” I say. “You don’t need to say nothin’—I’m your homie, remember?”
“Yeah,” TJ says through a laugh. “You’re my homie.”
As soon as TJ hangs up, Bertrand walks into the room.
I like Bertrand. He’s kind. I mean, everything about him is kind. You don’t meet many people like that, you know? And he’s really good at finding veins. The other nurses dig around under my skin like they’re shoveling shit from a horse pasture, but not Bertrand. Even in my wasted, crumbling veins, Bertrand always finds a good spot for the needle. Always the first time.
“Need a warm blanket?” he asks.
I nod and let my eyes drift shut. I love those cozy blankets, I’m not gonna lie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
VIVI
BIRD JOURNAL
July 28, 11:17 P.M.
Where have all the birds gone?
I COME DOWNSTAIRS after tucking my mom into bed.
Walking into the kitchen, I feel approximately 206 emotions at once. These include, but are not limited to: despair, anger, frustration, annoyance, grief, nervousness, and lust. Is lust an emotion? Maybe not. Whatever it is, I am feeling it in a big way. I know I shouldn’t be feeling it, since I’ve been drowning in grief for the past couple of hours, and since my mom just collapsed into bed at nine, without even being able to remove her shoes (stone-cold sober, I should add).
Now she is sound asleep, and I am (sort of) alone in my kitchen with TJ and, for whatever reason, desire appears to be taking over.
TJ is standing at the sink with his back to me, washing dishes. I can’t stop watching him, studying the contours of his body.
He made me spaghetti with meatballs. He sprinkled Parmesan cheese on top. He even found some frozen Brussels sprouts and sautéed them with balsamic vinegar and oil. He made a perfect meal from the dregs of our freezer and the back of our pantry. I sat at the kitchen bar and he put the food in front of me. I inhaled two plates of spaghetti.
I had no idea how hungry I was until TJ fed me.
The entire time I was inhaling pasta, TJ was asking me questions about my dad. I can’t really explain it, not even to myself, but something I’ve noticed about having a dead person in your life is that everybody seems scared to death of talking about that person, like it’s gonna make him die again or something. So it was weird, and incredible, that TJ and I sat at my breakfast bar and chatted about my dad.
He didn’t seem freaked out at all. The more we talked, the more normal I felt. It was like each simple story I told about Dad’s favorite vegetable (artichoke) or the best trip he ever took us on (Cambodia) lifted some of that heaviness off my chest. I could breathe again.
Then Mom came home. She walked in the door, dropped her purse on the $830 side table, sighed, and said she was going to bed.
Her eyes were all sunken in, her shoulders hunched. It was like one dinner with an estate lawyer had taken two decades off her life. I took her by the elbow, she leaned into me, and I led her up to her room. Honest to God, I think she was about an inch from collapsing onto the hardwood floor.
I stole a glance at TJ as I led her to the stairwell. He had this stunned look on his face the whole time, like he was thinking, How the hell did I end up in the middle of this?
Now he’s got his sleeves pushed up and he’s washing the dishes. Seeing him in my kitchen with bare arms and soapy hands takes my breath away.
“My mom isn’t like this.”
There. I said it.
He wipes his hands on a towel, and then he turns around and starts to walk toward me. This is a little unnerving.
“I think you should know, she’s not usually a mess like this,” I continue. “I mean, she’s really a great mom, actually.”
“I know,” TJ says.
“She just got more really crappy news—about my dad’s life insurance policy or something. She’s overwhelmed, and—”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“But I want you to know—I need you to know that she’s not like this.” I’m babbling. “Or she wasn’t, and she won’t be. She’ll be fine—”
He doesn’t let me finish my thought. “Viv?” He stands too close to me and lifts a finger to my lips. “Let’s stop talking about your mom, okay?”
My eyelids fall closed and I feel his finger run along my chin.
My heart is pounding in my chest and I’m light-headed, feeling his touch. I stumble backward.
He winces and squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry,” he says. “If you want me to leave—I mean, if you and your mom need some time alone, I can maybe get somebody to—”
“No. Stay with me.”
I hear the words come out of my mouth before they even make it to my mind, but it’s what I want. I know that.
“Please stay,” I hear myself say again. “We have tons of room, and—”
I swallow hard. “Thanks.”
He puts the apron on the kitchen counter.
“Let’s get packing,” he says.
* * *
TJ and I work well together. By midnight we have finished the office, the living room, and the media room. I tape the last box and TJ piles it on top of the others.
“What’s next?” he asks.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want this to end. I want to keep working beside him, but everything else we need to pack is upstairs, and I’m afraid we’ll wake my mom.
“I think we’re done till tomorrow. Aren’t you tired?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I guess it’s kinda late for you mere mortals.”
He’s got a point. At the restaurant, things are just getting started at midnight on a Friday.
“Okay if I crash here?” he asks, pointing to the sofa in the media room.
Leather sectional: $1,800
“We have a guest suite above the garage,” I say. “If you want an actual bed.”
“A suite?” His eyebrows lift and a smile curves at the edges of his lips. “Why not? I’ve never stayed in a guest suite.”
I deserved that. I should have called it an extra bedroom.
I lead him down the hall and to the stairwell. I can feel him watching me walk up the stairs, his eyes on my back. I open the door to let him in.
“Be right back,” I say. “The bathroom’s right there. I’ll grab you a towel, in case you want to—”
I feel the red blotches spreading across my chest and neck.
Jesus God. What is wrong with me?
“Shower,” I say forcefully. “In case you want to take a shower.”
I turn around and rush down the stairs, determined to use the walk to the linen closet to pull myself together. I grab two towels and a washcloth and head back up to the guest suite.
When I open the door, he’s standing in the dark, holding an object in both hands. He lifts it to show me.
“What’s this?” he asks.
The rose quartz.
My chest caves in. “Oh.” I release a surprised breath.
To most people, it would look like a hunk of pinkish rock, but to me, it’s so much more.
He gently places it back on the bookshelf. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to…”
I’m feeling a little dizzy, so I sit on the edge of the bed and place the towels beside me.
“It’s okay,” I say, pulling in a deep breath. “I didn’t know it was in here. It’s just a big quartz stone.”
“It’s more than that,” he says.
“Yeah,” I admit. “It is.”
“Tell me,” he says, stepping closer.
“It’s a silly story.”
“I can handle silly.”
I can do this. I can tell this story. It’s a simple story—a sweet childhood memory.
“One summer we went to this lake in North Carolina, with my dad’s family. I was, like, eight. My boy cousins—they were all older and incredibly mean to me. They left me out of every game, every adventure. You know?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “I have a dozen of them, remember?”
“So my cousins, they kept finding these amazing stones by the river—mica and quartz, stuff like that.”
He’s studying my face, looking for clues to the meaning of this story.
“I got so sad. I felt totally inadequate because I never found anything. And they kept coming back to the lake house we were renting, bringing these treasures and lining them up on the deck for all to see. Every time I went down to the lakeshore with them, I came back empty-handed. They were big and they were boys and they were amazing explorers and I was nothing. I was just a baby.”
He sits down beside me on the bed, still watching me carefully.
“But then, on our last day at the lake, my dad told me to go down to the shore while he was packing the car—to try one more time to discover a treasure. I walked down the stairs and started to scan the sandy shore, and there it was.” I reach out and take the quartz from TJ. It’s still so heavy in my hands. “The biggest, best rock any of us had ever laid eyes on.” I turn the rock to examine it. It almost glows pink in the dim light. “I took off running, screaming for my dad. I was holding it up over my head, and he took the quartz from me, examined it from every angle, and then said, ‘Well, if that isn’t the most extraordinary rose quartz I have ever laid eyes on. A perfect reward for my brave, strong explorer.’”
TJ smiles. “I bet your cousins were pissed.”
I shake my head. “Not exactly. That was our last vacation with them. For my entire childhood, I thought I had found the perfect rose quartz.”
“It is pretty amazing,” TJ says, reaching out to touch the surface.
“The thing is, I didn’t really find it. It wasn’t until Dad’s funeral that my cousins told me the real story—they thought I already knew.” I rub my finger across the rough edge of the stone, avoiding TJ’s hand.
“I don’t get it—”
“After I went to bed on our last night, my dad went out to town and bought it at a gift shop. He planted it there for me to find.” I shrug. “My cousins laughed like crazy about it that night, after the funeral. They couldn’t believe I didn’t know.”
I look at TJ, and something about the way he sees me gives me courage to say what I need to say. “But here’s the thing, for all these years, I thought I was brave. Extraordinary. I thought I could do amazing things.”
I swallow hard and lift the stone to my cheek. It feels cold and rough.
“I’m not.” I sigh. “I can’t.” My voice is rising. “It was all a huge lie. I can’t do any of it. I can’t do it without him.”
And then—finally!—I start to cry. I am crying for my father.
Oh thank God, I’m crying.
I’m sobbing. TJ is next to me on the bed, his arms wrapped around me, and I burrow my face in his chest. My heart is so full of aching that it feels like it will be the end of me, this pain.
I want so much for this to go away. How am I going to make it go away?
I’m folding in on myself. My chest contracts, pulling me toward it, pushing the pain through my entire body.
Then I feel his hand on my hair, stroking my head, my neck, my back. He’s whispering in my ear, and it doesn’t even matter what he’s whispering, because I feel his breath hot on my neck and his hands on my body and—
The crying stops.
I lift my head from his chest and let the stone roll from my hands. It drops to the floor with a thud.
I look at him and I see a precise reflection of what I suddenly feel. It’s not an emotion; it’s a need. An intense, overpowering, entirely physical need.
My lips find his, and they’re searing hot. I feel his hands grip my sides. He pulls me firmly against him, and he falls back onto the bed. I have no idea how it happens, but my legs are straddling him. I’m on top of him. I’m all over him, my hands and my lips searching his chest and his neck and his face. I shove his shirt up around his shoulders, needing to feel his skin against me.
TJ knows. He gets exactly what I need. He rocks onto his elbows and pulls his shirt off, and then he nods and I pull my shirt over my head. He sits up and wraps his arms around me, our lips searching, my hands grasping.
He leans back and touches his hand to my face.
“Is this what you want?” he asks.
Unable to form a single word, I nod.
“Tell me,” he says. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He looks directly into my eyes, and his hand moves slowly from my face down my throat, across my collarbone, while his other hand expertly unhooks my bra. For a fleeting moment, I wonder how he knows how to do this all with such ease. But then his hand is moving across my chest, and I am transforming into pure sensatio
n. Every place he touches comes alive again. No, that’s not right. It’s like I’m coming alive for the first time, piece by piece. Every part of me leans into him.
I am desperate for his touch.
“We have all night.” He sighs into my ear. “Take it slow, Viv.”
Some part of me knows he’s right, but hearing his strained voice, feeling his hand against the soft skin of my stomach—I don’t want to slow down. I want everything at once.
He moves his hand slowly, deliberately. He’s beside me, and I’m arching into him, incredibly vulnerable and wanting so much to pull him closer.
And here’s the miracle: all I see is this heat, all I feel is the place where his fingers stroke my body. All I know is this precise moment.
He’s making it go away. TJ is making it go away.
He’s touching me with his hand, and he’s making it go away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TJ
WE HAVE TO STOP.
How are we going to stop?
I am going to stop.
I need to stop.
I will stop.
I put my hand on her shoulder and push her away gently.
“Rest,” I say. “Get some sleep.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “You don’t want—”
Yes, I want. I want very much.
But there are about a hundred reasons why we can’t take this any further. For starters, it’s not like I went on this little trip prepared to hook up. Honestly, I never really go anywhere prepared to hook up. But even if I did, I wouldn’t be packing condoms for a trip to help a friend and her mom move out of their house because her dad died. And, more important, the last thing I want from Vivi is a hookup. I’m not sure what we are to each other, but we definitely aren’t hookup material.
So instead I whisper, “No. I’m good.”
Her eyes drift closed and I pull her head into my chest. She curls against me, her hair spread across my shoulder, her body in deep stillness. I stare up at the ceiling and breathe, forcing myself not to remember her as I just saw her, felt her, heard her.
The way that she responded to my touch.
I think about cleaning the grill at the restaurant and how much I have to scrub to get the residue from behind the rotators; I think about folding towels in the ICU storage closet and how Prashanti always makes me line up the edges so precisely; I think about watching my great-aunt make pão de queijo and then wiping the cassava flour from the counters.
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